She narrowed her eyes. “Rude. Can’t you pretend to be a gentleman for five minutes?”
“You’re not the first tae wonder that. From what I understand, I’m one step away from being an outright barbarian. Or at least, I was.” He shrugged. “I considered showing up at Almack’s with my face painted blue like my Pict ancestors. Put an end tae all the speculation. Alas”—he patted his pockets—“fresh out of woad.”
The mental image almost made her smile, despite his general obnoxiousness. It was time to take control of this tête-à-tête.
“Since you’ve intruded on my meal, perhaps we should keep our conversation to safe topics, such as the lovely weather we’re having,” she said, gesturing with her spoon toward the rain-splattered windows at the front and rear of the main room. “Or we could sit in silence before going our separate ways, never to acknowledge each other’s presence again. I’m sure you can guess my preference.”
* * *
Idiot. He was a blooming idiot. Those noble intentions of issuing an eloquent apology had flown from his head when he was faced with her confidently defiant cut direct. The woman he’d barely known years ago would never have done such a thing, which only sparked his fascination all over again. Commenting on how different she was brought that sharp mouth of hers back to the forefront, and he took perverse delight in her acerbic wit. He needed to refocus on his reason for approaching her, but damn if her sarcastic commentary on the weather didn’t make him smile.
Ethan glanced over Lady Charlotte’s shoulder to the large diamond-paned window. The weather was absolute shite. He matched her mocking brow with one of his own. “All we need is some soggy sheep, and it would remind me of home.” There. That was moderately amusing.
Lady Charlotte’s gaze flitted to his before darting away. Every time she looked at him, he spent a heartbeat or two unscrambling his thoughts. Thick lashes stood out against the olive tan of her cheeks, their delicately curled tips casting shadows in the flickering lamplight. When she used those full lips to spear him with her refreshingly sharp words, it tied him in knots.
If she was as soft as she looked, it would be impossible to stop at one brush of a finger on uncovered skin. Ethan cleared his throat, stuffing down the mental image. Those thoughts belonged locked away with the younger, reckless part of himself. Lusting after a woman in a public tavern room was something Old Ethan would have done. Back then he’d have won the girl—at least for the night. Perhaps New Ethan had spent too many years without a woman in his bed and too many hours poring over account books. Once upon a time he’d poked fun at Lady Charlotte’s exceptional manners. Now every day he tried to emulate that level of refinement.
And he failed.
The skin across her décolletage colored, probably with anger or frustration from stifling murderous impulses toward her unwanted dinner companion. The pink skin was bloody glorious. Ethan cleared his throat. Yes, he failed miserably.
“It’s possible we’ll have similar weather tomorrow,” Lady Charlotte said, bringing him back from his thoughts.
It was time to apologize and leave before he made an utter arse of himself. “I think we have other things tae talk about beyond the weather?”
The minx cocked her head to the side, faking confusion. “My lord, I don’t know what else we would discuss. As we established all those years ago, a true lady’s conversational topics are limited by propriety, civility, and good breeding—all things you lack.”
Whether she referred to his commoner upbringing or their scandal, the words elicited a wince. Essentially, Ethan had made her famous for being a dullard. A perfect lady, yes. Everything she ought to be, right down to her frilly bows and lace. Pretty but boring. Sitting before him now in a simple dress, with an eye swollen closed, furious over his very existence—it might be a flaw in his character that he preferred her this way.
“When we met, the problem wasn’ you. I hope you realize that. It was my fault. All of it. If not for a solicitor showing up on my doorstep the year before we met, I’d still be a shepherd. I don’ have your society training. I didn’ know what tae do or expect in the ton. Some might argue that I still have no idea how tae go on.”
An adorable wrinkle formed between her brows. “Continue. Groveling suits you.”
“I’m sorry.” It was on the tip of his tongue to throw some blame on her father. If the earl had fancied the match, things might have gone differently. Sure, his interest had only recently been reignited before that awful meeting with her father, but the earl had made sure Ethan knew better than to pursue a lady like her. That might have been what led to his drunken wallowing with his friends that night, but the immaturity driving those choices was entirely on Ethan. If he’d been good enough for an earl’s daughter to begin with, this whole conversation would be moot. Bringing up that long-ago humiliation he’d endured in her father’s library wouldn’t solve anything.
She maintained eye contact while sipping from her tankard. “Thank you for your apology.”
For a moment the plump curves of her mouth distracted him. With her bottom lip wet with ale, he would bet his last farthing the brew tasted better when drunk from her lips.
This dangerous path his thoughts insisted on traveling could lead only to trouble. Apology delivered. What she chose to do with it was her business. When he stood, a whiff of tangy citrus followed him. There could be no other possible source for the fresh scent except her. She smelled like his favorite desserts. Lemon ice. Lemon tart. Lady Charlotte. Delicious.
Yes, he had to go—now, before he made a bigger arse of himself.
“Why do you even care? Why make amends now?” she asked as if the question had come as an afterthought.
“I tried tae call on you after…well, before. You’d left Town already. I have much tae answer for, and this was my first opportunity tae say I’m sorry.” He’d judged her harshly—and wrongly—years ago. The fact that within moments of her reentering his orbit she’d rekindled his interest made Ethan wonder if there might be something between them worth pursuing—assuming she ever stopped hating him.
On an impulse, Ethan brushed her cheek with a fingertip, needing one touch, however brief. All those years ago he couldn’t stay away, and he couldn’t seem to stay away now. Lady Charlotte jerked her head away. That was foolish of him. “I’m sorry. But I’m glad there’s more tae you than I realized, Princess.”
* * *
The next morning Lottie awoke to an eerie silence. No raindrops on the roof serenaded her. No splash of water hitting the windowpanes with gale-force winds invaded the sanctum of her bedchamber. The blustery storm had echoed her inner turmoil as she lay awake late into the night. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she tried to muster enthusiasm for another day at this inn. There would be no traveling until a carriage arrived for Patrick from home. She wouldn’t leave him alone, and Darling would probably revolt if she suggested such a thing. At least the weather would be a boon to a schedule that was already a disaster. Small comfort.
The first attempt at standing brought a groan. As a general rule, mornings were loathsome. Anyone who thought differently was touched in the head. With each step she discovered that the morning after a carriage accident was pure torture. Going through the motions of her morning ablutions, she had never been so grateful for simple garments in her life. Stockings, a shift, front-lacing stays, then a petticoat topped with another utilitarian gown.
Patrick’s room was three doors down, tucked in the corner of the inn. A knock received no answer, but it was early. Opening the door a crack, she spotted Darling, right where she’d expected her to be. Her maid dozed in a chair beside Patrick’s bed, their hands clasped in their sleep. Lottie smiled. Darling made a wonderful nurse. Patrick couldn’t be in better hands—figuratively or literally.
The picture they made—two former outcasts, comforting one another, warmed her heart. Darling had been the town’s fallen woman, trading her favors to survive after her husband’s death. Patrick had lived in the bottom of a bottle
. Yet here they were, sober, happy, both respectably employed, even though Father would have kicked and screamed if he’d known about her hiring them at the time. Sometimes Father’s habit of hiding from the world worked to her advantage. By the time he realized what was happening, Darling and Patrick had started over and shown themselves to be model employees.
Easing the door closed, Lottie shuffled toward her room and the stairs beyond, covering a yawn with one hand. Heavens, it was early.
Lord Amesbury stepped into the hallway. They stared at one another for a moment. He’d slept across the hall from her all night. Odd that she hadn’t realized.
“Good morning. I’m checking the road conditions and having breakfast,” he said a bit too cheerfully given the hour.
Lottie blinked. She didn’t care what he did. She needed tea and food. In that order. Their conversation last night had kept her awake, so her natural instinct was to blame him for her exhaustion. To say as much would be telling, and the man didn’t need that kind of encouragement. Deciding what to do with him was something that could wait until she’d had tea and she had both eyes open.
In the narrow stairwell, his shoulders dominated the space. “Could you be any wider?” she grumbled. His answering laugh was a low rumble she felt in the air more than heard. Wouldn’t it be her luck that he was one of those awful people who were happy in the morning. The mind. It boggled.
The main taproom had filled with patrons and residents for the breakfast service. Through the window, the stable yard looked to be mucky but passable. A large portion of sky shone a bright, clear, beautiful blue that seemed to bully the soggy clouds into a retreat. Lottie searched the room for an unoccupied table, trying to ignore the obnoxiously perky man beside her. He hummed a tune and greeted the patrons. It was unnatural.
“One moment, Lady Charlotte.” Amesbury piled the dirty dishes from a narrow table near the wall onto the bar, then brushed a hand over the tabletop, sweeping crumbs to the floor. He held out a chair, waiting with a small smile on his lips.
She cocked her head, a bit puzzled at the casual gallantry. The highest-ranking man in the room had just done servant’s work to find her a seat. Clearly, Lord Amesbury wasn’t your run-of-the-mill aristocrat. But then, he wouldn’t be, would he? During dinner he’d mentioned that before the title he’d been a shepherd. Granted, the last time she’d been in London, the details surrounding his inheritance hadn’t been her focus, but she remembered his reception had been mixed.
A maid trotted by with her hands full of plates. “Tea please?” Lottie called. The servant answered with a cheerful smile. As she took her seat, Amesbury pushed the chair into place beneath her like a footman at a dinner party, then sat down across the table.
Lord Amesbury’s hair, damp from his morning wash, curled about his head, with one lock falling almost into his eye. She had to clench her hands to stop from brushing it off his forehead. It clearly didn’t annoy him as much as it did her, but really—he needed to push that curl out of his face, and she needed tea before her head exploded from dealing with people this early.
When the maid returned with a pot of magical dark brew, Lottie nearly wept in gratitude. After pouring the drink into an earthenware mug, she added sugar and blew on the surface before taking her first sip.
“If you don’ mind, I’ll take a cup—”
Lottie cut him off by holding one finger in the air. She mutely filled another mug, nudged it his way, then raised the finger again to signal silence.
Tea. She needed tea.
He laughed at her. Not a big belly laugh, but a muffled sort of snort he didn’t even try to hide.
When she added sugar to her second cup, he asked, “Is it safe tae speak now?”
“I don’t know. Will you continue to be unreasonably chipper?” His responding grin made no promises, so she ignored him and refocused on the tea.
Lottie always loved the second cup more. It was the perfect temperature to drink straightaway, without waiting. The first cup gave her life, but the second was pure gratuitous indulgence. Amesbury’s apology last night may have stolen her sleep, but she’d be damned if he stole her tea bliss too.
Mrs. Pringle brought a platter of food and two plates. The older woman grimaced as she looked Lottie over. “How are you feeling this morning, your ladyship?”
“Cranky,” Lord Amesbury answered for her.
The glare Lottie shot at him made her wince when her bruised eye protested the movement. “Perfectly fine, Mrs. Pringle. I thought I’d walk into the village later. Where can I purchase more of the lemon bath oil you provided yesterday?”
Mrs. Pringle beamed. “My sister makes the oil, and many others besides. Go to High Street and look for the shop’s blue door.”
“Well then, I’ll explore High Street after I break my fast. Thank you.”
Lord Amesbury served himself seconds and handed her a plate of food as Lord Carlyle sauntered to their table. “Well, aren’t we cozy? Lady Charlotte, you’re looking better than expected.” Carlyle lounged against the wall behind Amesbury’s chair and stole a sausage from his friend’s plate.
“Get your own breakfast, thief. An’ leave her alone. She’s no’ chatty in the morning.” Amesbury stabbed at Lord Carlyle’s hand with his fork but wasn’t quick enough to save the second sausage.
Carlyle grinned at her around a mouthful of stolen goods. “Let me guess. You feel as if you’ve been thrown in a sack and beaten with a cricket bat?”
Lottie couldn’t help laughing. “Something like that. I’ll mend. Thankfully, so will my coachman.”
“He’ll keep the leg?” Amesbury asked.
“Yes. He’s tremendously lucky. The doctor is very skilled, as Mrs. Pringle said.” Carlyle eyed the empty platter in the middle of the table. “You may have mine if you aren’t too picky about from whom you steal.” Lottie pushed her plate in his direction. The level of pain in her body seemed to be impacting her appetite. Watching the friends interact was utterly fascinating, though. It revealed a playful side of Lord Amesbury. Yesterday’s confidence, then apology, and this morning’s teasing conversation with his friend made her wonder how many more layers there were to the man. He wasn’t the one-dimensional villain she remembered.
Lord Carlyle grinned. “My endless thanks, Lady Charlotte. Mac, I like her.”
Despite the fact that he somehow managed to be even more animated than Amesbury at this ungodly hour, it was difficult not to like Lord Carlyle in return. Lottie smirked when Lord Amesbury rolled his eyes.
That they were sitting here, not only civil but nearly friendly, struck her as strange. Last night’s apology must have been working on her years of animosity while she slept, because instead of hiding behind her raised hackles, she’d found this breakfast—well, nearly enjoyable. Though it pained her to say it, she might not hate the man as much as she thought. Trust him? No. Genuinely like and esteem him? A laughable concept. But maybe she didn’t wish him to perdition.
In her defense, it had been a great apology.
“Eat quickly, Cal. We should get on the road. Lady Charlotte, thank you for the pleasure of your company this morning. I hope your coachman makes a full recovery and that you’re back tae fighting form soon. Perhaps we will meet in London.”
Lord Amesbury sketched a shallow bow while Lord Carlyle finished the last bite from her plate. Carlyle bowed over her hand. “You are a gem, Lady Charlotte. Thank you for breakfast. Might I ask a small favor? Don’t forgive him too quickly. Watching him grovel is fun.”
Chapter Five
As Lottie rattled into Town in one of her father’s older traveling coaches, her teeth knocked together, and she bit the tip of her tongue when the coach hit a hole in the cobblestone street.
Darling held tight to a leather strap overhead, looking slightly green around the gills. “If it’s this bad for us, how is poor Patrick faring?”
“I gave him the well-sprung carriage, but I’m sure the journey will be hard. His recuperation will be
easier at home, though. You gave him the laudanum?”
“Yes. Not that he’ll use it. But one can hope.” Darling craned her neck to see out the dusty window. “Are we close to your godmother’s house?”
“I think so. Although after so long delayed at the inn, just the fact we are in London means we’re close.” The week had felt like a year. She and Darling had spent their days with Patrick, trying to keep his spirits high while they waited for help from home. His injury was too serious to risk placing him in the hands of strangers in a hired carriage. At least tending to his care had given her something to focus on besides her encounter with Lord Amesbury and the general dread she held for returning to London.
Town was so stifling—and she wasn’t used to those restrictions anymore. In the country, a maid was sufficient companionship for sticklers of propriety. But London society saw and judged everything. They gossiped behind chicken-skin fans, eviscerating the next generation over tea, living in the hope that they’d be the first to share the latest tale of misfortune—assuming the misfortune belonged to someone else.
Lottie’s days of wandering about as a perfectly capable unsupervised adult were behind her. Lady Agatha would fulfill the role of chaperone through the turbulent waters of the ton and with any luck would stomp on Lottie’s toes to prevent improper things such as conversations about the works of Mary Wollstonecraft.
Outside the window, the buildings transitioned from sporadic to claustrophobic, one structure built atop another. She probably wouldn’t want to wander in London anyway. Only a fool would attempt to navigate these streets alone.
“The town house in Berkeley Square is under construction at the moment. Aunt Agatha leased a home not far away, on Hill Street. The architect assures her they’ll finish before winter, but we shall see.”
At last, the carriage drew up to the address from Agatha’s most recent missive. An ancient man so thin he resembled a walking cadaver answered the door. He stared with a silent, unblinking stillness until Lottie handed him her card.
Any Rogue Will Do Page 4