The top of her head would fit right under his chin. Everywhere he was hard, she was soft. Under her clenched fingers, the tendons of his arm felt like warm steel. Lottie’s senses swam as she drank in his unique scent, with a trace of lemon reminiscent of her bath oil.
“Lady Charlotte is being modest.” Amesbury’s deep burr brought her back to the moment. “She sustained injuries yet bravely rode for help.” The sharp lines of his face softened when he smiled, making a shallow dimple play peekaboo beside the corner of his mouth. Somehow, she hadn’t noticed that dimple before now. But now she couldn’t unnotice it.
“How fortunate that you were there! Travel is such a chore these days.” Lady Bartlesby appeared nonplussed. The expression sent a thrill through Lottie. The lack of drama was undoubtedly a bitter disappointment, but it served her right.
A gong sounded, signaling the dinner hour. Lottie let Amesbury lead them into the dining room. Her skirts occasionally brushed against his pantaloons, making a sensual swishing sound of wool rubbing silk.
“Well done, love,” Agatha whispered as she passed.
It wasn’t a surprise to anyone that Lottie’s and Amesbury’s name cards were side by side on the long table, right in the middle, where everyone could keep an eye on their interaction. Now she and Amesbury needed to make it through dinner while convincing everyone present that no ill will remained between them.
For all her faults, Lady Bartlesby set an elegant table. The linens glowed in the candlelight as flickering flames danced off cut-crystal faceted stemware and gleaming silver.
Lord Amesbury held out a chair, ignoring a footman who stood at the ready to assist guests. The gesture was so similar to their breakfast at the inn when he’d cleared a table for her.
The inn where she’d told him to go to the devil after he hadn’t remembered her.
Lottie stifled a sigh. She would need to set aside their differences this evening for the sake of preventing gossip. “Thank you, Lord Amesbury.”
That didn’t mean she had to like it.
* * *
Dining with the enemy was one of Dante’s levels of hell, right? If not, it should be. This night might be one of the oddest social events he’d attended in months. Lord Bartlesby’s greeting had been cool, and that was being generous. In Bartlesby’s defense, he was three sheets to the wind and lucky to still be upright.
If this wasn’t supposed to be an olive branch from his cousin’s friend, then why invite him? The whole situation had baffled Ethan until he’d encountered his hostess. Once he spotted Lady Charlotte and the gleam in Lady Bartlesby’s eye, it all made sense. Lady Bartlesby had seen an opportunity for gossip and taken it. Lord Bartlesby clearly didn’t make decisions in this house beyond his bottle of port, so he’d gone along with the plan.
Ethan often received invitations to join men carousing after hours, but invitations to respectable dinner parties like this one were rarer. If tonight opened the doors to more events, that could mean building connections with peers who might eventually buy Woodrest Ale for their households. He thought of his host and the other guests as prospective customers—if he played his cards right. After dinner, when the men retired with their port, he would determine if that was realistic or if this evening was an utter waste of time.
Bartlesby jostled Ethan’s shoulder, making him bump into Lady Charlotte. Their host continued on without apology, finding his seat at the end of the table without a backward glance. Lady Charlotte shot Ethan a look. Yes, their host was decidedly in his cups and rude. The chances of this invitation being a sign of goodwill dwindled.
It might have been a month after Ethan arrived in London that he’d met Lord Bartlesby for the first time. Before London, he’d stayed at Woodrest to grapple with this new life he’d had thrust upon him.
The charming oddities of the estate had made him curious about those who’d lived there prior—this extended family who’d been out in the world all along but hadn’t reestablished contact after his great-gran’da left for Scotland. Who were the people that had celebrated christenings, marriages, funerals, and holidays within the walls of his new home? Since none of them survived, he asked around to determine who was closest to Jerome and his son, George.
George’s friends were happy to open a bottle and reminisce.
Jerome’s closest mate, Bartlesby, made it clear in the first three minutes of their interview that while Ethan might not have heard of Jerome, Jerome had known exactly who Ethan was, and apparently had spoken about his relief that George was there to prevent the “mongrel shepherd” from dragging the Amesbury title through the muck. The meeting went downhill from there.
At the opposite end of the table, Lord Bartlesby signaled for another glass of wine while Lady Bartlesby pretended she didn’t notice. The man would pickle himself from the inside out at this rate. As the footman poured, Bartlesby lifted his bloodshot gaze to meet Ethan’s, and any fool could see that no part of this evening had been a gesture of peace. With a raised brow and a slight sneer, Bartlesby dismissed Ethan and began conversing with the guest to his left.
If indeed the purpose of his invitation had been to create gossip fodder for Lady Bartlesby’s sewing circle, then Ethan had Lady Charlotte’s quick thinking to thank for saving the day.
But it wasn’t only her level head holding his attention now. The Lady Charlotte sitting beside him bore little resemblance to the quiet woman of his memory. This lass wouldn’t have given a second glance to the immature man he’d been back then. Had she always been this way and been forced to remain silent? If so, that was nothing short of tragic. It was as if she’d debuted as an ink-sketch portrait but had come into her own now, painted over with the vivid oil hues of wit, opinion, and intelligence.
“The papers are calling the events in Manchester the Peterloo Massacre, and you think we should be proud of the actions taken? Are you utterly mad?” she was saying to Mr. Lurch on her right.
“It’s a pun, milady. I hardly expect a woman of your refined sensibilities to grasp the connotations—”
“I grasp them quite capably, Mr. Lurch. My sex does not hinder reading comprehension.” Lady Charlotte’s eyes were bright, and the roses in her cheeks made her appear warm and soft—much like the deceptive camouflage nature often gave predators to lure their prey. Ethan curled his fingers into a fist. If he touched her hand in a show of support, she’d snap at him.
The conversation around the table petered out when the other guests noticed the unfolding conflict.
“I understand the newspapers are making a play on words with the Battle of Waterloo. I’ve been following the issues that started this rather closely, sir. The strife has been documented in the papers building to this tragedy.” The muscles in Lady Charlotte’s jaw twitched, and Ethan tried not to laugh, sure she was ready to weaponize her words. When she got angry at someone besides himself, it was rather fun to watch.
“Rebellious agitators.” Mr. Lurch shrugged. “Industrial workers in Manchester. No one of note. Nothing that affects you.”
“They are subjects of the crown, suffering from gross underrepresentation in our government. The last time a population rose up regarding their lack of representation, a war broke out and they formed a new nation. America is what happens when you don’t listen to the people, Mr. Lurch.”
Mr. Lurch spoke as he chewed, masticated meat showing with each word. “Leave politics to the men, Lady Charlotte. Although I concede you are the authority on satirical cartoons in this room, so I understand if you feel entitled to an opinion on Cruikshank’s work.” A titter of amusement rippled down the table. Ethan’s fingers tightened around his fork. “Settle your head on the subject. Else you risk sounding like a revolutionary, yourself. Clearly Lady Agatha should restrict your access to anything beyond the society pages. One must guard a young lady’s impressionable mind from too much information.” Mr. Lurch returned to his meal as if he wasn’t the biggest arse in Christendom.
“I doubt you’d recognize a
n impressionable mind if it bit you,” Ethan said loudly enough for Mr. Lurch to glance over at him, but the other man didn’t engage. Bartlesby shot him an acrid look of reproach. To lose favor with his host when he’d never had it to begin with was no loss at all. Perhaps he’d throw Ethan out of the house. Again. The lost potential social connections would be worth it if he could defend Lady Charlotte in this small way.
Bartlesby remained seated without calling for a footman. It would seem this dinner wouldn’t be ending right away.
As the next course arrived, cueing the guests to shift focus to their other seating partners, Lady Charlotte turned to him.
“After all that, it shouldn’ be hard tae be the best dinner companion you’ve had this evening.”
Lady Charlotte blinked, gaped for a second, then laughed.
In his chest, Ethan’s heart stalled. A wide grin creased her cheeks. If she lived a happy life, she’d form permanent lines at those creases. The thought made Ethan smile in return. This woman, with her opinions and defense of the less fortunate masses, was breathtaking. And he—Ethan Ridley—had made her laugh.
Pure.
Magic.
She’d bewitched him.
* * *
Lottie dismissed Darling and tightened her dressing gown’s sash. A silver tray on the vanity held her mother’s brush, comb, and hand mirror set and the vial of lemon oil she’d acquired from Warwickshire. She tugged the brush through her long curls, wincing at her reflection in the mirror as she worked through a tangle. The black eye had faded entirely, and a doctor would visit tomorrow to remove the stitches. She cocked her head, then sighed. While not a great beauty, she wouldn’t scare small children now that the bruises had faded. Things could be worse.
It wasn’t her first black eye. She’d been a rambunctious child, whom Mother had tried to mold into submission during short visits to the schoolroom. Tonight, when she’d been deciding on a plan to control the events unfolding around her, Mother’s training had come in handy. She’d pretended that Amesbury’s presence hadn’t affected her in the slightest—which couldn’t be further from the truth. Or at least, she’d appeared unflappable until that awful conversation with Mr. Lurch ruined her plan to not make a scene.
Oh well. If tongues wagged tomorrow, it would be because she was well read on the current political climate and had opinions. Better that than everyone laughing because they thought her empty-headed.
Her heart rate doubled for a second or two at the memory of how Amesbury had looked at her this evening when she’d finally torn her attention from Mr. Lurch’s condescending conversation. The expression on his face had sent shivers of…something along her limbs.
Then he’d spoken up in her defense. Just the one comment to Mr. Lurch—but that single sarcastic bon mot in solidarity had meant so much when she’d realized how far her heated conversation had carried down the table. Feeling the weight of everyone’s attention, then turning to him and seeing an ally, of all things, was the oddest sort of comfort. He hadn’t judged her for debating politics at a dinner party. Instead, he’d seemed to, well, enjoy her.
The rest of the dinner she’d ignored protocol and engaged Amesbury in conversation instead of swapping back to Mr. Lurch when the courses changed. They’d managed to maintain their charade of friendship, and by the end of the night it had almost felt real—if not for the occasional awkward lag in conversation when she remembered he wasn’t a friend and was only playing along with the game she’d started.
Those periods between the pauses, though, when she didn’t check herself and simply let the conversation flow, were confusing. Laughing at the low-voiced comments he’d made for only her ears had been easy for a while. That ease confounded her, because if she were quite honest with herself, it shouldn’t have been possible. Not with their history.
Now her head hurt, and she didn’t know which way was up with that man. One week of social engagements in London and she was already exhausted by the pretense—reminding her once again that she wasn’t cut out for this.
Enough. She set the brush back on the vanity and dug in the drawer for a ribbon.
These thoughts would spin through her brain all night if she let them.
Lottie subdued her curls into a plait, tying the end with the lone silk scrap she’d found. Snuffing the candle in its brass holder, she hoped the morning would bring clarity. If not clarity, then opportunities to handle the ton in a way that didn’t mean partnering with a man she couldn’t trust.
Hours later, in the light of morning, Lottie opened her eyes with a groan of frustration. Rested, she was not. A strong cup of tea, then a dose of the great outdoors was needed. Or rather, as close as she could get to the great outdoors while in London. The park would have to do.
The new riding habit’s snug jacket hugged her waist, creating an hourglass shape different from the high waistlines that had been popular for years. Turning in front of the mirror, she thought the effect flattering despite the dark circles under her eyes. The new silhouette was worth every moment she’d spent at the modiste’s shop.
At Madame Bouvier’s, ladies enjoyed tea and gossip and trusted the modiste to determine what garments best suited them. To achieve whatever plan Madame Bouvier created, one had to strip down to a chemise while being poked with pins by a stranger. Outside the fitting rooms, the shop had possessed the hushed, reverent air of a chapel for worshipping Chantilly lace and fine muslin.
After securing her hat at a jaunty angle, Lottie gathered her leather riding gloves and hurried out the door to meet a groom, who led two mounts down the lane from the mews. The horse he’d chosen for her, a leggy bay with intelligent eyes, sighed heavily and leaned into her hand when Lottie caressed the mare’s soft nose. “Who’s this beauty?”
“Dancer, milady.” The groom tightened the girth strap one last time, then patted the mare’s side.
“Nice to meet you, Dancer. Shall we explore a bit, pretty girl?” The horse lipped her glove, which Lottie took as permission to carry on. With the groom’s help, she mounted and settled the swath of velvet skirt over her legs.
Oh, how she missed the ease of riding in breeches. When she returned to Westmorland, she’d spend the first day home astride a horse, flying over the fields. For now, she would count her blessings and try to appreciate the park in all its man-made, handcrafted beauty. The trees were beginning to hint at autumn, which would be breathtaking given time.
Settling deeper into the saddle, Lottie found her seat with Dancer’s swaying stride. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoed off the stone houses as she made her way out of the neighborhood. The green expanse of the park opened up before her, and Dancer sidestepped in a move Lottie chose to interpret as enthusiasm. A glance over her shoulder showed the groom keeping pace behind her, giving Lottie the illusion of freedom. With a nod she signaled her intent, then let Dancer have her head. This early in the day the park was nearly empty, so an unladylike run would go unnoticed.
Dancer’s gait was a dream. While the exhilaration of a hearty ride blew the lingering cobwebs from her brain, Lottie shuffled and reorganized recent events in her head, trying to align everything with her reasons for being in London.
As soon as that first new gown from Madame Bouvier had arrived, she’d stepped back into the role of society lady. Dinners, game nights, intimate gatherings of friends—every night there were new faces. And every night, she met new men who could, in theory, be husband candidates. Agatha’s steady flow of invitations meant the pace wouldn’t be slowing anytime soon.
All those matrimonial options, yet the man dominating her thoughts happened to be the one who’d sat beside her last night and defended her.
As she spurred Dancer to stretch her legs even more, the park became a blur.
Hell on a broomstick—as Darling would say. This trip to London was supposed to be about finding a husband, not about a giant Scotsman who’d already shown her his slimy underbelly. Never mind that the underbelly in question hadn’t
seemed slimy during their last several encounters.
She and Dancer were nearly upon another rider before his presence registered. With nimble feet, her mount veered around the man and his horse, snapping Lottie from her thoughts. Slowing Dancer, she reined around to call out, “Are you all right? I was woolgathering and didn’t see you. I’m so sorry.”
Nudging his mount closer, the man tipped his hat and met her with a grin. Sunlight lit him from the side, setting him aglow like a hero in a painting. Good Lord, he might be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Albeit a bit tired looking around the edges.
“I hope your ruminations were on good things, Lady Charlotte,” he said.
Lottie paused, cocking her head as a ripple of disquiet rolled through her. “Do we know one another, sir?”
“In a way. Although we’ve not met before now. Someone pointed you out in the crowd on Bond Street earlier this week. Our families share ties, you see. Last I heard, our fathers want to deepen that connection. I’m the Earl of Danby’s son James Montague. I believe you are the woman I’m planning to marry.”
Chapter Eight
Two days after Lady Bartlesby’s dinner, the gossip columns featured a small square of cramped text speculating on the relationship between the Paper Doll Princess and MacBrute. According to the snippet, given their history, it was noteworthy that they’d passed the remaining courses of the meal engrossed in conversation.
It seemed they were damned if they appeared friendly and damned if they hissed at each other like cats. Ethan dropped the newspaper on the breakfast table. At the sight of his full nickname alongside that awful moniker he’d given Lady Charlotte, a sharp pain pierced his temple. His appetite gone, he pushed his plate away.
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