He grinned, then got to his feet and pulled her up to stand. “Let’s go write our engagement announcement and ruin Montague’s plans.”
It wasn’t until he’d left for the Times office that she noticed the parcel abandoned on the sofa. She set aside the note tucked into the string, unwrapped the paper, and began to laugh. He’d brought her a beautifully bound volume of Francis Grose’s Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue. Still chuckling, she read the note, written in scrawling penmanship.
So your tongue may be as sharp as your wit.
Looking forward to crossing swords again soon.
Your friend,
Ethan
Chapter Twelve
The Times announced the engagement on Wednesday, two days before Montague’s threatened date. There it was in black and white. The longer Lottie stared at it, the stranger it became. She’d saved the paper, as nonsensical as that action was, stashing it in the drawer beside her bed. It wasn’t as if any of this was real, after all. On the seventh morning of her faux engagement, she read the announcement for the thousandth time, then girded her proverbial loins for that day’s gossip columns. The rags, being the upstanding informational tools to the masses that they were, had been going wild with the story.
“How bad is it this morning?” she asked Darling.
“The papers or the servants’ gossip network?” Darling laid out a dress for the morning, then took the paper from Lottie and tucked it back in the drawer.
Lottie winced. “Both, I suppose. Are the servants saying worse things than the papers?”
A lord offering for the woman he’d once shunned was too juicy a tidbit for people to resist. The old satirical cartoons resurfaced from the archives and were published alongside new ones. Even people who couldn’t read knew the alleged details of her love life. The most popular image showed a pathetic groom walking down the aisle of a church with a life-sized cutout of her tucked under one arm like a newspaper as he trudged toward a bishop holding out a bag of gold. It wasn’t even a flattering likeness—if such a thing were possible when speaking of mocking caricatures.
“Some love the romance of it, you know? A man ruins a woman, then wins her back, and they fall in love. Word is, you have a heart of gold and the patience of a saint.”
Lottie snorted. That was one way to interpret it. Not remotely true. But creative. “What’s the other side say?”
“You broke Mr. Montague’s heart by choosing a title over love. Those people think you’re a moneygrubbing hussy. We don’t like those people.” Darling shook out a chemise and placed it with the day dress on the bed.
“No, I suppose we wouldn’t like those people. Is Montague still flapping his jaw all over Christendom?” She tried to laugh it off, but it stung to think of strangers passing judgment on her based on false information.
“The man should be on the stage from what I hear. A more wounded martyr for love you’ve never seen. The cartoonists are having a grand time, let me tell you. Between you and me, I think he’s selling these stories to pay his gambling debts,” Darling said.
“Too bad I can’t tell everyone he’s the real brute here, not Lord Amesbury. Have you heard back from Patrick regarding our little subterfuge?” At her request, Darling had sent a letter to Patrick the same day Amesbury had brought the announcement to the Times. With any luck, by the time the edition of the paper announcing their engagement arrived at Stanwick, Patrick would have prepared the staff to follow her instructions. The servants ironed the paper before Father read it over breakfast—although he didn’t always read the news, since the world beyond his library was of little interest. The papers ended up passed around the servants’ hall and eventually burned as kindling. But just in case, they’d enlisted Patrick in making that particular edition disappear. As long as Father hadn’t developed a taste for gossip pages, they should be able to contain news of her engagement until Montague had moved on and she was ready to figure out her next step.
“Not yet. Patrick will have taken care of it, don’t you worry. As to you and Montague, and what went on—I’ve held my tongue. But it’s hard,” Darling said.
“On what side are our servants?” Lottie flipped back the coverlet, then crossed to the vanity table for her hairbrush. She’d expected there would be talk, but Montague casting himself as the victim fed the flames of the gossip columns, making the chatter that much worse.
“This staff has a righteous fear of Dawson’s wrath, and Dawson’s taken a shine to you and Lady Agatha. None of us would speak against you. But servants talk at the market, over the back gate, couples stepping out together.” Darling shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid. There was nothing they could do about the talk.
Darling handed her the day’s papers. Lottie perched on the window seat to read the newest fabrications, innuendos, and allegations delivered to their door. Today’s columns reported seeing Mr. Montague visibly distraught. Not news. She snorted indelicately, then flipped to the next page.
Some reports said while he was out with his friends, he’d furiously ranted about the situation. Entirely plausible. He did love to monologue. Others claimed he wept inconsolably while declaring his heartbreak to anyone who would listen. Ah, there was the fiction. “I’d love to see that,” she muttered.
Three broadsheets later, she surmised that the papers all agreed—no matter his mood, Montague always spoke of his lost love. More like her lost dowry, but that would make him sound like a money-grubbing arse.
The treatment he’d received from MacBrute and his Paper Doll Princess was nothing short of abominable, the papers declared. To be thrown over after beginning marriage contracts in good faith was too tragic for words, said another paper. “Never mind that he shared plenty of words on the subject. This is the same rubbish, just using different phrases each day,” she told Darling. “Listen to this nonsense: How could the lady in question choose the hulking Scottish MacBrute over the Adonis-like perfection of the Earl of Danby’s son? I’ll tell you how. Lord Amesbury doesn’t have to pad his coats, and he probably doesn’t kiss like a gasping trout.”
“I bet you a week’s pay you find out for sure sooner rather than later. Lord Amesbury might be a friend now, but he’s still a man,” Darling teased.
Lottie made a noncommittal noise but held still while her maid tightened the short stays. It was her and Agatha’s at-home day, which meant an entire afternoon loomed ahead, filled with endless rounds of tea and onlookers. If she must endure a parade of curious faces, probing questions, and subtle inquiries, she’d prefer to do so while comfortable. The day dress was fashionable but looser than anything she’d wear outside the house. While smiling her way through visitors, she’d miss the buffer of Darling’s cheerfully snide commentary regarding the gossip columns.
“Can I ask you a question, milady?”
“Of course, Darling. What’s on your mind?”
“Wherever we live after London, would you be willing to bring on Patrick instead of leaving him at Stanwick Manor?”
Lottie focused on her maid in the mirror. “Are things with Patrick progressing in that direction? Has he declared himself?”
Darling shook her head. “He’s not said it in so many words. I think he’s waiting to have that conversation face-to-face. I need to be sure he’s thought it through. Marrying someone with my history—that takes a special kind of man.”
Lottie turned to squeeze her hand. “You both have histories to consider. Patrick would be the luckiest man alive if he won your heart. If you want this, then I am happy for you.” She turned around and lifted her heavy hair away from her back so Darling could fasten the line of silver buttons. “To answer your question—I would create a position for him no matter where we lived. Do not fear that I would separate the two of you.”
“That sets my mind at ease. Now, what gown do you want to wear this evening? It’s your first outing with Lord Amesbury since the engagement, so you should look spectacular.”
“How about the scarlet silk? If they�
�re going to talk, we might as well give them something to talk about.” Lottie winked. The red gown in particular would tell everyone she didn’t care about what the papers said. Even if she wasn’t entirely immune to the talk.
* * *
That night, light and chatter spilled from the townhome into the street, acting as a beacon for the line of carriages. With an entire evening stretching before her, Lottie closed her eyes a moment and wished desperately for a cup of strong tea to help her get through the rest of the night.
Having dealt with the expected afternoon parade of callers, wearing the red gown felt like donning a facade—an alternate personality who courted notoriety, not caring that her love life was under dissection in the papers.
Again.
On top of dreading the speculation of her peers, there was the ever-present worry that she’d have to deal with Montague face-to-face. There was no doubt in her mind he was behind the news stories, so thinking he’d avoid the opportunity to make a fuss in public was naive. When she thought of her last encounter with him, she tried to dwell on his expression as he’d flown off the seat and not the way he’d kissed, threatened, and made her feel helpless. Events by that pond couldn’t be changed, but she could celebrate the way she’d fought back and won.
Now she’d have to deal with whatever the evening brought. Hopefully, she worried for nothing, and it would be a lovely night with Amesbury, her godmother, and Lord Carlyle.
Taking a deep breath, she placed her hand on Lord Amesbury’s arm. He covered her gloved fingers with his as if having her beside him was the most natural thing in the world. “You are lovely this evening.”
She looked up from under her lashes as they ascended the steps. “Thank you, my lord. Flattery is an admirable characteristic in a fiancé. Feel free to continue in that vein.”
When he grinned, that dimple flashed, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
The butler opened the door, releasing a chorus of voices that swelled through the air, buzzing in a way that resembled a hive—complete with their hostess, the queen. Sharp laughter occasionally broke above the din. Lottie wished she were comfortable enough in this environment to laugh so freely.
The Blanchards had no ballroom in which to entertain. Instead, guests flowed from one room into the next, with the largest room cleared for dancing. As the great number of bodies crowded into a relatively small space, the air grew stale with each degree the temperature rose.
Lady Blanchard greeted them with a broad smile, her eyes darting to Lottie’s hand tucked through Amesbury’s arm. “The happy couple! I do hope you’ll enjoy the evening.”
Amesbury smiled down at Lottie, playing his role to perfection. He winked, and the deep blue of his eyes distracted her from her earlier worries. Since he’d entered the carriage this evening, there’d been a quiver low in her belly. With that wink, it grew from tiny flutters into a rapid pulse, like the wings of a hummingbird.
Leading her away from their hostess, he leaned down to her ear. “If Montague is here, remember you aren’t alone. We are partners, lass.” The look he gave her made the hummingbird flutters calm until everything within her quieted. A blooming liquid warmth spread over her as he held her gaze for a moment. A few heartbeats.
Too long.
She blinked away the intimate spell and searched the room for something to distract her from this inconvenient attraction to her faux fiancé. A blond halo of curls held ruthlessly in check with pomade caught her eye an instant before she felt Montague’s glare.
“Speak of the devil.”
Amesbury stilled beside her. “I see him. You’re more than capable of handling him. But I’d like tae stay close.”
Lottie hugged his arm as an answer. Moving away from Montague, they greeted acquaintances, sipped champagne, and fielded the questions underlying each innocuous exchange. People smiled and laughed in a friendly way while hissed conversations swelled in their wake all around the room.
“I thought Montague signed contracts with her father…”
“Did poor Mr. Montague realize she was considering MacBrute?”
Several women looked her way with envious stares. Lottie couldn’t say she blamed them. The sharp, simple lines of an evening coat suited her escort’s frame. The muscles bunching and releasing in his thighs showed through the fabric of his pantaloons. So many men needed padding to enhance their figures. When faced with the real thing, one tended to stare.
Amesbury tapped her hand, then flicked his finger toward the doorway. Mr. Montague approached them. High collar points framed an elaborate cravat of snowy linen, from which a gem winked in the candlelight. The man who’d pushed himself on her resembled a fairy-tale prince except for the faint bruising under his eyes. Whether from too many late nights or the blow to the face she’d delivered, Lottie didn’t know. With every step he took toward them, her mind screamed for her to run, while her feet froze in place as if she’d grown roots.
“Lady Charlotte.” Montague bowed over her hand. When he attempted to turn her wrist up for a kiss in his customary greeting, she jerked her hand away.
“Mr. Montague.” Ice crystals should have formed in nearby champagne flutes from her tone.
“You used to call me James. I suppose such intimacies aren’t appropriate now.” His eyes turned glassy, as if on the verge of tears. What a handy trick, to summon tears on cue.
Amesbury stood as a quiet pillar of support next to her.
“I wish you nothing but happiness, of course, pet.” Montague grabbed her hand again. She tugged, but he held firm, increasing the pressure of his grip with brutal force.
“Release me at once, sir.” The quiver in Lottie’s voice betrayed her, but with any luck no one would notice. She dug the tips of her fingers into Amesbury’s arm in a silent cry for help.
Montague ignored the demand and smirked at Amesbury. “When you marry, what shall we call her? Lady Amesbury or Lady MacBrute?”
Amesbury covered Montague’s wrist, his fingers easily encircling the bone, as well as part of his forearm. “I don’ care what you call me. However, you’ll listen tae the lady and release her now.”
At last, Montague let her go. As blood rushed back to her fingers, she swallowed a gasp. Goodness, that hurt. Refusing to let him see her pain, she raised her chin and channeled every lesson in decorum Mother had pounded into her brain. “Goodbye, Mr. Montague. I see no reason to speak again.”
Anyone watching would think the whispers didn’t matter as she and Amesbury made their way into the next room.
* * *
Ethan couldn’t get them away from that smug golden bastard fast enough.
“Where are we going?” Lottie trotted to keep up with his long strides.
“Someplace private. If such a place exists in this house.” A corner by the back windows looked appealing. One wall sconce illuminated the small nook, and a potted plant of some kind hid them from the rest of the guests. “Take off your glove, please.”
The “please” was a formality. Ethan would not be swayed in this. Lady Charlotte pulled her glove off carefully, wincing now that they were away from prying eyes. Her hand was already swelling at the knuckles, discoloring in places. Ethan cursed low, keeping his fingers gentle while examining the damage.
“I only understood half of what you said just now. Did you know your accent gets heavier when you’re upset? The ‘sheep-loving son of a whore’ reference is self-explanatory. But what is a ‘feartie’?”
“‘Feartie’ means ‘coward.’ The least offensive thing I called him, I think. Apologies. I shouldn’ speak like that in front of a lady.”
“Oh, pish. I don’t mind your language one bit. I even learned something,” she joked, then gasped when he tried to put her fingers through their full range of motion.
“He hurt you, lass. I want tae rattle his skull.”
“When I tried to remove my hand, he squeezed harder. Thank you for intervening.” She grimaced at the blooming bruises. “At least my glove wil
l hide it.”
“Lass, one day I hope you’ll tell me what happened between you, so I can determine exactly how bad a thrashing he needs. No one should hurt a woman. Ever.”
Her smile was a bittersweet thing. “Thank you for the sentiment, Lord Amesbury. Actually, may I call you Amesbury? We are engaged, after all. And friends. Perhaps we can drop the formality.”
“Call me Mac. Everyone does.”
“I most certainly will not.” A glance at her face confirmed he’d somehow misstepped. “That’s the name everyone gave you because the ton couldn’t be bothered to call you by your proper title. Your name is not Mac or MacBrute or any variation thereof.”
Long ago, he’d felt the same way about the name. Hearing those old feelings come from her mouth made him blink. When had he accepted the pejorative name? “Ethan. My name is Ethan Ridley.”
She smiled for real this time, lighting her eyes. “Ethan, you may call me Lottie.”
Hearing his name—his real name—from her lips felt impossibly precious and intimate. “Thank you, Lottie.” Lifting her injured hand, he lightly kissed each knuckle. “I should call out Montague. This is not acceptable.”
Arching a brow, she worked her glove back on, then tucked her arm into his. “I want your word as a gentleman that you won’t. I don’t need the scandal, and you don’t need his blood on your hands—because I have every confidence you’d win.”
He growled. Montague had hurt her. The bastard deserved a thrashing, then execution at dawn, followed by dumping his body unceremoniously in the river. Let the fish have whatever remained after Ethan was done with him. Lady Charlotte—Lottie—stayed him with a hand on his chest, and his growl became something closer to a purr.
“I mean it, Ethan. He’s not worth ruining our lives simply to get even. Promise me.”
“Fine. I promise I will not call him out.” Dumping him in the river might be an option, though.
“Thank you. Now, I am going to freshen up a bit. Don’t kill anyone while I’m gone. You appear quite fierce.” Lottie patted his chest one more time, then walked away, leaving a lemony tang in the air.
Any Rogue Will Do Page 13