Any Rogue Will Do

by Bethany Bennett

  “First, kiss me. I’ve no’ tasted you in hours.” She was smiling when his lips met hers. Again, the rightness of the moment struck him. Unable to let her go quite yet, he placed a light kiss on her forehead. “The Thatchers are tired but healthy, and besotted with their wee one.”

  “What did they name the babe?” Lottie resumed her seat, leaving him to follow.

  “Beatrice.” Ethan sighed and sank into the chair beside hers. After his time in the cold wet, the warmth of the fire was heaven. “I wish you’d seen her, Lottie. Such a wee bit of a thing. Her head fit in my palm. She’s only as long as my forearm. Didn’ cry the whole time, except tae eat. Mrs. Thatcher thanked you for the basket.”

  “I’m glad she liked it. Beatrice sounds precious.”

  “Aye, she is. Now what’s this Connor tells me about you leaving tomorrow?”

  The book in her hand caught her attention. Her long fingers stroked the spine in a habit he’d become familiar with this week. When he stilled her fingers with his hand, she flipped her hand, intertwining their fingers as if they’d been doing it for years instead of days.

  “I’m sure Connor told you. Agatha’s home will be ready for us to move in by the end of the week. Much remains to be done before we move house. We leave for London in the morning. Darling is packing my things as we speak.”

  “The real world intruded at Woodrest, aye?” Ethan rested his head on the chair back but kept his gaze and hand on her. “Thank you for sharing my home for a short while.”

  Her posture mirrored his, with her smile just as tired as he felt. “I’ve enjoyed my time here. Particularly how you’ve included me in your duties and business discussions. Thank you for not expecting me to sit in the front parlor and knit.”

  “Ach, lass, I know better than that. You’ve run things for years at Stanwick. Why wouldn’ I include you?”

  “I’ve been trying to determine if there’s a way to fit you—us, I mean—into my plans. I’m not saying I expect you to actually marry me—that would be presumptuous, wouldn’t it? But our time here has me questioning everything—even my plans. And my plans have perfectly sound reason to support them.” She appeared flustered, shaking her head at her own words. “Never mind. Ignore all that.”

  A bittersweet ache pierced him at seeing her unsure of herself. “I don’ want our time together tae end either. You know I want you. But no, I’m not a man who fits in your plans. If I married you, I’d want you in my bed every night. I’d want you by my side, not in some far-off estate living alone. The future you want and the one I’m making here don’ fit together, lass. One of us would have tae change everything.”

  “Let’s just say for argument’s sake that we did marry,” she began. Her face was so serious, he could almost see her labeling and organizing thoughts, puzzling a way through this conversation. Hope bloomed, even though he knew odds were against them finding middle ground. “Would you still treat me that way? Including me in estate matters, I mean.”

  Ethan squeezed her hand. “’Tis what you’ve trained for.”

  Lottie studied him. “Easy as that? No arguments or masculine posturing?”

  “Where I come from, the women work as hard as the men. I’d no’ expect you tae sit and lounge your days away unless you wish it, lass. You’re no’ the type. But even if you changed your plans tae include me—which is a big if—the earl hates me.”

  She sagged back in her chair. “Yes, he does.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded. There wasn’t much more to say. The earl was her last remaining relative. Ethan would not be a wedge between them. Having no family of his own, he couldn’t ask her to alienate hers.

  The weak evening light outside didn’t reach the far wall of the library, where the fire roared near their chairs. The dim atmosphere, warmed by the flames, created the perfect scene for seduction. If they came together this evening, the passion would be colored with desperation, given the reality of their situation. But stealing one last taste of her was a temptation impossible to resist. He rose from his chair, reaching for her despite the knowledge that goodbye loomed. “Lass, we only have—”

  Lottie had already lifted her chin for a kiss they both wanted when Agatha burst into the room. “We’re hosting a ball—a grand event celebrating your engagement and the completion of the construction. All those who flee Town in the summer will regret missing it. If invitations go out by the end of the week, a few families might find their way back to London early. We only have a few weeks before Parliament sits again anyway.”

  Lottie shook her head at her godmother and shot him a look. “Isn’t an engagement ball deceptive? Not to mention expensive?”

  A ball sounded like a lot of fuss to raise expectations he knew would be dashed—along with his foolish hopes that somehow he and Lottie might create a future together. But if Lady Agatha wanted a ball, she’d get a ball. That woman was a force of nature.

  “Darling girl, never discuss finances in mixed company. Terribly crass, love. Since I am your guardian while you are in London, celebrating the engagement will let everyone know the family supports this match.”

  “But Father won’t actually—”

  Lady Agatha swept out of the room as quickly as she’d come, leaving Ethan and Lottie staring after her. A few moments before, the air had been thick with possibility, then the harsh sting of reality. Now silence fell, each retreating to their thoughts—someplace the other couldn’t follow.

  With a tight smile, she let go of his hand. “Good night, Ethan.”

  Her book lay abandoned on the chair. Plucking the book from the seat cushion, Ethan glanced at the title. Fanny Hill. Of course his curious lass would find an erotic novel.

  The fire crackled, the only sound besides his breathing in the library. The room had felt cozy and comfortable. Now it just felt lonely. Over the years, the books, with their smell of ink and leather, had been friends enough. He had to wonder if he could return to being content without her sitting in the chair beside his.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Seeing Ethan again sent a thrill through her. She and Agatha had returned from Woodrest a week before, but Ethan had returned to Town only this morning. There’d been work to do, as Ethan had explained in one of the letters he’d sent this week. Connor had put pressure on him to stay at Woodrest, citing the myriad obligations of the estate. She hated to think his duties were falling to the wayside, but seeing him again felt like a physical relief to an ache she’d been only half-aware of carrying.

  The open carriage meant she didn’t need to bring Darling on this outing, but it also limited the kind of greeting she could offer. They’d been gloriously free at Woodrest, and by comparison, London felt like a cage. It felt like he hadn’t touched her in years instead of days. His eyes were admiring when he helped her into the carriage, and she was grateful she’d chosen a new dress for the outing. Vivid green, trimmed with embroidered leaves and birds, the design had arrived the day before from Madame Bouvier. “You’re beautiful, lass. ’Tis good tae see you.”

  She bit her bottom lip and stared at his mouth. What she would give for a few moments of privacy, instead of a greeting on the public street. “It’s good to see you too. If we were alone…”

  “Aye,” he said, his voice husky. He cleared his throat. “Gunther’s for an ice?”

  “I may be a lunatic to want ices when it’s so cold, but yes.”

  As they headed toward the fashionable tea shop, she stared at Ethan’s profile, drinking in his features. Goodness, she’d missed him. Their last conversation in the library had played over and over in her head since she’d returned. They’d left things with a feeling of hopelessness for the future, and it didn’t sit well.

  The drive was short, not nearly enough time for the jumble of words that wanted to fall off her tongue. Yes, she craved the taste of him, but more than anything, she’d longed for her friend—hearing his voice, making him laugh, seeing him interacting with his tenants. It seemed simplest to say, “I mis
sed you. Thank you for writing.”

  “I missed you as well. The whole week, I didn’ stop thinking about you. Do you mind if we take a few wrong turns? I’d like tae talk privately.”

  At her nod, they made two turns and headed back toward the parks.

  Ethan’s side pressed against hers, hip to hip. Their arms brushed every time he signaled to the horses, but neither moved away. “Our month is nearly up. If you want tae continue with the original plan, I will honor my word, step aside, and wish you happy.” He drew the horses to a stop on a stretch of gravel path in Green Park and faced her with a serious expression. “But Lottie, if you want a life with me, I’ll write your father and beg. I’ll make an arse of myself and grovel. I can’t make him agree, but I can try tae convince him that I’ll make you happy.”

  A war arose within her, and she didn’t know which side should win. It felt like no matter what, she’d lose a part of herself.

  On one hand, she wanted to let this proud Scotsman beg her father, then spend the rest of her days living how they had during their time at Woodrest—taking care of the estate, then coming together with that combustive passion they’d discovered. But would that be fair to him? Whether by choice or chance, he’d not mentioned love, but she knew Ethan wanted something that resembled it. When he spoke of his parents, it was clear they were a love match, though his experience differed greatly from hers. Sure, she cared about him. Desired him. But love? How did someone determine that emotion without good examples?

  Setting aside the scary concept of love, he deserved partnership at the very least. A marriage built on friendship and lust could be a happy medium between their two visions for a future.

  On the other hand, that house by the sea, with its siren song of freedom, called to her. She wasn’t convinced that kisses—no matter how toe curling—were worth losing that independence.

  Her silence stretched for too long, because Ethan set the horses in motion again, heading back toward Gunther’s. Helping him understand what was in her head would be a challenge when the thoughts weren’t clear even to her. But opening himself to her like that had taken courage, and he deserved an answer. She only wished she had one that felt definitive.

  “I want you, but I want the future I’ve worked for too. If there’s a compromise, let’s try to find it. After all, if our passion burns out, we might share enough common interests to live peaceably. Or I can retreat to my estate, and you to yours, then we can coexist miles apart without rancor. We might even manage an heir before the attraction fades.”

  “Your inner romantic needs work, lass,” he said, but his tone wasn’t teasing. Had she hurt him with her honesty?

  “Please understand, I’m trying to be pragmatic about this, Ethan. Have you considered that Father is someone you’ll have to deal with forever? He isn’t a dragon we slay once, then never have to see again. That assumes we get him to agree to the match—which we both know is against reasonable odds.”

  They arrived at numbers 7 and 8 Berkeley Square with its signature pineapple décor visible through the window. Resting the reins on his knees, he stared down at his boots, avoiding her gaze. “It’s a gamble. Any relationship is. But I think you’re worth the risk. Or you can end it. Our month is up the day after the ball.”

  She squeezed his fingers. “I don’t want to hurt you. If we married, what if you came to resent our agreement in a few years? Can I think about what you’ve said for a bit?”

  “Aye. Take all the time you need, lass.” Their fingers interlaced for a moment before he released her and stepped down from the seat to tie off the horses.

  When she stepped down from the carriage, a leaflet blew onto her boot, then stuck. Lottie kicked, trying to dislodge the newsprint. Grasping Ethan’s arm for balance, she peeled the paper off her shoe, along with a wet autumn leaf acting as glue between boot and leaflet. The edge caught on her glove and wouldn’t budge. Flicking her hand only made it worse.

  “Ethan, would you mind? This paper seems far more enamored of me than I am of it.”

  It was only when he’d removed the soggy mess from her hand that she registered the blurred picture on the newssheet. Caricatures of Lottie and Ethan stood at the altar, while another man, who was clearly meant to be Montague, knelt behind her, clutching her hand desperately, looking forlorn. Another sketch starring her private life.

  A cold lump of resignation settled in her belly. The scandal continued, and there seemed to be nothing she could do about it. Would her time in London always be plagued by these kinds of mocking sketches? Sending up a quick prayer that the gossip hadn’t reached her father in Westmorland, she attempted a joking demeanor. The newspapers would not ruin their day.

  “Well, that’s just rude. Is my bum really that huge? Please tell me there’s been creative license taken by a particularly vile artist.” Ethan’s solid presence reminded her that she wasn’t the only target of the gossips. Having an ally helped alleviate some of the frustration.

  “These damn cartoons are getting worse. Your bum is perfect—not as it’s portrayed here. See how they’ve drawn my chin? If it was that blocky in real life, I’d cut myself on it while shaving. The caricaturist was not kind. Although that pathetic expression on Montague’s face is a perfect likeness.” Ethan crumpled the soggy paper in his fist, then threw it aside. “Enough. What flavor of ice do you want? We can share one if you prefer.”

  “Chocolate. And I’m not sharing—even if my hind end does resemble a horse in that horrible cartoon.” She picked her way across the slick cobblestones to the door without waiting for his assistance. “Do you think the rags will find another target soon? This is getting tiresome.”

  Ethan hurried to catch up, then held the door open. “We might have a bit of storm tae weather out just yet. You’re more interesting than you thought, Princess.”

  He winked as she passed in front of him and into the warm, fragrant tea shop. An ally. A friend. A man she craved more than the delicious chocolate ice she would order in a moment. She’d said it a few minutes before, but it repeated in her head now. If there was a compromise, she’d like to find it.

  At the base of her spine one of his fingers traced a hidden caress. Shivers of longing flowed from that small contact. Could she marry another man, when Ethan affected her so? The thought brought a wave of nausea that made her press a fist to her stomach. No. Compromise had to happen. “Ethan? Yes. Write him. I’ll write him too.”

  “Are you saying you’ll marry me, Charlotte Wentworth?”

  A breath escaped that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I think so.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It had been a week since Lottie and Agatha had moved out of the leased townhome. The room in Agatha’s home she’d occupied on previous visits remained largely unchanged. Although the linens and draperies were new, the lemony shade remained. The space was both comforting and nostalgic, overlooking the cook’s herb garden and the mews beyond.

  Berkeley Square was like the rest of London—cramped. Even if the house itself might be spacious, neighbors frequently either shared a wall or were close enough to pass a pot of jam from one breakfast room’s window into the next. In theory, the view from this bedroom was far superior to the one from her room at their previous house, since she didn’t face a giant wall of stone. Yet she rather missed that stone wall with its window framing Ethan like a milliner’s tempting shop display. At least she knew her weakness now—half-naked viscounts and French lace were beyond what any woman should have to resist.

  Below her window, a kitchen maid bustled through the garden, clipping the last remaining sprigs from the thyme patch, clutching a shawl around her shoulders. Lottie’s sigh fogged the windowpane. On a whim, she drew E+L on the glass, then surrounded it with a heart. Silly, really.

  Over the past week Lottie and Ethan had crafted eloquent letters to Father pleading their case. Agatha kept her busy with plans for the engagement ball, drawing her into intense deliberations over the difference betw
een white and ecru linen. Wouldn’t the white linen be ecru by the end of the night? Yet even with the details she found absurd, Lottie couldn’t deny the thrill over the event. It might have begun as a farce, but their engagement felt more real by the day.

  Like clockwork, Ethan appeared at her door for their morning rides, even when October lived up to its drippy gray reputation. The horseback excursions were the only thing keeping her sane amidst the ball preparations.

  Parliament would commence shortly, which meant the men of the aristocracy were returning to Town. The Season itself would not begin in earnest until the spring. However, each day more knockers hung on the doors of Mayfair, signaling the family was in residence.

  With only a few weeks to prepare, while also moving house, Lottie had initially expected a small affair.

  She should have known better. Agatha never did anything by half measures. Not only would this ball celebrate her engagement, but at some point, it had become a masquerade. Ironic when you considered how their relationship had begun.

  The door to the dressing room opened, and Darling stepped through, covered by yards of brocade fabric. The top of her hair peeked above a starched, lace-trimmed ruffle that stood at attention like a satin soldier.

  “How can you see what you’re doing?” Lottie laughed. “I want to help, but I don’t know where to put my hands.”

  Darling’s reply came through the heap of dress as an unintelligible muffled exclamation.

  They heaved the mass of fabric onto the bed, then sighed in unison.

  “Can you imagine having to wear this many layers of skirts every day? And you haven’t even seen the wig yet.” Darling shot her a look with an arched brow. “Being a lady’s maid is easier these days—that’s all I’ll say. Once we finish the shepherd’s crook, you’ll be the loveliest shepherdess anyone’s ever seen.”