Any Rogue Will Do

by Bethany Bennett

  The vibration of his chuckle rumbled under her ear. Burrowing her nose in the side of his neck, she breathed him in. Contentment turned her bones to jelly, and she let the gentle brush of his fingers down her spine lull her.

  “I’ll never get tired of touching you, love.”

  She murmured sleepily, “Then don’t stop.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The following morning’s salacious headline “Mr. M Warns the Heir to the Former Princess and Her Brute May Carry His Blood!” would surely give her father apoplexy if he read it. After the powerful and tender lovemaking of the night before, the gossip rag was a cruel return to reality. Neither of them deserved this nonsense, especially Ethan. He was a good man. Lottie slapped the paper down on the table with a growl. That didn’t satisfy, so she crumpled the newssheet in her fist, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it.

  Agatha looked up from her tea with a benign expression, as if her honorary niece weren’t throwing a fit. She lifted an inquiring brow.

  “I hate the gossips.” Lottie took her seat at the breakfast table once more and tried to emulate her aunt’s calm. Taking a sip of her tea, she said, “May every one of them find eternal release in a frigid watery grave. There. I feel better.”

  “They shall settle soon. Mr. Montague seems to be enjoying his moment in the sun by drawing this out as long as possible. But even he will have to give way once you’re respectably married. It will turn out. You will see.”

  Lottie wrinkled her nose and pushed her eggs to the other side of the plate. They were cold anyway. Her godmother was a mighty ally in this situation, and perhaps having her on their side would help sway Father. Her unruffled reaction to the slanderous headlines didn’t soothe Lottie’s riled sense of justice.

  “You are not riding this morning?”

  “Ethan will be by shortly. I wanted to sleep a little longer and recover from the late hour of the ball.” He’d sneaked out as dawn had crept over the windowsill, leaving her in the warm blankets that smelled of them. She’d immediately claimed his pillow and breathed in his scent. “The ball was a smashing success, by the way. Well done, Auntie.”

  “Thank you, darling girl. It is always best to be the hostess who sets expectations in society, rather than the one who tries to meet others’. Now, perhaps we can discuss the wedding after your ride?”

  “Already itching for a new project? Very well. Wedding plans begin this afternoon.” Happiness bubbled up, but she pushed the emotion down and drained her teacup. “If a letter from Father arrives while I’m gone, please open it and then prepare me for the contents.”

  “I am sure your father will see reason. If you have moved past your history with the viscount, then I see no reason for your father to continue holding a grudge.”

  Praying the letter would be that well received, Lottie kissed her aunt’s cheek, then left the room. She’d forgotten her hat upstairs, and Ethan would be here any moment.

  Unfortunately, when Ethan arrived, it was clear their ride wasn’t on his mind. He wore a small satchel crosswise on his body and practically ran into the room.

  “I’m sorry, lass. A messenger caught me on my way out the door. Woodrest is burning. It was faster tae stop on my way out of Town than write a note.” He grabbed her and gave her a fierce kiss. “I need tae go. I should have been there. Connor kept telling me tae come home,” he said, then bolted from the room. Stunned, she stood in place for a moment before his words fully sank in. Woodrest was burning? The house or the estate—and did that even matter? His home was in flames.

  Should she follow? No, if he’d wanted her there, Ethan would have said so. Perhaps sending a group of willing footmen to lend aid wouldn’t be overstepping. She might one day be the mistress of Woodrest, but she wasn’t yet, and she didn’t quite know what she should do in this instance.

  “Stemson!” Lottie called into the hall.

  Ever the epitome of organization, Stemson soon had a group of the strongest footmen and grooms on their way to Woodrest to lend a hand.

  Which left her with nothing to do. A pile of correspondence on her writing desk awaited her attention. Although referring to three letters as a pile stretched the truth.

  A letter from Rogers with Stanwick Manor estate business sat at the top. After opening and skimming it to ensure there wasn’t a note from Father, she’d set it aside yesterday. Now she read it in full. Shockingly, Rogers reported her father continued to regain primary control of things back home. While she was happy Father’s mental state allowed him to be involved, years of disappointment held her back from fully embracing the good news as a permanent change.

  The earl reclaiming his rightful place in charge of Stanwick meant things were returning to how they should be. Logically, she knew this. Once upon a time, he’d loved Stanwick as if the estate were another child. When Michael and Mother had died, his passion for life and all its responsibilities had died with them. So yes, her father paying attention to his tenants and land was a wonderful turn of events, albeit several years overdue. With her own future leading her away from Stanwick Manor, she should be thrilled to cut ties and focus her attention elsewhere. And she was. However, the tightness in her throat was an effective reminder that nothing involving Father was simple.

  When Mother had died, he hadn’t shared his grief with Lottie or shown concern for her own grieving process. In many ways she’d lost everyone that day. The old pain tried to surface, but instead of letting it take over, Lottie tried to imagine waking up to Ethan every day for decades—as her parents had woken up to each other—then one day, having him gone. Never to return. The thought was inconceivable, and she’d awoken to him only once.

  No wonder Father had retreated from reality. But then, so had she in some ways. Work had been her hiding place. For five years Stanwick had been her world, sun up till sun down.

  Exactly how Ethan felt about Woodrest. Was he there yet? How bad was the fire? She glanced at the clock on the mantel. No, he had another hour of hard riding.

  Tension knotted her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she counted. Inhale, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. Like so many times before, to settle her nerves, she imagined the future she wanted.

  Soon, she’d have her own lands. Her own house. Would she and Ethan divide their time between the estates, as many others did? In those instances, the wife wasn’t usually a manager of a different property, so the family traveled together. One more thing to figure out.

  Last night he’d said he’d invested heavily in the brewery. Was that on fire too? What if he lost everything? Then they’d need her dowry to survive. To rebuild.

  Lord, that letter from Father needed to arrive soon. Putting pen to paper, she scratched out a response to Rogers’s letter.

  While waiting for the ink to dry, Lottie stretched in the desk chair, pausing when her neck protested the position she’d held while writing and a tender area in her nether regions throbbed against the seat. Last night’s delicious activities meant sore muscles today. A ride on Dancer would help work out the kinks. Besides, pounding hooves on turf and feeling the wind whip her face were excellent stress relievers. Nothing said she couldn’t go out on her own later, but riding had become one of those activities she associated with Ethan. Yet another sign that she’d inadvertently stumbled into becoming part of a “we.”

  A glance at the clock showed he might be arriving at Woodrest in about a half hour. The view out the window revealed no surprises. Late October meant gray weather. Ezra was a solid mount, and Ethan a brilliant rider. No need for her to worry. He’d get there in time. He had to. Thankfully, Connor was more than capable as a manager, steward, or whatever other title Ethan might call him. Connor would have handled the situation before now.

  What had Connor called her? A distraction. She crossed her arms and tapped out a rhythm on her forearm with her fingers. Before Ethan left, he’d said something on his way out the door. I should have been there. What did he mean? Their engagement ball was last
night. They’d agreed he’d stay in London until they heard from Father.

  Or were they the words of a man who felt responsible—guilty that he hadn’t been there when tragedy struck home? The tapping of her fingers slowed, then stopped. Were they the words of a man who knew he’d failed his people because he’d prioritized her? Focused on their relationship, had they somehow become just like her parents and ignored the needs of the people who depended on him? Ethan had mentioned that Connor’s letters were full of calls to come home and deal with the brewery construction, reminding him of the need to be present for the large business enterprise he’d invested in. The feeling of being torn was real for Ethan, yet he’d chosen her. Over and over. Oh God, why hadn’t she seen it?

  Tenant cottages could be burning right now—tenants like the Thatchers. Their livestock might suffer, crops from this harvest could go up in smoke, and if their lord hadn’t been in London chasing her, he might have been there to stop it. Or he could have caught it earlier.

  Dread bloomed, shortening her breath. Connor had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t listened. All she’d cared about were those depressingly dark blue walls in that breakfast room.

  Agatha’s voice cut into her spiraling thoughts. “Are you done, my dear? Madame Bouvier is expecting us soon. At this time of day traffic might be a snarl.”

  “The modiste? I thought we were discussing wedding plans today.” Plans she really didn’t want to pursue given her worry over Ethan and Woodrest.

  “We are. You can’t get married without a dress. Not just any dress will do. Your gown is the most important part of the wedding.”

  “I’d think the bride and groom were the most important part.”

  Agatha would not be deterred. “Your gown will set the standard for this Season’s weddings. We leave in ten minutes. Please try to keep up, love.” The subtle scent of expensive perfume lingered behind after her godmother.

  “A dress. Thus, it begins.” Heaving a sigh, she tried to shove down the panic and concern over Ethan, Connor’s warning, and her father. Agatha wanted a gown, so they’d buy a gown. At least Madame Bouvier would offer tea for her trouble.

  An hour later, Lottie wished for something stronger to drink than tea. They sat in the same parlor-style fitting room she’d entered months before, upon her arrival in London. Back then she’d worn a dress destined for the rag bin. Today Lottie was a beautiful example of a well-turned-out woman, dressed head to toe in Madame Bouvier’s designs. Her wedding gown would be a work of art.

  “Beaded chiffon overlay or a lace overskirt? What do you think, Lottie?” Agatha held the two fabrics. Not waiting for Lottie’s answer, she turned to Madame Bouvier, who cradled the pale-blue silk they’d already chosen. “The chiffon, I think. But pearls, not beads. That much lace might look busy. We mustn’t overpower the bride, after all.”

  If lace could outshine her, they had bigger issues to discuss, but Lottie held her tongue. Aunt Agatha was the arbiter of fashion, not her. If left to her own devices, Lottie would spend most of the day in breeches. Truth be told, while she loved the effect achieved by luxurious gowns, she missed the utilitarianism of her old dresses and work trousers. She’d never dream of sitting in the grass by a stream in the dress she wore now—or climbing a tree or chasing a lamb in a pen or any number of other activities that had once been her day-to-day life. She imagined how Ethan would respond to seeing her in breeches. Grass stains after that encounter would be a certainty, and they would both be happy afterward. She smiled into her teacup and sipped.

  “The dress must show to advantage not only in the church but on canvas. Definitely pearls,” Aunt Agatha said.

  “Canvas? What are you talking about?” Lottie nibbled a small cake, picking out the dried currants with her teeth to relish first.

  “Your wedding portrait, of course. Had you forgotten? I’ve already sent a letter to the artist who painted your parents.”

  The wedding portrait. Her mother’s family immortalized their brides and had for generations. It was sweet of Agatha to continue the tradition.

  That painting of her mother hung in the library, where her father could see it all day. He conversed with that portrait as if her mother might step off the canvas at any moment and answer him. It was too good of a likeness for her tastes—it had hurt to look at the picture for a year after Mother’s death. The artist had captured her essence, right down to the bottomless love she’d held for the earl, shining from an eternally youthful face.

  “Forgive me if I overstepped by commissioning the portrait. It’s what your mother would have done. She would be over the moon for you.” Agatha’s eyes shone until she blinked away the moisture with a sniff. “As her best friend, it is my duty and privilege to handle this affair as she would.”

  The shards of grief surprised Lottie as they cut deep. Mother had condemned Ethan with the ferocity of a lioness after the Paper Doll debacle. Maybe she’d have come around these past few months and softened under Ethan’s apologetic charm. Maybe not. Now that she found herself planning a wedding to the man declared an enemy by her parents, her mother’s absence found new ways to hurt.

  Silly, but she hadn’t thought of it before now. Lottie would walk down the aisle, and her mother wouldn’t be there. Emotions swelled until her chest felt ready to burst. The burning behind her eyes threatened tears that might never stop if the first one fell. The reality was that Mother would never have the opportunity to succumb to Ethan’s charm or hear his apology or appreciate what a decent man he’d grown to be. The burn of grief made it tempting to run away from the discomfort, run away from the nagging worry over her father’s reply, and definitely run away from the wedding planning. Everyone’s lives would settle back onto their previous courses.

  Maybe then Ethan would focus on the brewery and never again fail to be present for the ones who depended on him. Shaking her head, Lottie shoved the thought aside.

  Squeezing Agatha’s hand, Lottie grappled for composure. “Thank you for thinking of it. Pearls and chiffon it is.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dawn crept into her room in increments. First, the sound of birds through the small opening in her window. She’d lifted the sash to allow for fresh air sometime during the wee small hours, hoping the chill would clear her head. The yeasty scent of fresh bread from the kitchens followed the chirp of birdsong as a new day greeted the world. It would probably be a beautiful day. One of the last before winter took hold.

  Lottie’s fingers clutched the edge of her blanket, as they had for the past countless hours. Sleep had been elusive. Grief was a funny thing. It lingered in places you didn’t expect, appeared in situations you hadn’t considered. She’d gone from the high of finally coming together with Ethan in bed, then kissing him goodbye when he raced home to fight a fire, to the reality of worrying over him and wondering if they’d be allowed to marry. Choosing a wedding gown while pretending all was well had been a challenge, but then grief ambushed her. Her mother should have been in that shop yesterday, deliberating between beads and pearls. It wasn’t fair.

  The corners of her eyes were crusty from the dried tracks the tears had left on their way to her pillow. She’d cried as if feelings were liquid and if she could only pour them out, she’d once again be happy and clean. Instead, she was simply hollow.

  How many times yesterday had she heard that her mother would be proud of her? Happy for her? Perhaps her mother would have eventually forgiven Ethan as she had, but when Mother died, she’d hated him. That knowledge settled in her belly like a bowl of cold porridge.

  The soft click of the latch of her door signaled the entrance of someone into the bedchamber. A chambermaid squeaked in surprise when Lottie sat up. “Apologies, Betsy. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

  Betsy bobbed a curtsy, then set about stoking and building the fire in the grate. “You’re up with the birds, milady. Breakfast hasn’t been laid out downstairs, but I can send Mrs. Darling up with a tray if you wish.”

&nbs
p; “Thank you, but I’m not very hungry. Just some tea in the morning room, if you could. I’d appreciate it.” Lottie threw the covers off, then shivered when her toes hit the floor. The chilly morning bit at her bare feet. Perhaps the shock to her system would restore equilibrium after yesterday’s ups and downs.

  Betsy completed her work while Lottie changed behind the privacy screen. This morning called for comfortable clothing, not complicated gowns or riding habits. Poor Dancer was probably antsy for a good gallop. Maybe after tea, she would be up for a ride.

  Ethan hadn’t sent a note last night, and that was a worry of its own.

  Three cups of tea later, Lottie’s outlook on life had only slightly improved. Stemson brought the morning post, along with the papers. The newssheets could wait. One more awful headline and she might crack. A slim folded paper with her father’s insignia pressed into the seal made her pause.

  Lottie turned the letter over in her hand. Her father’s sharp scrawl confirmed that this was the letter she’d been waiting for. She’d almost forgotten what his handwriting looked like. Looking around the empty room, she wished Agatha or Ethan were there to either provide moral support or celebrate with.

  Except Ethan was in Kent, fighting to keep his home. Sitting in a freshly redecorated breakfast room, far from danger, Lottie felt useless and decorative. Like the paper doll he’d once called her.

  Charlotte,

  It would appear you have once again become the subject of gossip and speculation. Lord Danby tells me the papers are full of your exploits, the likes of which can only be interpreted as an effort to make your disdain for a proper match known. In addition, the letters from yourself and Lord Amesbury erased any doubt that your time in London has been spent finding the least acceptable candidate for a husband in order to force my hand.

  Clearly, you are too old and set in your ways to be amenable to marriage, so I am prepared to offer a compromise. Rogers assures me he taught you well, so I will give you your heart’s desire—property of your own to manage and the funds set aside for your dowry. Rogers has one in mind about which he’s already written to you.