An hour later, a pressure on his hip pulled Ethan from the story of Rob Roy. After so long in the coach, Lottie had finally reverted to comfort over comportment. With her legs on the seat, she’d pressed her back against the side of the carriage, then rested her book on her thighs. He smiled. Ethan had found her curled up sideways in the library armchairs at Woodrest, and it was a common sight to catch her in an undignified sprawl in Lady Agatha’s drawing room. At last, his lady had found a comfortable perch, although the point of her shoe dug into his hip. Without a word, Ethan lifted his leg enough to slip her foot under his thigh and relaxed, pinning that small part of her beneath him. Maybe her toes were chilly inside the thin boot. Or maybe she missed touching him as much as he missed her. Whatever her reason for not moving her foot away, he absorbed the contact like a starving man hungry for her touch. Turning the page of Rob Roy, he stole a glance out of the corner of his eye. She smiled at the page in front of her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Agatha’s words ran across the forefront of her mind like some kind of banner. Her father could reconsider. If she told him the full tale about Montague, Father might feel guilty for pushing the match and listen to reason about Ethan. Ironic that Montague might have done her a favor—not that she would send him a thank-you note anytime soon.
There might be hope. Father could change his mind. Ethan might forgive her if they were alone long enough for her to apologize and explain. The second day in a traveling coach packed to capacity was hardly the time or place for a private conversation.
Without letting herself overthink it, she held her hand out to Ethan, resting palm up on the seat between them. Bless him, he didn’t ask for an explanation, just intertwined his fingers with hers, then went back to staring out the window. That he allowed her to touch him again sent hope barreling through her veins.
His hand was her tether as she wandered through tangled thoughts. The comfort of this simple contact with a specific person brought one word to mind. Love. The emotion of poets and stupid men who rode into battle—willing to die in the name of some fair maiden they probably had no right to in the first place. Love had destroyed more than one country. She prayed it wouldn’t destroy her too.
Her parents had been so in love they’d talked only to each other instead of their children. So in love they’d chosen to spend their days secluded in their rooms instead of following through on long-forgotten promises of picnics by the pond. The carriage passed through the familiar gates of Stanwick Manor and continued down the drive. Soon, the pond in question would be visible over the crest of the sloping lawn to their left.
Whatever Lottie’s own feelings, they bore no resemblance to the example provided by her parents. As she examined their relationship from the outside, given this new perspective on love, a tiny bud of happiness bloomed within the dark memories. Mother and Father were not perfect by any means, but they’d known love. Yes, their mistakes had shaped her childhood, but it was high time she took responsibility for the poor decisions she’d made, instead of laying them at her parents’ feet.
Ethan’s accusation the day before stung—that she chose money over him. The truth of it only made it worse, and she had to face that. Which left the question of what to do. Defying her father didn’t scare her as badly as it had mere days before. Marrying whomever she pleased and riding off into the sunset sounded better every moment.
Stanwick Manor came fully into view, with its comfortably predictable lines that never veered toward frivolous or decorative. Woodrest’s gargoyles, curves, and stained-glass windows appeared to have been designed by demented fairies in comparison.
She owed Ethan an explanation and apology, but they were mere moments from facing Father. Squeezing his hand, she faced him. “Please. I know there are things to say between us. But trust me one last time. Let’s talk to Father together. Present our case in person, like Aunt Agatha said. He might listen.”
“It’s about bloody time,” Agatha muttered. Darling clapped and bounced on the seat, but Lottie kept her gaze on the stone-faced man by her side. With a small nod, he squeezed her hand.
At last, the carriage drew to a stop before Stanwick Manor’s great double doors. Ethan stepped down, then held out a hand for Lottie.
It felt great to hold his hand again. The way his long fingers wrapped so entirely around hers never failed to make her feel safe. He tugged her closer. Smoke, sweat, and road dirt made her nose tingle. The poor man needed a bath even more than she did.
“Lass, we’re goin’ tae speak with your father. An’ then you and I will have a talk about that letter.”
* * *
He’d once told Lottie that her brain was a dark and twisty place, and he stood by that statement. Only God knew what was happening in her head, but when she’d reached for his hand in the carriage, he’d taken it. At this point he couldn’t help accepting every last touch.
That she wanted to talk to her father with him, showing a united front, sparked hope within him where there’d been only pain for the last few days. He didn’t know if showing up together would work, or if her father would listen.
Back at Woodrest, Ethan had managed to wash only the bare minimum before reading Lottie’s letter. Within moments his clean shirt had absorbed the lingering smoke clinging to him. After chasing a carriage up the Great North Road on horseback for two days, there wasn’t a single bloody inch of him that was presentable. Without a change of clothes, a bath would have been a waste of time. And without a bath, purchasing clothing would be throwing good money away. Sure, he could have ordered a bath along the way at any of the inns, for an exorbitant fee. But at some point, he’d become too exhausted to care.
He was in traveler hell. And he still didn’t have a damn hat.
Every bit of grime on his skin itched when the carriage doors opened. This wasn’t how he’d imagined meeting the earl again. Nevertheless, it seemed he had the chance to meet her father and say his piece—in all his travel dirt and disreputable hatless state. Shortly after that, he’d likely be thrown out on his ear.
Lottie’s fingers tightened around his as they entered the house.
The Earl of Brinkley’s library was everything a library should be. The warmth from the crackling fireplace enhanced the perfume of leather, ink, and paper that greeted him like an old friend. Unfortunately, the earl himself was not as welcoming.
“Charlotte? What are you doing here? And Lord Amesbury in the flesh. I see you’ve brought half the dirt between here and London in with you. Is this how you pay a visit in Scotland?” the earl said.
Biting the inside of his cheek to stop the words he wanted to say, Ethan glanced over at Lottie to see how she wanted to handle this. With Lottie by his side, he took a wide-legged stance before the elaborately carved wood desk.
“We received your letter,” she said. A bubble of hope grew within him. She’d asked for his trust one more time, and he had to wonder what she had up her sleeve.
“What, I wasn’t clear enough? Why on earth would you bring him here?” the earl asked, then turned away to shelve the book in his hand. “I thought I made my opinion of you clear years ago, Amesbury. This isn’t the first time you’ve asked for my blessing, and my answer hasn’t changed.”
Lottie wrinkled her brow and asked Ethan, “What is he talking about?”
“The day after the prime minister’s assassination, when I told you I’d call—”
“I waited and you didn’t come. Yes, I remember. But that’s ancient history, Ethan.”
“Lottie, I was there. The butler took me tae your father instead of you.”
She looked between him and her father, clearly confused. “But Father knew I was expecting you. I told him all about how you’d helped me that day—saved me from the mob.”
“I asked tae court you. The earl rejected my suit and sent me home with an earful.”
The earl piped up, “He wasn’t worthy of you. I wasn’t going to give my daughter to some fortune-hunting shepherd.�
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Ethan bowed his head in agreement. “You were right tae turn me away.” The earl gave him a surprised look. “I didn’ love her. I saw Lottie as an easy, beautiful solution tae the financial mess I’d inherited.”
“I didn’t get a say in that decision, I suppose?” Lottie said, but her father ignored the comment.
“And you think you’re good enough now? What’s changed? My sources tell me your estate is still practicing economies and you’re sinking the title into trade.”
“I wish I could tell you all was right and prosperous, but Mr. Montague indulged in a wee bit of sabotage. We will need tae rebuild and find a supply of grain for the winter tae replace our losses.”
Beside him, Lottie said, “Then Montague kidnapped me and tried to force an elopement. The man is a villain, Father.”
“I hardly believe it. Why would Mr. Montague do such a thing? I gave him my blessing. He didn’t have to kidnap you.” Finally returning to his desk, the earl carried three books from the shelves.
“Why would you endorse such a man? Where is the consideration for my safety? What about what I want?” Lottie said.
“What you want?” The earl slammed a book on the desk, and the sharp clap made Lottie jump beside Ethan. “I am giving you what you want! Your dowry, that house by the sea—everything you want, handed to you. Just say the word, and I’ll have Rogers purchase that house today.”
“But I want Ethan.”
Such a simple statement, but it meant the world to him. Clearly, they had things to discuss, but the hope grew until it filled in the missing areas of his heart.
The earl talked to Lottie as if speaking to a child. “Charlotte, I’ve made my opinion regarding this young man abundantly clear.”
Straightening his shoulders, Ethan took a deep breath. “Milord, I know there’s history between us. I’d welcome a chance tae make it right, in hope that you’ll eventually bless our marriage.”
“No. I told her no. This is the problem with the younger generation. No one listens anymore.” The earl flipped open the first book in the stack and began to read.
Ethan rubbed the base of his skull with one hand and studied his filthy boots. This whole thing had been a losing endeavor from the beginning. Huffing out a laugh devoid of humor, he said, “You never approved of me, milord. Is it Scotsmen in general or me in particular you hate?”
The earl gave him a withering glare. “Being a member of the peerage, sitting in the House of Lords, and ruling our nation is a privilege and should be about far more than clinging to the last branch of a noble family tree. To be a lord, one must be raised to do it—formed and shaped and trained to move about in society. One must attend the right schools with others of his class—nothing you’ve done, because your parents did not prepare you for this life. Your grandfather was a black sheep, but his brother was a good man who raised his heirs properly. You were never supposed to inherit.”
There was little he could argue with there. “You’re right. Fate put me here, and I often wonder why.”
The earl gestured toward Ethan’s clothing. “You don’t dress like a lord, carry yourself like a man of quality, or think like one.”
“I apologize for my informal dress. Two days on horseback, then another two in the carriage tae get here took its toll.” The tension from his hands spread up his spine to his shoulders. He glanced down at the dried mud he’d tracked onto the carpet. He was an absolute wreck, and now the library smelled vaguely of dried horse shite. Brilliant.
“Are you telling me that your dislike for Ethan stems from basic snobbery? Lord, Father, that’s mighty narrow-minded of you. None of that matters.”
“None of it matters? Charlotte, of course it does. Why do you think we trained you so tirelessly? Deportment lessons, dancing lessons, voice lessons. Not that it did much good, because look at you now.”
An ormolu clock ticked on the mantel, filling the silence. Lottie caved first to break the quiet. “So that’s it? You’re going to look me in the eye and hold on to your judgmental attitude, even though it hurts your only daughter?”
The earl assessed Ethan with cool, dark eyes. The resemblance to his daughter was suddenly uncanny. “My decision stands. You can have him, or you can have your dowry.”
* * *
They’d tried. She turned to Ethan, guilt eating her alive. “Montague never would have hurt you if not for me. I’m so sorry. I owe you an apology for everything else too. Can we rebuild without my dowry? If we leave now, will you still want me if I don’t come with a fortune?”
His smile reassured her. “We may have tae change the schedule for a few things. But we’ll make do, love. We can work together tae restore Woodrest.”
He spoke with such unshakable confidence, she believed him. They would make it work, and build something new from their efforts.
Father cocked his head, looking at Ethan. “If this isn’t about money for you, then what is it?”
“I love her. Her money or lack of doesn’ change that.”
“You love me? Since when?” She stared up at him, trying to wrap her head around the casual way he shook her to the core with his words. As if it was a given and she should have known he loved her.
“Lass.” Ethan smiled softly. “Did you really think I proposed out of the goodness of my heart?” From the beginning, then. Breath escaped her as she considered the implications. This changed everything.
“Lottie? Do you love him?” her father asked.
“I…” Lottie’s voice trembled. Her mouth opened. She closed it, gulped, and opened it again. No words.
Stepping back, Ethan let go of her, ignoring the hand she held out. Words failed as her brain scrambled, reviewing their shared history through the lens of this new information.
He’d prioritized their relationship over his estate, just like her parents had. Yet she knew he’d move heaven and hell to take care of his people. And Lord, how she wanted to be by his side, watching Woodrest thrive, working with Macdonell to make the new brewery a success.
Ethan loved her. When she’d written that letter ending everything, he must have been gutted. The gross mishandling of this relationship on her part crashed into her with flashes of memory.
The look on Ethan’s face when she said she’d marry him.
His hunger when he took her into his arms that night in the kitchen of Woodrest.
The relief when he arrived at the inn to rescue her—even though she must have hurt him tremendously by ending their engagement.
He’d left everything behind to find her. Everything. He hadn’t even brought a hat.
As if it were echoing in a tunnel, she heard her father’s voice say, “Charlotte, I was trying to make things right. If your mother was here, you’d have married by now. I just wanted you to move on with your life instead of taking care of me.” The rest of what he said faded in her ears, because she couldn’t look away from Ethan’s face.
The love had been there for anyone to see all along, but she’d refused to acknowledge it. Too wrapped up in her plans, as per usual. She’d hurt him. Hell, she’d probably been hurting him one degree at a time for the last few months, but everything had reached a boiling point in this library.
Hell on a broomstick. All he’d done was love her, and she’d brought an arsonist to his door, then broken his heart.
“Ethan, I’m so sorry.”
Chapter Thirty
The ground hit him as hard as her words had. At the last minute he remembered to roll as he came off the horse’s back, but the air left his lungs on an “oof” and didn’t come back. As he stared up at the gray sky, struggling to breathe, the first fat raindrop hit him in the eye. Ezra was throwing him over too, and now the heavens were taking a piss on his head.
Ethan, I’m so sorry. Her stricken expression had damned their relationship until the only feeling left had been a dull thud of his heartbeat in his ears. What was the use of staying to hear more? So he’d run as if the hounds of hell nipped at his heels
.
All the broken pieces inside him had turned to ice. Ezra hadn’t been unsaddled yet, so it had been an easy thing to ride straight out of the stable and down the driveway, putting as much distance between himself and that family as he could.
In his pocket, her goodbye letter, in which she’d absolved him of any lingering guilt, crinkled when he rolled to the side. Rain splattered the dirt by his face, and one of Ezra’s hooves stepped into his line of sight.
Finally, a trickle of air leaked into his lungs. The broken buckle of the girth strap dangled from the saddle he’d taken with him in that not-so-graceful exit off Ezra’s back at a full canter. He sat up and hung his head. Rain slid down the back of his neck and pelted his knees. The water brought out the smell of smoke from his clothes. If despair and hopelessness had a scent, this was it.
She couldn’t answer a simple question. Do you love him?
Ethan sighed and raised his face to the rain. What a fool he was. A heartbroken fool who went back for more, only to get kicked down again.
Ezra nuzzled his ear, huffing hay breath across his face. He absently scratched the horse’s cheek. “Yes, sir. We’ll go. The village can’t be far, eh?” Hauling himself to his feet required double the effort it usually did, but with a muttered curse he threw the saddle over his shoulder and took Ezra’s reins in hand. It could be miles, and his boots were already squelching, but there was no way he’d return to that drab, squat manor house.
“Ethan, stop!”
“Not bloody likely, Princess,” he muttered. “She doesn’ know when tae stop, does she, Ezra?” Hitching the saddle higher, he kept walking, ignoring the sound of the approaching carriage.
Scotland beckoned. Cal would meet him there with Montague, and then he’d mete out justice to a bully and a coward—which sounded like a grand time in his present frame of mind.
“Please. Get in the carriage and let’s talk about this.” It was hard to miss her, hanging out the window of her father’s carriage as it rolled alongside him down the road.
Any Rogue Will Do Page 28