Maybe the head wound caused the buzzing in her ears—it couldn’t possibly be because this man still affected her after so long. But no. Even seven years later, Lord Amesbury, the one who had saved her, then callously ruined her, evoked a visceral response. If he thought to save her again, she’d best remember what he’d done the last time they’d met.
Amesbury leaned forward, sparking an almost-forgotten heat of awareness in her belly. His dark brows were broody slashes under a disobedient lock of hair that fell over his forehead, providing the only softness on his face. Shadows played in the hollows under his cheekbones, where at least a day’s growth of beard made him look as roguish as she knew him to be.
“I know your concern is for your coachman. ’Tis commendable. But you’re useless if you don’ see tae yourself.” That lilting brogue did something funny to her chest, creating flutters she’d rather not ponder. “Now please hold still so you don’ make a bigger mess on this good woman’s floor.”
Mrs. Pringle didn’t seem sure if she should leave or stay. The older woman stared at the floorboards while holding the water basin, no doubt wishing to be anywhere else. Lottie felt the same.
Although his exasperated tone rankled, Lottie allowed the examination. Knowing this man, of all people, saw her in such a state set her cheeks aflame with a mix of embarrassment and fury. Fate, that fickle fiend, always tossed her in his path at her worst, casting him as a hero. With a finger under her chin, Amesbury raised her face toward the morning light streaming through the window. His gruff words were at odds with gentle fingers as he brushed the blood-soaked hair off her brow and prodded at a painful area near her hairline.
How had he grown more attractive while she’d merely gotten older? Every year her body grew softer, rounder, despite daily rides all over the estate. As the butterflies in her belly would attest, the small lines at the corners of his eyes and a new hardness to his jaw didn’t diminish his appeal. Grossly unfair, in her opinion.
Over the years, she’d imagined a different meeting. In her version, she always wore a stunning new gown—the picture of intimidatingly competent femininity. Lord Amesbury would stop in his tracks, recognizing her in an instant. Then his striking face would flood with regret, evoking her pity—but only for a moment. A strong cup of tea would help the sensation pass once she snubbed him and went on her way.
No matter the scenario, Lottie served witty set-downs while looking ethereally beautiful, then left the man with an unrelenting grief to haunt him for the rest of his natural life. Really, was that too much to ask? In her imagination she would marry a gorgeous duke—even though young available dukes weren’t exactly thick on the ground. Especially for spinsters.
Logic had no jurisdiction in daydreams and fairy tales.
Reality was sorely lacking. Her traveling gown’s tattered bodice barely clung to modesty, she’d just dripped blood on his boot, and any fool could see Viscount Amesbury didn’t remember her.
Perhaps it was immature to wish the circumstances of their meeting were different, but the fact was that she found herself in another embarrassing situation requiring his help and he didn’t even have the decency to remember her. Inhaling deeply, she searched for calm and instead filled her head with the scent of him—not the wisest course of action. If only Amesbury favored the usual perfumes or bottled tonics, or smelled of rotten onions with a trace of dock water. Instead, he smelled like a man who bathed, then gave no further thought to his appearance. It reminded her of fresh air, leather, and an underlying warmth she couldn’t place. Now her heart pounded for a different reason.
The one thing her old suitor-turned-nemesis did well was confuse her. He always had.
Some things didn’t change, even after seven years. Lottie exhaled his essence, pushing the tangle of emotions from her body. A man she hated so thoroughly shouldn’t smell so comforting.
Chapter Two
Heaven’s above, lass. What did you hit your head on? Or rather, what hit you?” he asked.
“The sides of the carriage. The floor. Probably the roof once or twice. I woke up after the accident.” Their gazes clashed for a heartbeat before Lottie stared down at the table.
“My guess is you’ll need stitches tae close this wound.” Amesbury brought her hand up to her face. “Press this rag tae your head. There’s a good lass. We have tae slow the bleeding.”
Lottie winced at the pressure of the cloth but followed his instructions. That commanding presence at work again, convincing everyone around him to do his bidding. But she’d give the same advice to someone else, so Lottie pressed harder and tried not to whine about it.
Clearly, there wasn’t much more to be done before the doctor arrived. Which meant nothing forced her to sit here with this man, letting him play hero to her damsel in distress—again. Anger sparked, overriding the myriad pains. “Thank you for your help, my lord. Now I need to check on my horse and secure rooms for my staff.” Ignoring her shaking legs, Lottie straightened, forcing herself to move as if she weren’t battered and bruised.
As she brushed past him, Lottie deliberately knocked his shoulder with her hip, and he had to grab the edge of the table to keep his seat. A huge man like him probably lumbered through life without expecting women to push him around. A onetime event, to be sure, but she welcomed the petty thrill.
Predictably, he argued. “No, you need tae sit and rest. Wait for the doctor. You’ve suffered a great deal today.” Lord Amesbury looked annoyed. Or maybe that was just his face.
“I’ll see the doctor when he arrives.” She flicked her skirt hem away from Amesbury, smiling her thanks to Mrs. Pringle, who stood silently by, watching the exchange. “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to see to. Mrs. Pringle, I will speak with you privately in a few moments.”
The man who’d helped her inside returned to their table. A bit of a dandy and less intimidating than his giant friend, he must be the Earl of Carlyle. The name brought forth vague memories involving a gorgeous gentleman who sent the debutantes’ imaginations down church aisles. It would seem Lord Amesbury’s circle of friends hadn’t changed.
Lord Carlyle’s eyes widened, then he reached out to catch her although she hadn’t wobbled. “Please, miss, your color is not good. Why not sit? Wait for the surgeon.”
“Thank you, but no. I’ve spent enough time in Lord Amesbury’s presence to last a lifetime.”
Lord Carlyle rounded on Amesbury. “It’s been five minutes, Mac. What in God’s name have you managed to bungle in that time?”
Ah, that’s right. They called him Mac. Of all the obnoxious names to give a Scotsman. But then, Mac had done far worse, hadn’t he?
Amesbury’s clear bafflement at the situation would be funny if she were not the joke. He didn’t recognize her.
Seven years before, she’d sat in her drawing room, wondering where he was, when news that he’d turned her into a gossip-rag headline arrived with the first tittering visitors. Instead of offering the expected proposal, her handsome suitor had ruined her. It should be harder to lose one’s reputation.
Back then, she would have bitten her tongue rather than speak her mind, for fear of being deemed unladylike. Now the words flew like barbed razors, and she hoped they cut wherever they landed. “What’s the matter, Lord Amesbury? Am I supposed to ooze gratitude like a ninny after you playact the savior? Unlike you, I remember that we’ve done this once before, and you only impersonate a hero. It’s a convincing act, I’ll give you that. But I no longer simper, and you’re not a gentleman.”