The day after the prime minister was shot, there was that moment when she thanked him for getting her away from the hordes of people clogging the roads. Especially given their previous interactions, he would have expected her to be a shaken mess. Instead, she kept her head in the face of a dangerous mob and worked with him to get out of there. That cool determination made him think perhaps there was more to her. He hoped to peel back those layers and know her better, and his attraction flared back to life.
When he called on her the next day, her father put an end to Ethan’s intentions. The earl didn’t mince words. Ethan wasn’t good enough for the likes of her, and his advances weren’t welcomed by Lady Charlotte or her father. The earl called him a fortune hunter to his face—something for which he had no rebuttal. The bouquet he’d brought for Lady Charlotte that morning was much appreciated by the fruit seller on the corner.
If he gave her flowers now, she would probably try to shove them down his gullet.
“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you? Lord, you’re a case. If you could see your expression, you’d laugh.” Even drunk, Cal knew him too well. It wasn’t only Lady Charlotte in his head now, but the events of the past that haunted him.
The circle of lads he’d called friends had encouraged more foolishness, until that awful evening when he’d agreed to race, wanting to show off for his visiting clansman, Connor. They were drunk. Of course they were. That race and the subsequent accident had nearly killed Connor. All because of Ethan’s poor judgment. The same poor judgment that had destroyed Lady Charlotte’s Season. Shame wrapped around him with the memories, and Ethan sighed, accepting the emotion as his due. All he wanted to do was go enjoy his quiet room and read a book. “You’ve dipped a wee bit deep today, aye? Maybe you should go upstairs and rest before dinner.”
“Yes, I’m drunk. Drunkety-drunk-drunk. But at least I’m not pouting over a woman.” Cal stifled a belch behind a fist, broke wind, then giggled. The Drunk’s Trifecta.
Drunkety-drunk-drunk Cal spoke the truth.
Years ago Ethan had been a shallow arse, more concerned with Lady Charlotte’s bosom than with her brains, and too lazy to discover what was beneath her faux calm. Moments ago, those same breasts had been a topic of conversation, so perhaps he was a lost cause as a human being. These past five years of living like a monk might have been for naught, because he clearly hadn’t become a better person.
Rubbing his hands over his face, Ethan sighed. “Come along, Cal. Let’s pour you into your bed. Have a lie-down. Perhaps you’ll be sober enough by dinner.”
* * *
Patrick had awakened long enough for Darling to force one of the concoctions left by the doctor into him, then passed out again.
The warm coziness of Lottie’s bedroom had felt comfortable for only a short time after Lottie’s trunks arrived. With Darling at Patrick’s bedside, the solitude of Lottie’s room just felt empty. Noise, chaos, and watching her fellow travelers with a sense of anonymity sounded like the ideal distraction.
Alas, Dame Good Fortune didn’t smile on her tonight. There would be no anonymity. As soon as she entered the taproom, Lord Amesbury met her eyes over the rim of his glass, sparking a battle of wills to see who would look away first. Lottie’s cheeks warmed, but she held his gaze until reaching a small table, then coolly gave him her back. He could decide if she’d given him the cut direct. Hint—yes.
A movement caught her attention, and Lottie checked the reflection in the window. That distinctive silhouette stood out whether in a drawing room or a taproom. Especially in a drawing room. Here, with the dark wood-planked walls and floor, he appeared to lurk like a storybook giant in his cave. Or an ogre. And he was coming her way.
When they’d first met, he’d been friendly, admiring, even flirtatious. She distinctly remembered a conversation with Father about the young viscount, instigated by Amesbury’s heated gaze during their first waltz. Tonight, the weight of his inspection skittered across the back of her neck. The almost-forgotten memory of that dance came alive with ghostlike brushes on her waist and hand where he’d held her a hair closer than entirely appropriate. That lecture from her father had been a humiliating hour of chastisements regarding inappropriate advances and how to bring an acceptable man up to scratch.
She hadn’t pulled away during that waltz, for fear of losing his attention. But those days of cowering and biting her tongue were over. She would, however, ignore him with studious ferocity.
That worked for all of thirty seconds before he blocked the weak evening light streaming through the rear windows. Lord Amesbury took a seat across the table. “How are you feeling?”
Mrs. Pringle bustled to their table and set a large bowl before Lottie. A hunk of bread rested atop soup, already soaking up the rich juices. Plunking a tankard of ale on the table, Mrs. Pringle gave them a distracted nod, then moved on to another customer.
“I don’t recall asking you to join me.”
A gentleman would not linger where he wasn’t welcome. He grinned and stayed put. Not that she should expect any less. Amesbury propped his elbows on the table. “You’re different. In a good way.”
“Does unbridled hatred put roses in my cheeks?”
He laughed instead of showing any signs of contrition under her withering look. “See? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You’re feistier now, lass, an’ that’s the truth.”
“I’m the same woman you courted, then shamed. Not that it matters. Your high regard no longer concerns me.” Lottie took a dainty nibble of the bread and nearly moaned. The yeasty bread’s crisp crust stood up to the soup juices, as well as a generous slathering of butter. Heaven.
Amesbury swiped the tankard in front of her, then took a long drink before setting it down again, holding her gaze.
She narrowed her eyes. “Rude. Can’t you pretend to be a gentleman for five minutes?”
“You’re not the first tae wonder that. From what I understand, I’m one step away from being an outright barbarian. Or at least, I was.” He shrugged. “I considered showing up at Almack’s with my face painted blue like my Pict ancestors. Put an end tae all the speculation. Alas”—he patted his pockets—“fresh out of woad.”
The mental image almost made her smile, despite his general obnoxiousness. It was time to take control of this tête-à-tête.
“Since you’ve intruded on my meal, perhaps we should keep our conversation to safe topics, such as the lovely weather we’re having,” she said, gesturing with her spoon toward the rain-splattered windows at the front and rear of the main room. “Or we could sit in silence before going our separate ways, never to acknowledge each other’s presence again. I’m sure you can guess my preference.”
* * *
Idiot. He was a blooming idiot. Those noble intentions of issuing an eloquent apology had flown from his head when he was faced with her confidently defiant cut direct. The woman he’d barely known years ago would never have done such a thing, which only sparked his fascination all over again. Commenting on how different she was brought that sharp mouth of hers back to the forefront, and he took perverse delight in her acerbic wit. He needed to refocus on his reason for approaching her, but damn if her sarcastic commentary on the weather didn’t make him smile.