Ethan glanced over Lady Charlotte’s shoulder to the large diamond-paned window. The weather was absolute shite. He matched her mocking brow with one of his own. “All we need is some soggy sheep, and it would remind me of home.” There. That was moderately amusing.
Lady Charlotte’s gaze flitted to his before darting away. Every time she looked at him, he spent a heartbeat or two unscrambling his thoughts. Thick lashes stood out against the olive tan of her cheeks, their delicately curled tips casting shadows in the flickering lamplight. When she used those full lips to spear him with her refreshingly sharp words, it tied him in knots.
If she was as soft as she looked, it would be impossible to stop at one brush of a finger on uncovered skin. Ethan cleared his throat, stuffing down the mental image. Those thoughts belonged locked away with the younger, reckless part of himself. Lusting after a woman in a public tavern room was something Old Ethan would have done. Back then he’d have won the girl—at least for the night. Perhaps New Ethan had spent too many years without a woman in his bed and too many hours poring over account books. Once upon a time he’d poked fun at Lady Charlotte’s exceptional manners. Now every day he tried to emulate that level of refinement.
And he failed.
The skin across her décolletage colored, probably with anger or frustration from stifling murderous impulses toward her unwanted dinner companion. The pink skin was bloody glorious. Ethan cleared his throat. Yes, he failed miserably.
“It’s possible we’ll have similar weather tomorrow,” Lady Charlotte said, bringing him back from his thoughts.
It was time to apologize and leave before he made an utter arse of himself. “I think we have other things tae talk about beyond the weather?”
The minx cocked her head to the side, faking confusion. “My lord, I don’t know what else we would discuss. As we established all those years ago, a true lady’s conversational topics are limited by propriety, civility, and good breeding—all things you lack.”
Whether she referred to his commoner upbringing or their scandal, the words elicited a wince. Essentially, Ethan had made her famous for being a dullard. A perfect lady, yes. Everything she ought to be, right down to her frilly bows and lace. Pretty but boring. Sitting before him now in a simple dress, with an eye swollen closed, furious over his very existence—it might be a flaw in his character that he preferred her this way.
“When we met, the problem wasn’ you. I hope you realize that. It was my fault. All of it. If not for a solicitor showing up on my doorstep the year before we met, I’d still be a shepherd. I don’ have your society training. I didn’ know what tae do or expect in the ton. Some might argue that I still have no idea how tae go on.”
An adorable wrinkle formed between her brows. “Continue. Groveling suits you.”
“I’m sorry.” It was on the tip of his tongue to throw some blame on her father. If the earl had fancied the match, things might have gone differently. Sure, his interest had only recently been reignited before that awful meeting with her father, but the earl had made sure Ethan knew better than to pursue a lady like her. That might have been what led to his drunken wallowing with his friends that night, but the immaturity driving those choices was entirely on Ethan. If he’d been good enough for an earl’s daughter to begin with, this whole conversation would be moot. Bringing up that long-ago humiliation he’d endured in her father’s library wouldn’t solve anything.
She maintained eye contact while sipping from her tankard. “Thank you for your apology.”
For a moment the plump curves of her mouth distracted him. With her bottom lip wet with ale, he would bet his last farthing the brew tasted better when drunk from her lips.
This dangerous path his thoughts insisted on traveling could lead only to trouble. Apology delivered. What she chose to do with it was her business. When he stood, a whiff of tangy citrus followed him. There could be no other possible source for the fresh scent except her. She smelled like his favorite desserts. Lemon ice. Lemon tart. Lady Charlotte. Delicious.
Yes, he had to go—now, before he made a bigger arse of himself.
“Why do you even care? Why make amends now?” she asked as if the question had come as an afterthought.
“I tried tae call on you after…well, before. You’d left Town already. I have much tae answer for, and this was my first opportunity tae say I’m sorry.” He’d judged her harshly—and wrongly—years ago. The fact that within moments of her reentering his orbit she’d rekindled his interest made Ethan wonder if there might be something between them worth pursuing—assuming she ever stopped hating him.
On an impulse, Ethan brushed her cheek with a fingertip, needing one touch, however brief. All those years ago he couldn’t stay away, and he couldn’t seem to stay away now. Lady Charlotte jerked her head away. That was foolish of him. “I’m sorry. But I’m glad there’s more tae you than I realized, Princess.”
* * *
The next morning Lottie awoke to an eerie silence. No raindrops on the roof serenaded her. No splash of water hitting the windowpanes with gale-force winds invaded the sanctum of her bedchamber. The blustery storm had echoed her inner turmoil as she lay awake late into the night. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she tried to muster enthusiasm for another day at this inn. There would be no traveling until a carriage arrived for Patrick from home. She wouldn’t leave him alone, and Darling would probably revolt if she suggested such a thing. At least the weather would be a boon to a schedule that was already a disaster. Small comfort.
The first attempt at standing brought a groan. As a general rule, mornings were loathsome. Anyone who thought differently was touched in the head. With each step she discovered that the morning after a carriage accident was pure torture. Going through the motions of her morning ablutions, she had never been so grateful for simple garments in her life. Stockings, a shift, front-lacing stays, then a petticoat topped with another utilitarian gown.
Patrick’s room was three doors down, tucked in the corner of the inn. A knock received no answer, but it was early. Opening the door a crack, she spotted Darling, right where she’d expected her to be. Her maid dozed in a chair beside Patrick’s bed, their hands clasped in their sleep. Lottie smiled. Darling made a wonderful nurse. Patrick couldn’t be in better hands—figuratively or literally.
The picture they made—two former outcasts, comforting one another, warmed her heart. Darling had been the town’s fallen woman, trading her favors to survive after her husband’s death. Patrick had lived in the bottom of a bottle. Yet here they were, sober, happy, both respectably employed, even though Father would have kicked and screamed if he’d known about her hiring them at the time. Sometimes Father’s habit of hiding from the world worked to her advantage. By the time he realized what was happening, Darling and Patrick had started over and shown themselves to be model employees.
Easing the door closed, Lottie shuffled toward her room and the stairs beyond, covering a yawn with one hand. Heavens, it was early.
Lord Amesbury stepped into the hallway. They stared at one another for a moment. He’d slept across the hall from her all night. Odd that she hadn’t realized.
“Good morning. I’m checking the road conditions and having breakfast,” he said a bit too cheerfully given the hour.