Those two extreme dreamscapes mingled into a messy, angst-ridden nightly disaster he had to live through over and over. A week of this meant he slogged through the days foggy and cranky with exhaustion.
After dinner he fell asleep by the fireplace with a book open on his lap. In this dream, his teeth explored the delicate skin on Lady Charlotte’s tanned neck with light nips, then soothing openmouthed kisses. Thready breaths feathered against his ears while busy hands roamed his back. Ethan raised his head, needing to see her eyes half-lidded with desire, but instead saw the black toe of an evening shoe beside her hair. And above that, a white stocking with silk knee breeches. Then other people surrounded them, his dead cousin’s cronies hiding their laughing faces behind masquerade dominoes. One man’s mask became the sneering face of Charlotte’s father, chastising her for debasing herself with an upstart Scotsman who smelled of damp sheep. In his arms, Charlotte drew away, with an expression to match her father’s.
The man beside the earl, leading the mocking crowd, could be easily recognized by the bleeding, empty pant leg that hung useless and tattered beside his other healthy limb.
“Lord Amesbury. Milord? Get up, Ethan. You’ll wake the maids with your caterwauling.”
“Connor?” Ethan winced against a bright lantern shining in his face.
“Aye. You’re knackered, your lordship. Go on up tae bed.” Connor jerked his head toward the library door and the dim hallway beyond.
Ethan rubbed his neck. Of course it was Connor. After the accident, his stubborn clansman had refused to accept guilt money and a cozy place back in their village on the Solway Firth. Instead, he’d taken a job managing Woodrest. Providing a livelihood was the least Ethan could do, since his drunken recklessness had nearly killed the man. At the time, they’d figured that if Ethan could learn to be a lord instead of a common shepherd, then Connor could learn how to be…whatever his job title was. Butler, head footman, valet, and general pain in the arse most days. As luck would have it, Connor excelled at both running a home and reminding Ethan that despite a title, he was still just a shepherd. It was only by dumb luck that he had a nicer house these days and more sheep.
Clapping a hand on Connor’s shoulder, Ethan grumbled a “good night,” then stumbled toward his chambers.
The next morning found Ethan holding his third cup of tea, staring out the window, waiting for the energy to face the day. The grounds of Woodrest were particularly beautiful as the trees put on their autumn dresses one by one. It would be a few weeks before all the leaves changed, but the first colors were appearing.
“Have ye gotten used tae it yet?” Connor’s voice interrupted a period of staring out the window for God only knew how long.
Shaking his head to clear the brain fog, Ethan turned around. “Used tae what? The view?”
“All of it, I suppose. ’Tis a far cry from our village, aye?” The thump of Connor’s gait was more uneven than usual as he swung a cylindrical bundle from beside his feet to the floor by the desk.
“Aye.” The view outside was as green as their village on the Solway Firth. The cottage in which he’d spent his youth had been made of stone, just like Woodrest. But that was where the similarities ended. Although he stood as lord and master of a mansion on a hill, there were days when he longed for that small cottage. Ethan couldn’t part with it. A family leased the property now, so he had the comfort of knowing someone else could grow up happy in that corner of Scotland.
“Yer mum and da would have been tickled tae see you runnin’ this place. Ever think of that?” Connor said.
Ethan rolled his shoulders under the sudden weight he felt. “If Da were here, he’d be the viscount, not me.” And Ethan would be grateful for it. If given the choice, he’d much rather be a viscount’s son than hold the title himself. “He’d have done a better job of it. One year in London and he’d have had them all eating out of his hand. Da was the charmer.” After eight years, Ethan remained an outsider. Perhaps his son or grandson would have the dubious distinction of finally finding acceptance in the ton.
“Ach, don’ be so hard on yerself. Yer da was a sweet talker all right. But ye have skills of yer own. Yer makin’ good changes here.” Connor pulled a stack of letters from his pocket and set them on the desk. “These people are lucky three blokes died, so ye got the title. None of those Englishmen would be so hell-bent on building this brewery. They were busy spending more money than they had. Yer makin’ honest work of it.”
Ethan shot him a small smile while he sorted the mail. Maybe today would bring more scathing letters from peers damning him for sinking a noble title into trade. Investing in a venture he hoped to expand into a retail endeavor was raising eyebrows and ire.
He divided the correspondence into a stack regarding the estate, an invitation, and a lone personal envelope. A letter from Cal.
Part of Connor’s statement needed correction. “Four. Four men died. Two I’d never heard of—a father and son, second or third cousins I didn’t know existed—my gran’da, and my da.” His family tree was more of a spindly twig, with Ethan clinging to the end of it. No one underneath supporting him, and no one waiting to inherit should he die.
Changing
