Mr. Lurch spoke as he chewed, masticated meat showing with each word. “Leave politics to the men, Lady Charlotte. Although I concede you are the authority on satirical cartoons in this room, so I understand if you feel entitled to an opinion on Cruikshank’s work.” A titter of amusement rippled down the table. Ethan’s fingers tightened around his fork. “Settle your head on the subject. Else you risk sounding like a revolutionary, yourself. Clearly Lady Agatha should restrict your access to anything beyond the society pages. One must guard a young lady’s impressionable mind from too much information.” Mr. Lurch returned to his meal as if he wasn’t the biggest arse in Christendom.
“I doubt you’d recognize an impressionable mind if it bit you,” Ethan said loudly enough for Mr. Lurch to glance over at him, but the other man didn’t engage. Bartlesby shot him an acrid look of reproach. To lose favor with his host when he’d never had it to begin with was no loss at all. Perhaps he’d throw Ethan out of the house. Again. The lost potential social connections would be worth it if he could defend Lady Charlotte in this small way.
Bartlesby remained seated without calling for a footman. It would seem this dinner wouldn’t be ending right away.
As the next course arrived, cueing the guests to shift focus to their other seating partners, Lady Charlotte turned to him.
“After all that, it shouldn’ be hard tae be the best dinner companion you’ve had this evening.”
Lady Charlotte blinked, gaped for a second, then laughed.
In his chest, Ethan’s heart stalled. A wide grin creased her cheeks. If she lived a happy life, she’d form permanent lines at those creases. The thought made Ethan smile in return. This woman, with her opinions and defense of the less fortunate masses, was breathtaking. And he—Ethan Ridley—had made her laugh.
Pure.
Magic.
She’d bewitched him.
* * *
Lottie dismissed Darling and tightened her dressing gown’s sash. A silver tray on the vanity held her mother’s brush, comb, and hand mirror set and the vial of lemon oil she’d acquired from Warwickshire. She tugged the brush through her long curls, wincing at her reflection in the mirror as she worked through a tangle. The black eye had faded entirely, and a doctor would visit tomorrow to remove the stitches. She cocked her head, then sighed. While not a great beauty, she wouldn’t scare small children now that the bruises had faded. Things could be worse.
It wasn’t her first black eye. She’d been a rambunctious child, whom Mother had tried to mold into submission during short visits to the schoolroom. Tonight, when she’d been deciding on a plan to control the events unfolding around her, Mother’s training had come in handy. She’d pretended that Amesbury’s presence hadn’t affected her in the slightest—which couldn’t be further from the truth. Or at least, she’d appeared unflappable until that awful conversation with Mr. Lurch ruined her plan to not make a scene.
Oh well. If tongues wagged tomorrow, it would be because she was well read on the current political climate and had opinions. Better that than everyone laughing because they thought her empty-headed.
Her heart rate doubled for a second or two at the memory of how Amesbury had looked at her this evening when she’d finally torn her attention from Mr. Lurch’s condescending conversation. The expression on his face had sent shivers of…something along her limbs.
Then he’d spoken up in her defense. Just the one comment to Mr. Lurch—but that single sarcastic bon mot in solidarity had meant so much when she’d realized how far her heated conversation had carried down the table. Feeling the weight of everyone’s attention, then turning to him and seeing an ally, of all things, was the oddest sort of comfort. He hadn’t judged her for debating politics at a dinner party. Instead, he’d seemed to, well, enjoy her.
The rest of the dinner she’d ignored protocol and engaged Amesbury in conversation instead of swapping back to Mr. Lurch when the courses changed. They’d managed to maintain their charade of friendship, and by the end of the night it had almost felt real—if not for the occasional awkward lag in conversation when she remembered he wasn’t a friend and was only playing along with the game she’d started.
Those periods between the pauses, though, when she didn’t check herself and simply let the conversation flow, were confusing. Laughing at the low-voiced comments he’d made for only her ears had been easy for a while. That ease confounded her, because if she were quite honest with herself, it shouldn’t have been possible. Not with their history.
Now her head hurt, and she didn’t know which way was up with that man. One week of social engagements in London and she was already exhausted by the pretense—reminding her once again that she wasn’t cut out for this.
Enough. She set the brush back on the vanity and dug in the drawer for a ribbon.
These thoughts would spin through her brain all night if she let them.
Lottie subdued her curls into a plait, tying the end with the lone silk scrap she’d found. Snuffing the candle in its brass holder, she hoped the morning would bring clarity. If not clarity, then opportunities to handle the ton in a way that didn’t mean partnering with a man she couldn’t trust.
Hours later, in the light of morning, Lottie opened her eyes with a groan of frustration. Rested, she was not. A strong cup of tea, then a dose of the great outdoors was needed. Or rather, as close as she could get to the great outdoors while in London. The park would have to do.
The new riding habit’s snug jacket hugged her waist, creating an hourglass shape different from the high waistlines that had been popular for years. Turning in front of the mirror, she thought
