At Madame Bouvier’s, ladies enjoyed tea and gossip and trusted the modiste to determine what garments best suited them. To achieve whatever plan Madame Bouvier created, one had to strip down to a chemise while being poked with pins by a stranger. Outside the fitting rooms, the shop had possessed the hushed, reverent air of a chapel for worshipping Chantilly lace and fine muslin.
After securing her hat at a jaunty angle, Lottie gathered her leather riding gloves and hurried out the door to meet a groom, who led two mounts down the lane from the mews. The horse he’d chosen for her, a leggy bay with intelligent eyes, sighed heavily and leaned into her hand when Lottie caressed the mare’s soft nose. “Who’s this beauty?”
“Dancer, milady.” The groom tightened the girth strap one last time, then patted the mare’s side.
“Nice to meet you, Dancer. Shall we explore a bit, pretty girl?” The horse lipped her glove, which Lottie took as permission to carry on. With the groom’s help, she mounted and settled the swath of velvet skirt over her legs.
Oh, how she missed the ease of riding in breeches. When she returned to Westmorland, she’d spend the first day home astride a horse, flying over the fields. For now, she would count her blessings and try to appreciate the park in all its man-made, handcrafted beauty. The trees were beginning to hint at autumn, which would be breathtaking given time.
Settling deeper into the saddle, Lottie found her seat with Dancer’s swaying stride. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoed off the stone houses as she made her way out of the neighborhood. The green expanse of the park opened up before her, and Dancer sidestepped in a move Lottie chose to interpret as enthusiasm. A glance over her shoulder showed the groom keeping pace behind her, giving Lottie the illusion of freedom. With a nod she signaled her intent, then let Dancer have her head. This early in the day the park was nearly empty, so an unladylike run would go unnoticed.
Dancer’s gait was a dream. While the exhilaration of a hearty ride blew the lingering cobwebs from her brain, Lottie shuffled and reorganized recent events in her head, trying to align everything with her reasons for being in London.
As soon as that first new gown from Madame Bouvier had arrived, she’d stepped back into the role of society lady. Dinners, game nights, intimate gatherings of friends—every night there were new faces. And every night, she met new men who could, in theory, be husband candidates. Agatha’s steady flow of invitations meant the pace wouldn’t be slowing anytime soon.
All those matrimonial options, yet the man dominating her thoughts happened to be the one who’d sat beside her last night and defended her.
As she spurred Dancer to stretch her legs even more, the park became a blur.
Hell on a broomstick—as Darling would say. This trip to London was supposed to be about finding a husband, not about a giant Scotsman who’d already shown her his slimy underbelly. Never mind that the underbelly in question hadn’t seemed slimy during their last several encounters.
She and Dancer were nearly upon another rider before his presence registered. With nimble feet, her mount veered around the man and his horse, snapping Lottie from her thoughts. Slowing Dancer, she reined around to call out, “Are you all right? I was woolgathering and didn’t see you. I’m so sorry.”
Nudging his mount closer, the man tipped his hat and met her with a grin. Sunlight lit him from the side, setting him aglow like a hero in a painting. Good Lord, he might be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Albeit a bit tired looking around the edges.
“I hope your ruminations were on good things, Lady Charlotte,” he said.
Lottie paused, cocking her head as a ripple of disquiet rolled through her. “Do we know one another, sir?”
“In a way. Although we’ve not met before now. Someone pointed you out in the crowd on Bond Street earlier this week. Our families share ties, you see. Last I heard, our fathers want to deepen that connection. I’m the Earl of Danby’s son James Montague. I believe you are the woman I’m planning to marry.”
Chapter Eight
Two days after Lady Bartlesby’s dinner, the gossip columns featured a small square of cramped text speculating on the relationship between the Paper Doll Princess and MacBrute. According to the snippet, given their history, it was noteworthy that they’d passed the remaining courses of the meal engrossed in conversation.
It seemed they were damned if they appeared friendly and damned if they hissed at each other like cats. Ethan dropped the newspaper on the breakfast table. At the sight of his full nickname alongside that awful moniker he’d given Lady Charlotte, a sharp pain pierced his temple. His appetite gone, he pushed his plate away.
Those damned nicknames. When he’d arrived in London, he’d discovered that while his size had been an asset back on the farm, in a ballroom he’d been an unpolished bumpkin towering over everyone. They’d named him MacBrute, and now everyone except Connor called him Mac. It didn’t usually bother him, but seeing it in this context left a sour taste in his mouth.
Lady Charlotte’s father had particularly relished the name, beating Ethan’s unworthiness home with well-placed verbal jabs, including his cousin Jerome’s favorite, “mongrel shepherd.”
At the time, he’d wanted to defend himself any way he could, and Ethan remembered holding himself back from spouting off on several things. Like informing the earl that English ladies preferred their men with thin necks and padded shoulders only in the ballroom. Behind closed doors, they seemed to appreciate a larger manscape. Considering he’d been dealing with the father of a woman he’d only just decided to court in earnest, none of those arguments would have won favor. So he’d taken the verbal lashing, removed
