Yes, that threshold between enemies and friends had appeared between them, and she’d found herself stepping into unknown territory. He wasn’t exactly an enemy anymore. But then, he wasn’t precisely a friend either. She strongly suspected that neither of them knew what they were doing.
The flirtatious conversation had been a pleasant surprise. Entertaining, until—like their conversation at dinner the other night—it’d felt very real. And she’d almost kissed him.
Almost. Thank God common sense had stopped her. Well, common sense and years of self-control wrapped in layers of hurt. Her distrust was not so easily eradicated, although the evening had muddied the emotion.
Maybe she didn’t hate the man anymore. Or at least, not all the time. And she might occasionally want him to touch her in a non-sworn-enemy sort of way, knowing full well he could incite an impulse to hit him over the head with the nearest blunt object.
Which was the last thing she needed to deal with while handling the appearance of Mr. Montague.
Montague had called this morning and asked to take her for a drive. She’d pled a headache and a need to write her father, then sidestepped his leading questions about her plans for this evening. Something about him set off alarms in her head. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to get out of committing to a picnic tomorrow. At least a picnic meant Agatha would accompany them.
Objectively speaking, Montague was a gorgeous specimen of male beauty. More so than Amesbury, whom she’d classify as distracting and masculine rather than beautiful.
Charm seemed to be Montague’s native tongue. His eagerness to move forward with the engagement would be flattering if she wanted a marriage in the traditional sense. However, compliments and charm were a decided drawback in light of her desire to have a disinterested spouse. Come to think of it, so was flirting on balconies, but this evening she hadn’t been thinking of that. Amesbury might have a point, that emotions could override plans. Damn the man.
Most problematic of all was that Montague was somehow unaware that she’d already declined the match. Father was being less than forthcoming with someone in this situation, and she suspected that she was the one in the dark here. It incited a fury she’d struggled to keep tucked away since meeting Montague. It wasn’t Montague’s fault Father was practicing subterfuge, after all. But without her knowing why Father had kept that pertinent information to himself, she couldn’t outright tell Montague no. At least, not yet.
She’d written to Stanwick Manor today—one note to Rogers the steward and one to her father. Rogers would end up handling both letters, but it was the principle of the thing. Demanding answers held less dramatic appeal when it would be nearly two weeks before she received a letter back.
Knowing at least part of Father’s reply would involve giving Montague a chance to pay his addresses in person, she’d resolved to go on a few outings with the man. Who knew if he was merely making the best of the situation and might actually be amenable to her plan? That wasn’t exactly a line of questioning she could spring on him a mere day after making his acquaintance.
Bottom line, she’d told Amesbury she was on the hunt for a husband, and it was the truth. Father had told her to choose either Montague or another man equally acceptable.
And then she’d nearly kissed Amesbury of all people. Hating him had been far easier than this emotional muddle.
Exhaustion swept through her. She draped her shawl over a chair, snuffed the lamp, and made her way by moonlight to close the curtains.
Across the narrow lane, Lord Carlyle’s home remained illuminated. When someone crossed in front of a second-story window, she paused. There, directly opposite her, stood one of the men on her mind. Without a cravat, coat, or waistcoat, the open neck of Amesbury’s shirt drew her eye to the wide expanse of his chest. Stifling a gasp, Lottie pulled back from the window. She shouldn’t peek. But if the darkness hid her, would one more look hurt?
Just as they had this evening, the tiny hairs on her arms stood at attention, pointing toward him, like a compass guiding to true north. Muddied feelings aside, the look of him still made an impact. Dark and broad, rough around the edges, with those ridiculous curls in need of a trim softening his appearance. He wasn’t the epitome of male beauty like Montague. But what he was appealed to her more than Montague’s perfection.
A chill from the glass met the heat of her body, which seemed to creep up by degrees the longer she watched him. Her nipples pebbled against the fine linen of her night rail as a tendril of warmth spiraled around her belly in a lazy swirl.
In the window across the lane, Amesbury craned his head toward the small portion of sky between their roof lines. Clouds and soot impeded any of the celestial views she found so familiar back home, and she had to wonder what he looked for.
With unhurried movements, he gathered his shirt, pulling it from his waistband. An inch of his stomach showed above the top of his dark breeches. His navel was a shadowy dip, hemmed in by grooves of musculature forming a V, pointing down to things she’d only ever seen in books.
With that thought, she almost snapped the heavy drapes closed. Almost. All it would take was a forceful flick of her wrist to bring this voyeurism to an end. And yet she didn’t move.
The rhythm of her heart pounded in a song she’d never heard before as she clung to the shadows, watching.
His shirt was gone now. There was just…so much of him. Were all men built like that? Surely not. Montague was lean, not bulky. And at dinner
