He lay there a moment, chest heaving. The air was thick with their two mixed scents—an intensely satisfying combination.
The fantasy had been so real, but now the room felt emptier than it had before.
Chapter Nine
How was the picnic, milady?” Darling placed Lottie’s pearl necklace and earbobs in their velvet-lined case.
Lottie wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Montague seems thrilled with a match between us, but my intuition says encouraging him wouldn’t be wise.”
“He’s certainly a fancy piece to look at.”
“Oh, no doubt he’s attractive. I admit, when he touched me, I considered going along with Father’s plans. Then he started talking and ruined it.”
“Touched you?” Darling raised a brow. “What kind of picnic was this?”
Lottie chuckled. “Don’t get your hackles up. Nothing inappropriate happened. When he helped me out of the carriage, he kissed my wrist. Inside, here.” She brushed her skin absently. “Right above the edge of my glove. Agatha was there, so any liberties were minor. He is a gentleman, after all.” A gentleman hell-bent on wooing. She’d tried to steer the conversation toward practical matters, to determine if he was a viable candidate for her plan, but the man’s answers fell firmly in the category of flirtatious lothario. He was like a porcelain figurine—decorative and utterly useless.
“I thought a true gentleman wouldn’t take liberties at all. If there’s one thing I know, it’s men. Don’t expect him to treat you like a lady later if he treats you like a hussy now.”
“How lovely to know I have a friend looking out for my interests,” Lottie teased. “That is wise counsel, although not needed. I don’t plan to spend much more time with him if he won’t answer a few simple questions.”
“You’re decided, then?”
Lottie paused, then shrugged into her dressing gown and tied the ribbons. “The potential is there if he’d let me manage the estate. Lord knows he doesn’t seem to have a head for business.” Sliding her feet into cozy slippers, she contemplated the situation aloud. “After all, I don’t have to like the man—I only have to marry him. He seems to have no interests or abilities beyond a surface level of charm, but a handsome husband wouldn’t be a hardship.” That charm had worn thin by the time they’d finished the picnic. He’d spent the outing drinking the lion’s share of a bottle of champagne while bemoaning the lack of options available to a younger son.
Darling gathered the last items of Lottie’s toilette and put them away. At the door, she turned, with her hands full of laundry. “Perhaps it’s none of my business, but don’t you think you deserve better than that? No matter how handsome, if he can’t offer at least companionship, I’d mark him off your list.”
Lottie sat at the vanity table and picked up her hairbrush. Not because her hair needed attention, but because her hands had a case of the fidgets, and brushing her hair gave her something to do as she mulled over the day.
While Agatha appeared to nap under a nearby tree, doing her best impression of a cat in a sunbeam, Montague had brought up the Paper Doll Princess scandal. Of course he had. She couldn’t escape that stupid moniker. In an unforeseen twist to the conversation, he’d dismissed it, claiming Amesbury had far more to answer for. According to Montague, after several flutes of champagne, Amesbury had almost killed a man. A friend, at that.
Somewhere between gossip and outright fabrication, there could be a kernel of truth to his statement. The implications of that didn’t sit well.
Lord Amesbury might be a bad romantic risk, which she’d learned seven years ago—never mind how appealing he looked framed in a window—but the man wasn’t a threat to anyone’s life. She was sure of that. So where, then, was the truth amidst the fable?
* * *
The next morning dawned, illuminating wet cobblestones. For once, Lady Luck was smiling Ethan’s way, because the groom who’d brought him Ezra had been only a few feet in front of a groom leading a mount for Lady Charlotte. Their horses splashed through puddles as he and Lady Charlotte rode toward the park. Fog lingered along the grassy trails within the park’s gates, lending the quiet space a reverent quality that he preferred not to break.
They’d hardly exchanged a handful of words since meeting on the street and awkwardly setting off in the same direction. Remembering her desire for silence in the morning from their encounter at the inn, he didn’t press for conversation. Since she appeared fully functional, he assumed she’d enjoyed at least one cup of tea already. The habit she wore fit snug as a glove, showing her assets in such a way that rational thought and blood flow left his brain for a second every time he looked at her—and he couldn’t stop looking. The modiste responsible deserved a hug and his eternal gratitude. Every curve of her body showed to perfection.
A small satchel he’d slung crosswise over his body contained a pair of breakfast pastries he’d packed for himself. Without a word, he offered one to Lady Charlotte, leaning his body as far over in his saddle as his balance would allow to pass the warm bread.
Another five minutes passed before she broke the silence. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He cleared his throat, not entirely sure what to say.
Before he came up with a conversational gambit, she said, “I have two orders of business to discuss. Have you something to write with in that satchel?”
“I do.” They drew to a stop, and he dug out a scrap of paper and a pencil.
“Write this down. I sent a query yesterday, and the messenger returned with a reply. Wallace Macdonell, the brewmaster I told you about, is expecting to hear from you.”
Grinning, Ethan scribbled notes as she rattled off the man’s direction and pertinent details. By God, the lass had followed through with her offer to help. Not a moment too soon, because Connor’s missive this
