Having dealt with the expected afternoon parade of callers, wearing the red gown felt like donning a facade—an alternate personality who courted notoriety, not caring that her love life was under dissection in the papers.
Again.
On top of dreading the speculation of her peers, there was the ever-present worry that she’d have to deal with Montague face-to-face. There was no doubt in her mind he was behind the news stories, so thinking he’d avoid the opportunity to make a fuss in public was naive. When she thought of her last encounter with him, she tried to dwell on his expression as he’d flown off the seat and not the way he’d kissed, threatened, and made her feel helpless. Events by that pond couldn’t be changed, but she could celebrate the way she’d fought back and won.
Now she’d have to deal with whatever the evening brought. Hopefully, she worried for nothing, and it would be a lovely night with Amesbury, her godmother, and Lord Carlyle.
Taking a deep breath, she placed her hand on Lord Amesbury’s arm. He covered her gloved fingers with his as if having her beside him was the most natural thing in the world. “You are lovely this evening.”
She looked up from under her lashes as they ascended the steps. “Thank you, my lord. Flattery is an admirable characteristic in a fiancé. Feel free to continue in that vein.”
When he grinned, that dimple flashed, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
The butler opened the door, releasing a chorus of voices that swelled through the air, buzzing in a way that resembled a hive—complete with their hostess, the queen. Sharp laughter occasionally broke above the din. Lottie wished she were comfortable enough in this environment to laugh so freely.
The Blanchards had no ballroom in which to entertain. Instead, guests flowed from one room into the next, with the largest room cleared for dancing. As the great number of bodies crowded into a relatively small space, the air grew stale with each degree the temperature rose.
Lady Blanchard greeted them with a broad smile, her eyes darting to Lottie’s hand tucked through Amesbury’s arm. “The happy couple! I do hope you’ll enjoy the evening.”
Amesbury smiled down at Lottie, playing his role to perfection. He winked, and the deep blue of his eyes distracted her from her earlier worries. Since he’d entered the carriage this evening, there’d been a quiver low in her belly. With that wink, it grew from tiny flutters into a rapid pulse, like the wings of a hummingbird.
Leading her away from their hostess, he leaned down to her ear. “If Montague is here, remember you aren’t alone. We are partners, lass.” The look he gave her made the hummingbird flutters calm until everything within her quieted. A blooming liquid warmth spread over her as he held her gaze for a moment. A few heartbeats.
Too long.
She blinked away the intimate spell and searched the room for something to distract her from this inconvenient attraction to her faux fiancé. A blond halo of curls held ruthlessly in check with pomade caught her eye an instant before she felt Montague’s glare.
“Speak of the devil.”
Amesbury stilled beside her. “I see him. You’re more than capable of handling him. But I’d like tae stay close.”
Lottie hugged his arm as an answer. Moving away from Montague, they greeted acquaintances, sipped champagne, and fielded the questions underlying each innocuous exchange. People smiled and laughed in a friendly way while hissed conversations swelled in their wake all around the room.
“I thought Montague signed contracts with her father…”
“Did poor Mr. Montague realize she was considering MacBrute?”
Several women looked her way with envious stares. Lottie couldn’t say she blamed them. The sharp, simple lines of an evening coat suited her escort’s frame. The muscles bunching and releasing in his thighs showed through the fabric of his pantaloons. So many men needed padding to enhance their figures. When faced with the real thing, one tended to stare.
Amesbury tapped her hand, then flicked his finger toward the doorway. Mr. Montague approached them. High collar points framed an elaborate cravat of snowy linen, from which a gem winked in the candlelight. The man who’d pushed himself on her resembled a fairy-tale prince except for the faint bruising under his eyes. Whether from too many late nights or the blow to the face she’d delivered, Lottie didn’t know. With every step he took toward them, her mind screamed for her to run, while her feet froze in place as if she’d grown roots.
“Lady Charlotte.” Montague bowed over her hand. When he attempted to turn her wrist up for a kiss in his customary greeting, she jerked her hand away.
“Mr. Montague.” Ice crystals should have formed in nearby champagne flutes from her tone.
“You used to call me James. I suppose such intimacies aren’t appropriate now.” His eyes turned glassy, as if on the verge of tears. What a handy trick, to summon tears on cue.
Amesbury stood as a quiet pillar of support next to her.
“I wish you nothing but happiness, of course, pet.” Montague grabbed her hand again. She tugged, but he held firm, increasing the pressure of his grip with brutal force.
“Release me at once, sir.” The quiver in Lottie’s voice betrayed her, but with any luck no one would notice. She dug the tips of her fingers into Amesbury’s arm in a silent cry for help.
Montague ignored the demand and smirked at Amesbury. “When you marry, what shall we call her? Lady Amesbury or Lady MacBrute?”
Amesbury covered Montague’s wrist, his fingers easily encircling the bone, as well as part of his forearm. “I don’ care what you call me. However, you’ll listen tae the lady and release her now.”
At last, Montague let her go. As blood rushed back to her fingers, she swallowed a gasp. Goodness, that hurt. Refusing to let him see her pain,
