Anyone watching would think the whispers didn’t matter as she and Amesbury made their way into the next room.
* * *
Ethan couldn’t get them away from that smug golden bastard fast enough.
“Where are we going?” Lottie trotted to keep up with his long strides.
“Someplace private. If such a place exists in this house.” A corner by the back windows looked appealing. One wall sconce illuminated the small nook, and a potted plant of some kind hid them from the rest of the guests. “Take off your glove, please.”
The “please” was a formality. Ethan would not be swayed in this. Lady Charlotte pulled her glove off carefully, wincing now that they were away from prying eyes. Her hand was already swelling at the knuckles, discoloring in places. Ethan cursed low, keeping his fingers gentle while examining the damage.
“I only understood half of what you said just now. Did you know your accent gets heavier when you’re upset? The ‘sheep-loving son of a whore’ reference is self-explanatory. But what is a ‘feartie’?”
“‘Feartie’ means ‘coward.’ The least offensive thing I called him, I think. Apologies. I shouldn’ speak like that in front of a lady.”
“Oh, pish. I don’t mind your language one bit. I even learned something,” she joked, then gasped when he tried to put her fingers through their full range of motion.
“He hurt you, lass. I want tae rattle his skull.”
“When I tried to remove my hand, he squeezed harder. Thank you for intervening.” She grimaced at the blooming bruises. “At least my glove will hide it.”
“Lass, one day I hope you’ll tell me what happened between you, so I can determine exactly how bad a thrashing he needs. No one should hurt a woman. Ever.”
Her smile was a bittersweet thing. “Thank you for the sentiment, Lord Amesbury. Actually, may I call you Amesbury? We are engaged, after all. And friends. Perhaps we can drop the formality.”
“Call me Mac. Everyone does.”
“I most certainly will not.” A glance at her face confirmed he’d somehow misstepped. “That’s the name everyone gave you because the ton couldn’t be bothered to call you by your proper title. Your name is not Mac or MacBrute or any variation thereof.”
Long ago, he’d felt the same way about the name. Hearing those old feelings come from her mouth made him blink. When had he accepted the pejorative name? “Ethan. My name is Ethan Ridley.”
She smiled for real this time, lighting her eyes. “Ethan, you may call me Lottie.”
Hearing his name—his real name—from her lips felt impossibly precious and intimate. “Thank you, Lottie.” Lifting her injured hand, he lightly kissed each knuckle. “I should call out Montague. This is not acceptable.”
Arching a brow, she worked her glove back on, then tucked her arm into his. “I want your word as a gentleman that you won’t. I don’t need the scandal, and you don’t need his blood on your hands—because I have every confidence you’d win.”
He growled. Montague had hurt her. The bastard deserved a thrashing, then execution at dawn, followed by dumping his body unceremoniously in the river. Let the fish have whatever remained after Ethan was done with him. Lady Charlotte—Lottie—stayed him with a hand on his chest, and his growl became something closer to a purr.
“I mean it, Ethan. He’s not worth ruining our lives simply to get even. Promise me.”
“Fine. I promise I will not call him out.” Dumping him in the river might be an option, though.
“Thank you. Now, I am going to freshen up a bit. Don’t kill anyone while I’m gone. You appear quite fierce.” Lottie patted his chest one more time, then walked away, leaving a lemony tang in the air.
While Montague didn’t appear in the immediate area, every protective instinct within Ethan reared its head, so he followed at a distance just in case, keeping an eye on the people in her path. As she sailed with the confidence of a queen across the room, then down a hall, she smiled at a few acquaintances.
Leaning on the wall several feet from the doorway, he waited for her to emerge from the retiring room. Female voices approached the door. None of them were Lottie’s.
“She must be a fool to give up such a treat for a fatter purse. Especially with a hefty dowry of her own.”
“She has to have a huge dowry if her father ever expects to unload her on some poor fellow. Her bank account isn’t all that’s plump.”
“Doesn’t Lord Amesbury care he’s getting used goods? I overheard my brother saying Montague described exactly how pink her bits were—if you understand my meaning. The words eager and enthusiastic were used. Repeatedly.”
“Poor Paper Doll Princess. Amesbury isn’t that much of a catch. Not with his past…”
Sometimes Ethan was grateful for his ungentlemanly build. As he straightened from his casual stance against the wall, he didn’t feel even remotely gentlemanly. The tittering laughter cut off when they caught sight of him.
Curling his lip with disgust, he stared each of the three women down—he couldn’t call them ladies after that shameless display of vindictive tongue wagging. One by one, the women avoided his gaze, then scurried away as if he would release hellhounds after them.
One minute passed. Then two. Finally, Lottie emerged from the room. Ethan snaked an arm around her waist, gently pulling her toward a nearby passageway. The small dim space, intended for servants, had only a single lamp on the wall, near a set of narrow stairs.
“Ethan—”
He towed her deeper into the shadows, then used his body to protect her from the view of those passing by. “Now. Look at me, lass.” Flat eyes stared at his cravat, lacking her usual spirit. “Sweetheart, look at me.” The endearment slipped out, but it felt so right he couldn’t regret it.
She firmed her chin until her jaw set in a mulish line, then raised her gaze to his. There
