A day apart would do her good. Time away to remind herself of her list, her plan, and the insurmountable hurdle of Father’s hatred for the man who’d brought her to orgasm atop his account books. Twice.
“He’s calling on a tenant. The Thatchers. The midwife sent word this morning. Their babe was born late last night. A healthy little girl.” Lottie couldn’t help a smile. Who wouldn’t be happy about a healthy delivery, after all? “Cook and I assembled a basket for the family, and Ethan helped me sort through the blanket cupboard after breakfast. He’s distributing warmer linens to the Thatchers and a few other families. The local farmers are claiming it will be a brutally cold winter.”
Agatha cocked her head. “You seem to know everything that is going on around here. Is he winning you over? You could do far worse for a husband than Lord Amesbury.”
Lottie set her book down, then picked it up again in an effort to not watch Ethan’s back as he disappeared down the lane. “He is nothing like the man I envisioned marrying.” It felt disloyal to say such a thing, given their new intimacy.
Agatha’s short laugh ended on a delicate snort. “They never are, dear. I suppose you mean he is not incompetent, easily cowed by you, or able to be managed, as you manage everything else in your life.”
“Auntie!”
“Oh, pish. I am old, not blind or senile,” Agatha said, rolling her eyes. “A woman of your brains deserves an equal, not whatever it is you seem determined to settle for.”
It sounded so cowardly when her godmother said it that way.
Since the night of Ethan’s haircut, Lottie’s perspective on intimacy had undergone a change. Desire had been theoretical for so long, yet now it waited beneath the surface, always ready, when Ethan was near. With each encounter they shared, the passionless years loomed empty and cold—and guaranteed if she ended things in a few weeks. As she did whenever the thought crossed her mind, she shoved it aside and tried to focus on the here and now.
Lottie set the book down again and craned her neck for one last peek at Ethan before he disappeared around the curve and trees hid him from view. Seeing him, touching him had become a source of comfort. Like a talisman she didn’t want to need.
This was supposed to be only physical. But now she had a constant craving for the little things. Mundane things. Like reading together in the evening and riding the estate during the day.
Like it or not, she had a clearly outlined future. Even if she were to throw away her entire plan and discard the list into the wind like some heroine in a romantic novel, she still had Father to contend with.
“Lord Amesbury could be a good partner for you,” Agatha said.
Partner. Lottie wrinkled her nose. What an unwelcome word. She’d have her own property soon, and she wouldn’t have to share it with anyone. The plan ensured that.
Ignoring the lack of response, Agatha continued her one-sided conversation. “For someone of your disposition, learning how to be a partner in return could be a lifelong endeavor. You may have noticed you’re a managing sort.” Lottie shot her a look and pointedly picked up the book again and pretended to read. “He doesn’t seem to mind, though. You could have something real with Amesbury. What your mother and father shared, and what I had with Alfred. That is what your mother wanted for you, after all.”
The warmth seeped out of Lottie, leaving her with a cold knot of anger and frustration in her chest. There wasn’t an easy answer to her problem—she should know, because her brain had dwelled on little else for days—and Agatha pointing out Ethan’s bloody perfection didn’t help the situation. Slamming the book closed with a thump, she snapped, “I know what Mother wanted. A dutiful daughter as refined as she was. But as I’m learning, we can’t always get everything we want, can we?” Tears threatened, but she beat them back with her anger. “She and Father may have shared something special, but they didn’t include their children in that happiness. And with her gone, Father has no love left for anything except his books—even his grieving daughter.” Every thud of her heart echoed in her ears, but the tears stayed put.
Agatha sighed. “You need never be alone again, child. Even if you choose not to marry, you will always have a place with me. Your father loved your mother with the last fiber of his being, but I can see that his attention to you has not been as constant as it should have been. I will not push. I will not pry.” When Lottie snorted, Agatha conceded, “Fine, I shall try not to push or pry more than I already have. I will say this—even if you never grow to love Lord Amesbury, you could do far worse than a viscount for a husband.”
There was no way to answer that.
The autumnal colors dressing the trees outside shadowed the path down which Ethan had ridden. She would have agreed to coo and cuddle the Thatchers’ new baby, except the thought of Ethan’s large hands holding an infant had turned her insides to goo, and she had panicked. Lied. Claimed Agatha needed her for something. It was a matter of self-defense, really. Anything to avoid having memories of him snuggling a baby.
He’d be an amazing father. Patient and doting and kind. Someday.
To someone else’s children.
Which was none of her concern, since she wasn’t marrying the man—even if the throaty burr in his voice did turn her knees to butter.
“Lady Agatha, you’ve somethin’ in the post today. Do ye have a beau writin’ tae ye?” Connor entered the room, tapping an envelope against his palm.
“I do hope
