At the base of her spine one of his fingers traced a hidden caress. Shivers of longing flowed from that small contact. Could she marry another man, when Ethan affected her so? The thought brought a wave of nausea that made her press a fist to her stomach. No. Compromise had to happen. “Ethan? Yes. Write him. I’ll write him too.”
“Are you saying you’ll marry me, Charlotte Wentworth?”
A breath escaped that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I think so.”
Chapter Twenty
It had been a week since Lottie and Agatha had moved out of the leased townhome. The room in Agatha’s home she’d occupied on previous visits remained largely unchanged. Although the linens and draperies were new, the lemony shade remained. The space was both comforting and nostalgic, overlooking the cook’s herb garden and the mews beyond.
Berkeley Square was like the rest of London—cramped. Even if the house itself might be spacious, neighbors frequently either shared a wall or were close enough to pass a pot of jam from one breakfast room’s window into the next. In theory, the view from this bedroom was far superior to the one from her room at their previous house, since she didn’t face a giant wall of stone. Yet she rather missed that stone wall with its window framing Ethan like a milliner’s tempting shop display. At least she knew her weakness now—half-naked viscounts and French lace were beyond what any woman should have to resist.
Below her window, a kitchen maid bustled through the garden, clipping the last remaining sprigs from the thyme patch, clutching a shawl around her shoulders. Lottie’s sigh fogged the windowpane. On a whim, she drew E+L on the glass, then surrounded it with a heart. Silly, really.
Over the past week Lottie and Ethan had crafted eloquent letters to Father pleading their case. Agatha kept her busy with plans for the engagement ball, drawing her into intense deliberations over the difference between white and ecru linen. Wouldn’t the white linen be ecru by the end of the night? Yet even with the details she found absurd, Lottie couldn’t deny the thrill over the event. It might have begun as a farce, but their engagement felt more real by the day.
Like clockwork, Ethan appeared at her door for their morning rides, even when October lived up to its drippy gray reputation. The horseback excursions were the only thing keeping her sane amidst the ball preparations.
Parliament would commence shortly, which meant the men of the aristocracy were returning to Town. The Season itself would not begin in earnest until the spring. However, each day more knockers hung on the doors of Mayfair, signaling the family was in residence.
With only a few weeks to prepare, while also moving house, Lottie had initially expected a small affair.
She should have known better. Agatha never did anything by half measures. Not only would this ball celebrate her engagement, but at some point, it had become a masquerade. Ironic when you considered how their relationship had begun.
The door to the dressing room opened, and Darling stepped through, covered by yards of brocade fabric. The top of her hair peeked above a starched, lace-trimmed ruffle that stood at attention like a satin soldier.
“How can you see what you’re doing?” Lottie laughed. “I want to help, but I don’t know where to put my hands.”
Darling’s reply came through the heap of dress as an unintelligible muffled exclamation.
They heaved the mass of fabric onto the bed, then sighed in unison.
“Can you imagine having to wear this many layers of skirts every day? And you haven’t even seen the wig yet.” Darling shot her a look with an arched brow. “Being a lady’s maid is easier these days—that’s all I’ll say. Once we finish the shepherd’s crook, you’ll be the loveliest shepherdess anyone’s ever seen.”
“I’ll look ridiculous and we both know it. But thank you. I’m just glad we were able to find something suitable in the attic. Agatha and I are hardly the same size.”
Darling shrugged. “When your bodice is pinned in place and laced together, wiggle room is easy to find. I nipped a bit from the skirts for extra fabric where needed, not that you’ll notice. This gown is fifty years old, but the quality is exceptional. Do we know what Lord Amesbury is wearing this evening?”
“No, he’s been left to his own devices. But he’s an enterprising sort. I’m sure he’ll manage. I told him I’m dressing as a shepherdess, which he found as amusing as we did. If this fabric is appropriate for tending sheep in any century, I’ll eat the wig that goes with it. Utterly preposterous.”
Three hours later, with Lottie’s hair tightly coiled to make way for a towering wig of ridiculous proportions sure to fall off if she moved her head too quickly, she muttered, “This is a fresh hell I’ve never experienced before.”
Behind her, Darling snorted a laugh, then secured a flashy necklace around her throat. “There we go. Let the pendant settle between your lady friends, and Lord Amesbury won’t be able to tear his eyes away. Poor man. He’ll be running into walls tonight if he doesn’t manage to see past your neckline.”
“How is it I’m wearing the fabric equivalent of every garment I own, yet still have this much cleavage on display?”
“Because I have your best interests at heart. I’ve seen the way that man looks at you. These are your weapons. Use them—but try not to sneeze. You risk loosing a nipple above the neckline.” Darling stepped back to admire her handiwork.
With perfect timing, a footman arrived with the shepherd’s crook. Someone had painted the curved staff to match the powder blue of the dress, then wrapped
