“Would you mind if I sat with Patrick until they arrive with our things?”
“Of course not. I’m glad you can be there with him. I doubt the doctor would let me in the room. Especially with my lack of clothing.” Lottie nodded toward her quilt.
“I’ll report back about our trunks momentarily.” Darling snagged the letters on the side table. “And I’ll have the innkeeper post these.”
Wrapped in the blanket, Lottie flopped on the bed. Each time her eyes closed, her mind filled with fragmented memories of the accident. The aches in her body throbbed as a reminder of the morning, just in case she found herself tempted to think it all a bad dream.
The incoming headache thumped at the base of her skull, setting itself apart from her other injuries. Tucking her chin under the blanket, she surrendered to the imminent agony. If she held still, perhaps she wouldn’t vomit this time.
Like an unruly child determined to poke at things with a pointy stick, her mind wandered back to Lord Amesbury. He’d been quite the sight this morning, so tall and broad and oozing confidence. Any average-sized person had to stand with a kink in their neck if they wanted to meet his gaze at a close distance.
She remembered those eyes. The first time she’d crossed paths with him, they’d triggered a longing for her carefree days on the seashore as a child, when the sun lit up the ocean and made the sea match the summer sky. Those blue eyes with their streaks of sunny gold had been the most beautiful things she’d ever seen when he’d pulled her to safety from the mob months later. They’d softened with tender promise when he insisted he would check on her the next day.
Rolling over took tremendous effort, but the way her body sank into the mattress made it worth it.
News of Amesbury had been scarce since Lottie left London. Agatha remained her best source of Town gossip, but she had an understandable bias against the man who’d hurt Lottie. Her honorary aunt and godmother’s letters were more reliable and often more entertaining than the Times. Surely Agatha would have mentioned if Amesbury married—unless she deemed his marriage beneath her notice. Which was entirely plausible.
Damn. Amesbury might have a wife. What an odd notion. Another woman might even now be choosing her most flattering day dress and debating which sofa in the drawing room had the best light, so she’d be backlit with an angelic glow as she welcomed him home. Lottie sniffed. Yes, she’d been a hopeful fool, preparing for an offer that never came.
“Good luck to the poor girl. She’ll need it.” The words fell flat. But as she clung to them, her fortress of self-control finally crumbled. Tears wet the blanket beneath her, dripping into the tight curls framing her face.
Everything broke loose with the tears.
This return to London for another Season felt wrong without her mother. After a childhood of forgotten promises, solitary tea parties, and a parade of governesses, Lottie knew where she stood in the grand scheme of things. Mother and Father’s passion for one another had eclipsed all else, and any remaining emotional energy had been lavished on her brother, the heir. But when the time came for decorum lessons and preparation for her debut? For the first time in her life, Lottie’s time with Mother had no limits. When her debut wasn’t a success, they planned to conquer the ton a few years later and prove to them all that Charlotte Wentworth wasn’t one to be trifled with.
Then her brother, Michael, died in the Battle of New Orleans. The next year, just as they were coming out of their blacks from Michael, Mother fell sick. They never made it back to Town and the infamous Marriage Mart. What appeal did London hold without her mother?
More tears escaped onto the pillow as anger over her father’s ultimatum and his insistence that she marry and leave the estate in his hands rose to the surface. Yes, the black cloud of mourning seemed to have lifted, but what if he woke up tomorrow and refused to deal with his responsibilities? How many of their tenants would suffer again under a landlord who didn’t care enough to move beyond his library?
After their family’s losses, he’d retreated to his bed for weeks. When he eventually moved to the library, she’d thought it progress and assumed he was quietly dealing with estate matters. But no. The library became his sanctuary away from the real world. Their people went without, and the estate fell apart until Lottie stepped in and took the reins. Not that she’d had any clue what she was doing. But she’d learned. And for a few years, all went smoothly. Until her father decided he would resume control.
After she put in years of satisfying labor at Stanwick Manor, making a difference and doing things that mattered, she didn’t receive so much as a thank-you—just demands that she marry Mr. Montague or someone else suitable before the year’s end. The unfairness of seeing hard work torn from her hands stung. Self-pity was a great reason to cry.
She grieved the accident and Patrick’s agony as he’d landed in the road like a broken doll, with his leg pointing in the wrong direction.
All this pain and fuss, and she still must face the ton with only Agatha as a chaperone, and no friends her own age. If she’d ever needed a friend, it was now. All her acquaintances had husbands and children. Their letters had brimmed with society gossip, babies, and shopping trips, while hers spoke of loss, death, and tenant needs. Understandably, the correspondence had eventually stopped. Lottie had never been so alone.
Pent-up emotion leaked out of her as she cried until the building headache receded, withdrawing its claws for another day. The crackling blaze of the fire and the clean citrus scent of her hair soothed her,
