While nothing appealed to her more than the thought of smashing the delicately painted bourdaloue over his head, she’d need to lie convincingly. “Let us call a spade a spade. I broke things off with Amesbury earlier this week.” Lottie feigned earnestness. “You need money. I need a husband or else I’ll be firmly on the shelf. I see no reason we could not lead entirely separate lives if we married.”
Montague cocked his head. “How separate?”
“No heirs. No more contact than needed, and only then through a solicitor. You live the life you currently enjoy, while I manage the estate. An estate that’s far, far away. You stay in London doing whatever you wish.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I used your piles of pretty pound notes to keep a mistress or two?”
Focusing her gaze out the window, she searched for clues to their location. “I don’t care what you do with your man parts, as long as you don’t do it with me.”
“One woman is as good as another. I won’t need any snot-nosed brats to carry on my name unless I somehow end up inheriting. If that happens, you’ll need to do your duty and give me an heir. What you describe sounds like the perfect marriage.” He laughed. “We are of an agreement, then?”
Even the abstract idea of bearing this man’s child made her throat burn with bile. Lottie hesitated—because the idea of sex with a crazy man should be enough for any sane woman to pause—then nodded. Whatever she needed to do or say to pacify Montague long enough for her to get away, she would.
How ironic. She’d just manipulated her way into a man agreeing to everything she’d wanted when she arrived in London. A hollow victory, indeed. One thing her time with Ethan had taught her was to raise her standards. He’d shown from the beginning how wrong she’d been to want an uninterested husband—not that she’d listened. Throwing herself headlong toward disaster, all the while believing she knew best, appeared to be her strength these days. How ridiculous that it took an escapade of this scale to show her what a great nodcock she was.
Even thinking Ethan’s name brought a spike of pain. Would that ever go away? She might forever compare men to a certain giant, rough-hewn Scotsman. They’d had one night to fully enjoy each other, and it would have to be enough.
It would never be enough.
She wanted more mornings waking up in his arms. More pillows that smelled like him. A child with his blue eyes. One hand rested on her belly. What if they’d made a child? The French letter wasn’t guaranteed protection. Except then Ethan would marry her out of obligation instead of desire. And she’d be an even greater burden on him, penniless, with a ruined reputation and a child.
At some point her heart had slipped past affection and friendship into unknown territory where she didn’t want to imagine a future without him. Due to her strong pragmatic streak, she knew he’d need money to rebuild Woodrest. Thanks to her father, money was something she couldn’t offer. She’d been so sure it was the right choice to free Ethan. Noble, even. After all, Woodrest and Ethan’s people were more important than her heartache.
Here she was, finagling and lying and doing what she had to do to escape this kidnapping. It was a hell of a reminder that she wasn’t by nature someone who capitulated easily. Why, then, had she rolled over when Father sent his ultimatum?
Ignoring the headache brewing behind her eyes, Lottie tried to logic her way through the mess she’d made. If she gave up her fortune but had Ethan, would it be worth it? He’d never said he loved her. But then, she’d never spoken about her feelings either. Did she love him and not just desire him—as scary as that idea was?
Perhaps emotion couldn’t be excluded in this matter. Logic coexisted with emotion, surely. Going forward, balancing the two might be the only way to fix the mess she’d made.
If Woodrest needed an infusion of capital to recover from the sabotage, she’d be the worst possible woman for Ethan to marry. But what if they could figure out a way? The situation would present a unique challenge to an estate manager—or a woman of her interests. Instead of being handed a property and a fat purse by her father, she could step out of that safety net and help Ethan rebuild. Together they could make a difference. Really, that was what her dream always boiled down to—making a difference.
There wouldn’t be the independence of being on her own. Risking a glance at Montague, she tried to imagine the future he demanded. She’d have independence. In fact, she’d have everything she’d initially wanted when she rolled into London with her stupid, detailed, narrow-minded plan.
Whether he’d meant to or not, Ethan had changed everything. If she were entirely honest, she didn’t want to be independent of Ethan. She wanted to work alongside him. Hear the rumbly burr of his accent when he teasingly called her Princess and see the way his face lit up with laughter when she made a face at the nickname.
Objectively speaking, if her dreams could be fulfilled with Ethan, then Father’s ultimatum held little weight beyond finances. Their relationship had never been terribly close to begin with, and almost nil since Mother died. It pained her to consider losing him, but it was killing her to imagine a future without Ethan.
So, new plan. First, escape this damned carriage. Second, find Ethan and apologize. Finally, explain about Father’s letter in detail, then try to concoct a way to somehow rebuild Woodrest without her dowry.
The landscape outside the window hadn’t changed significantly in hours. Everything whizzed by in a blur of brown and green, broken by gray stone fences. The
