They stopped in York for a meal and supplies. Near the posting house was a bookshop and small marketplace that provided everything they needed for the long day ahead—reading material for Agatha, Lottie, and Ethan, and knitting needles for Darling. At a stall near the entrance of the market, Darling had cooed over yarn and charmed a discounted price out of the wool merchant. With a skein of yarn in her lap, the maid now happily clicked the needles as she created something. It was anyone’s guess what the mass of string would become.
An hour later, a pressure on his hip pulled Ethan from the story of Rob Roy. After so long in the coach, Lottie had finally reverted to comfort over comportment. With her legs on the seat, she’d pressed her back against the side of the carriage, then rested her book on her thighs. He smiled. Ethan had found her curled up sideways in the library armchairs at Woodrest, and it was a common sight to catch her in an undignified sprawl in Lady Agatha’s drawing room. At last, his lady had found a comfortable perch, although the point of her shoe dug into his hip. Without a word, Ethan lifted his leg enough to slip her foot under his thigh and relaxed, pinning that small part of her beneath him. Maybe her toes were chilly inside the thin boot. Or maybe she missed touching him as much as he missed her. Whatever her reason for not moving her foot away, he absorbed the contact like a starving man hungry for her touch. Turning the page of Rob Roy, he stole a glance out of the corner of his eye. She smiled at the page in front of her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Agatha’s words ran across the forefront of her mind like some kind of banner. Her father could reconsider. If she told him the full tale about Montague, Father might feel guilty for pushing the match and listen to reason about Ethan. Ironic that Montague might have done her a favor—not that she would send him a thank-you note anytime soon.
There might be hope. Father could change his mind. Ethan might forgive her if they were alone long enough for her to apologize and explain. The second day in a traveling coach packed to capacity was hardly the time or place for a private conversation.
Without letting herself overthink it, she held her hand out to Ethan, resting palm up on the seat between them. Bless him, he didn’t ask for an explanation, just intertwined his fingers with hers, then went back to staring out the window. That he allowed her to touch him again sent hope barreling through her veins.
His hand was her tether as she wandered through tangled thoughts. The comfort of this simple contact with a specific person brought one word to mind. Love. The emotion of poets and stupid men who rode into battle—willing to die in the name of some fair maiden they probably had no right to in the first place. Love had destroyed more than one country. She prayed it wouldn’t destroy her too.
Her parents had been so in love they’d talked only to each other instead of their children. So in love they’d chosen to spend their days secluded in their rooms instead of following through on long-forgotten promises of picnics by the pond. The carriage passed through the familiar gates of Stanwick Manor and continued down the drive. Soon, the pond in question would be visible over the crest of the sloping lawn to their left.
Whatever Lottie’s own feelings, they bore no resemblance to the example provided by her parents. As she examined their relationship from the outside, given this new perspective on love, a tiny bud of happiness bloomed within the dark memories. Mother and Father were not perfect by any means, but they’d known love. Yes, their mistakes had shaped her childhood, but it was high time she took responsibility for the poor decisions she’d made, instead of laying them at her parents’ feet.
Ethan’s accusation the day before stung—that she chose money over him. The truth of it only made it worse, and she had to face that. Which left the question of what to do. Defying her father didn’t scare her as badly as it had mere days before. Marrying whomever she pleased and riding off into the sunset sounded better every moment.
Stanwick Manor came fully into view, with its comfortably predictable lines that never veered toward frivolous or decorative. Woodrest’s gargoyles, curves, and stained-glass windows appeared to have been designed by demented fairies in comparison.
She owed Ethan an explanation and apology, but they were mere moments from facing Father. Squeezing his hand, she faced him. “Please. I know there are things to say between us. But trust me one last time. Let’s talk to Father together. Present our case in person, like Aunt Agatha said. He might listen.”
“It’s about bloody time,” Agatha muttered. Darling clapped and bounced on the seat, but Lottie kept her gaze on the stone-faced man by her side. With a small nod, he squeezed her hand.
At last, the carriage drew to a stop before Stanwick Manor’s great double doors. Ethan stepped down, then held out a hand for Lottie.
It felt great to hold his hand again. The way his long fingers wrapped so entirely around hers never failed to make her feel safe. He tugged her closer. Smoke, sweat, and road dirt made her nose tingle. The poor man needed a bath even more than she did.
“Lass, we’re goin’ tae speak with your father. An’ then you and I will have a talk about that letter.”
* * *
He’d once told Lottie that her brain
