Licking a drop of ale from his lip, Ethan scanned the ceiling. She was up there somewhere, injured, but would be mad as a wet cat if he showed up to check on her. How had the doctor’s visit gone? It would take a physician with a steady hand to avoid a scar like the jagged silvery-white line on Ethan’s shoulder. For certain, her coachman needed a doctor who would try his damnedest to keep the leg intact. Unlike that drunkard who’d been there after Ethan’s accident. That hack had taken his friend and passenger Connor’s limb with no more thought than he’d give to carving a Christmas ham.
Although he’d made sure the rescue team brought her trunk to her room, the need to do more nagged at him. But then, many things about Lady Charlotte Wentworth lingered in his brain.
The memory of the first time he’d seen her hadn’t faded despite the years. One look at those dark eyes across a dance floor, and he’d proudly scribbled his new title on her dance card at every gathering after that. On several occasions during the following weeks, he’d brought flowers to her home during calling hours, like a proper suitor. But when they spoke outside the confines of a waltz, she lacked the fire he’d witnessed today. Little by little, that initial attraction waned, replaced by disillusionment.
The day after the prime minister was shot, there was that moment when she thanked him for getting her away from the hordes of people clogging the roads. Especially given their previous interactions, he would have expected her to be a shaken mess. Instead, she kept her head in the face of a dangerous mob and worked with him to get out of there. That cool determination made him think perhaps there was more to her. He hoped to peel back those layers and know her better, and his attraction flared back to life.
When he called on her the next day, her father put an end to Ethan’s intentions. The earl didn’t mince words. Ethan wasn’t good enough for the likes of her, and his advances weren’t welcomed by Lady Charlotte or her father. The earl called him a fortune hunter to his face—something for which he had no rebuttal. The bouquet he’d brought for Lady Charlotte that morning was much appreciated by the fruit seller on the corner.
If he gave her flowers now, she would probably try to shove them down his gullet.
“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you? Lord, you’re a case. If you could see your expression, you’d laugh.” Even drunk, Cal knew him too well. It wasn’t only Lady Charlotte in his head now, but the events of the past that haunted him.
The circle of lads he’d called friends had encouraged more foolishness, until that awful evening when he’d agreed to race, wanting to show off for his visiting clansman, Connor. They were drunk. Of course they were. That race and the subsequent accident had nearly killed Connor. All because of Ethan’s poor judgment. The same poor judgment that had destroyed Lady Charlotte’s Season. Shame wrapped around him with the memories, and Ethan sighed, accepting the emotion as his due. All he wanted to do was go enjoy his quiet room and read a book. “You’ve dipped a wee bit deep today, aye? Maybe you should go upstairs and rest before dinner.”
“Yes, I’m drunk. Drunkety-drunk-drunk. But at least I’m not pouting over a woman.” Cal stifled a belch behind a fist, broke wind, then giggled. The Drunk’s Trifecta.
Drunkety-drunk-drunk Cal spoke the truth.
Years ago Ethan had been a shallow arse, more concerned with Lady Charlotte’s bosom than with her brains, and too lazy to discover what was beneath her faux calm. Moments ago, those same breasts had been a topic of conversation, so perhaps he was a lost cause as a human being. These past five years of living like a monk might have been for naught, because he clearly hadn’t become a better person.
Rubbing his hands over his face, Ethan sighed. “Come along, Cal. Let’s pour you into your bed. Have a lie-down. Perhaps you’ll be sober enough by dinner.”
* * *
Patrick had awakened long enough for Darling to force one of the concoctions left by the doctor into him, then passed out again.
The warm coziness of Lottie’s bedroom had felt comfortable for only a short time after Lottie’s trunks arrived. With Darling at Patrick’s bedside, the solitude of Lottie’s room just felt empty. Noise, chaos, and watching her fellow travelers with a sense of anonymity sounded like the ideal distraction.
Alas, Dame Good Fortune didn’t smile on her tonight. There would be no anonymity. As soon as she entered the taproom, Lord Amesbury met her eyes over the rim of his glass, sparking a battle of wills to see who would look away first. Lottie’s cheeks warmed, but she held his gaze until reaching a small table, then coolly gave him her back. He could decide if she’d given him the cut direct. Hint—yes.
A movement caught her attention, and Lottie checked the reflection in the window. That distinctive silhouette stood out whether in a drawing room or a taproom. Especially in a drawing room. Here, with the dark wood-planked walls and floor, he appeared to lurk like a storybook giant in his cave. Or an ogre. And he was coming her way.
When they’d first met, he’d been friendly, admiring, even flirtatious. She distinctly remembered a conversation with Father about the young viscount, instigated by Amesbury’s heated gaze during their first waltz. Tonight, the weight of his inspection skittered across the back of her neck. The almost-forgotten memory of that dance came alive with ghostlike brushes on her waist and hand
