June 1820
Ethan winced, pitying the young man who’d just stepped on Emma’s foot in the middle of the ballroom. Spinning Lottie through the steps of a waltz to sidestep around the couple, Ethan held his wife close enough to garner a few censorious glances from the matrons off the dance floor.
“Poor lad. Not likely that he’ll get a second chance to impress her,” Lottie said.
Cal had claimed more than once that his sister’s preference for rogues would be the end of his sanity. Most mornings he and Lottie listened to Cal lament his sister’s suitors over breakfast, since they were conveniently located next door.
They’d leased the town house next to Cal’s for the Season while Ethan attended to his duties in the House of Lords. Parliament had been in session since the king’s death in January, and the government was busy preparing Prinny to take the throne. Ethan’s and Lottie’s weeks were full, split between Kent and the brewery, which was preparing its first batch of ale, and London duties.
The music came to an end with a trill of a flute and the gentle swish of silk skirts on the ballroom floor. Couples left the formation, and new ones took their place for the next dance.
Ethan tucked Lottie’s hand into the crook of his elbow. “How long until we can leave, do you think?”
“We promised we’d stay for a few hours. Lord knows Cal might need to find you and do that wild-eyed panic routine if Lord Roxbury dances with Emma twice. Although I suppose Dawson could let Cal in later, should he stop by.” Lottie had been thrilled that Dawson was still part of the staff in residence with the house, and yesterday she’d finally convinced the older man to move to Woodrest with them at the end of the Season.
The combination of Dawson and Connor would certainly make things interesting. Ethan had every confidence they would figure out a way to coexist, the same way Connor and Lottie had navigated their way to acceptance and mutual respect. It hadn’t taken long for his clansman to develop an appreciation for Lottie’s willingness to jump into the hard work of the estate.
Nodding to acquaintances, Ethan and Lottie headed for the refreshment table. Lady Agatha turned from her friends and greeted them with a wide smile. “Good evening, my darlings. Are you enjoying yourselves? No, of course not. Amesbury, you look like you are on your way to the gallows. Try not to scare the debutantes. Lottie, are we still leaving at noon tomorrow?”
His wife kissed her godmother’s cheek. “Yes, Auntie. I’ll come for you in the carriage at noon. Connor is expecting us by teatime.”
Lady Agatha’s regular visits had helped warm Lottie to Connor’s good graces. Connor adored the older woman, needling her with shameless flirting—which she met with a half-hearted reprimand and a twinkle in her eye.
It wasn’t chance that Agatha had been in residence at Woodrest when Lottie’s father visited a few months ago. Tensions remained there, but Ethan was hopeful that with time the relationship between his wife and her father would heal. The earl did gift them with her dowry, although Lottie declined an additional property. She claimed her new home kept her plenty busy—especially now that she was helping Patrick and Darling establish a small horse-breeding operation on a corner of Woodrest’s acreage.
They sipped glasses of champagne and surveyed the crush in the ballroom. Ethan turned to his wife. “What do you say tae finding the balcony and taking in some fresh air, love?”
Lottie leaned close and whispered, “I know you and balconies, and I doubt you’d fit under the skirts of this gown. Fancy a trip to the library instead?” She pressed her body against his side, sending his blood heating in anticipation.
Ethan drained the champagne in one gulp, set the glass aside, and offered his hand. “Library it is, Princess. We both know how much I love a woman who reads.”
Acknowledgments
I’d never thought of writing as a team sport, but so many people proved me wrong in the best ways.
My incredible husband, Ben, who makes being a writer’s widower look hot as hell and accepts discussions about my characters as if they were real people. Every hero has pieces of you.
The Let’s Get Critical group, who have poured the drinks to both console and celebrate. Daphne Chase, Catherine Stein, Emmaline Warden, Rosie Danan, Marielle Browne, and Cheryl Tapper: you ladies rock my socks. I love all your words (unless they’re anachronistic or make me twitch or…).
Abigail Croyle was a priceless resource when I needed to not quite kill a dude in 1819 England. Thank you for being my herb Google.
The best agent in the universe, Rebecca Strauss—thank you for believing in my imaginary friends. I’d love to say the late-night random emails will stop now, but we both know that’s unlikely.
And finally, to Madeleine Colavita and the team at Forever. You guys took my words and somehow made an honest-to-jeebus book out of them. Pure frickin’ magic. Thank you.
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About the Author
Bethany Bennett grew up in a small fishing village in Alaska where required life skills included cold-water survival, along with several other subjects that are utterly useless as a romance writer. Eventually settling in the Northwest with her real-life hero and two children, she enjoys mountain views from the comfort of her sofa, wearing a tremendous amount of flannel, and drinking
