Page 11 of Any Rogue Will Do
Inside the home, carved woodwork framed brilliant silk-covered walls, making each room colorful and opulent. In her bedroom, a canopied bed dominated one wall. It would be hard not to be content here.
“I apologize for the uninspiring view of the stonework on the house across the way. But let us count our blessings. We have a corner lot, and any space in Town is precious.” Agatha parted the drapes, letting natural light flood the bedroom.
“This layer of sheer curtains for privacy is rather ingenious.” Lottie fingered the delicate cream fabric. “The effect is so welcoming with the sun lending a glow to the blue walls.”
Agatha smiled, but looked a bit weary. “Without them you could see right into the house next door. Lord knows what things you might witness when looking in the windows of Lord Carlyle’s home. Do you remember him? He is quite fashionable despite his reprobate father’s reputation.”
“I can only imagine the kinds of bachelor goings-on.” Lottie peered out the window just in case there was something to see. A few dark windows reflected the pattern of Aunt Agatha’s stone walls. “Lord Carlyle was at the inn too. In fact, after the accident, he made certain of my comfort. He seemed an affable fellow.”
“How remarkable. A handsome, eligible bachelor, right next door, with whom you experienced a harrowing journey.” Agatha raised a brow.
Instead of pondering their charming neighbor, Lottie’s mind wandered to the dark-haired friend of the eligible bachelor in question. The fickle one who apologized oh so neatly and had touched her cheek at dinner. That path of skin tingled at the memory.
She should have bitten his finger.
“Lord Carlyle is not the man for me. Whoever I marry cannot be prettier than I am. My ego won’t allow it.” She mustered a grin for Agatha’s sake. Carlyle’s appeal wasn’t in question. Being so blasted cheerful, he would make a congenial spouse to anyone. The man could probably make friends with a wall if he tried. But she wasn’t on the lookout for a love match, and good-natured Lord Carlyle deserved a real wife.
Lottie tested the thickness of the pillow on the padded seat. It would be perfect for drizzly autumn days with a book. Those would come soon, followed by winter winds that whipped down streets and through corridors of buildings. With any luck she’d be gone before then. “Thank you, again. I don’t think I could do this without you.”
Agatha leaned on her cane in a way that made Lottie wonder if her larger-than-life godmother’s age was starting to have effects other than simply wrinkles in her skin. “To be honest, child, having a companion will be a joy. The years are exhausting and not as enjoyable without a similar mind with which to pass the time. I miss my Alfred.” Her wistful sigh told its own story. “That man laughed at anything. I could not have asked for a better friend to spend the last forty years with. We shall do our best to find you a loving marriage as well.”
Lottie shifted. In her experience, love meant ignoring everyone else around you—even your children—in favor of one person. Her father was proof that even in death the damage didn’t end. He’d spent years grieving, to the detriment of everyone who relied on him. She had no interest in opening herself to that kind of pain. “My reasons for needing a husband are practical, not emotional.”
Agatha appraised her with the direct intensity of a woman who knew she could say anything. Choosing to embrace tact, she changed the subject. “I am happy you are here now. It has been too long. Over the years, I hoped to see you at other events, if not the Season. When your friends married, I expected you would attend the weddings, yet you remained in the country.”
“Those friendships have died off. I don’t know if I’ll see any of my old acquaintances while here, but if I do, it will no doubt be awkward. They’re married, and here I am still hunting for a husband to suit my needs.” At her age, most women donned a cap and settled into life with cats for company. Come to think of it, she would enjoy a cat. It would be a good companion, since she had no intention of keeping a husband nearby for entertainment.
“And what needs are those?” Perched on the window seat in her black dress, Agatha eyed Lottie with interest, like a crow spotting a shiny object.
“The man I marry will be content to stay in London with his cronies and clubs and leave the management of the estate to me. Then, finally, I can work on buildingmyfuture withmydowry. That money is rightfully—if not lawfully—mine. An apathetic spouse shouldn’t be hard to find with a dowry that’s nothing short of vulgar.”
The silence stretched between them until Agatha finally said, “I trust you will not mind if I hope your plan fails spectacularly.” Ah, there was the blunt Agatha she knew and loved. “There is no better gift in this world than to have a marriage based on affection and love. To that end, tomorrow we visit Madame Bouvier. Now that you’re in Town, we must at least try to make you look as if you have not been traipsing through a cow field.”
Chapter Six
Ethan spent a week at his estate, buried under the duties and responsibilities it took to keep Woodrest running smoothly. Account books needed updating, the hops required inspection after wet weather swept through the region, and plans for his new business enterprise were coming to a satisfying conclusion.
Joseph, the local pub’s landlord, had the idea to create a beer using Woodrest’s hops. From there, the concept had grown. A separate brewery would mean more jobs for the town, making a name for Woodrest, as well as opportunities to sell in London and the surrounding areas. The town would have a source of income and the ability to thrive outside the largesse of whomever the current viscount happened to be.
Woodrest and the tenants had lived with strict economies while he built the estate back into a profitable property. Years working the fields and tending livestock as a commoner had served him well, since it had taken the same hard work and skills to bring the estate back to health. Little by little, Woodrest began to see profits. Those precious funds were barely enough to split—with half invested in the Exchange, under the advisement of Cal’s Midas touch, and the other half poured back into the estate. The brewery was a fresh start but also a risk he was sinking most of his money into. If it worked—and it had to work—the town would thrive, the estate would benefit, and he’d have made a difference for the better. If it failed…well. Best not think on that for too long.
This was everything he’d worked for since inheriting. It also meant ironing out mind-numbing contractual details, hiring laborers, and doing backbreaking work to clear the land for a new building.
Even with all that on his plate, the days since leaving the inn had consisted of near-constant thoughts of Lady Charlotte. He’d left her at that breakfast table at the Boar and Hound, yet she followed him everywhere, even into his sleep.
After the fifth night of bizarre dreams, Ethan would have volunteered to single-handedly construct the brewery if it meant working himself to the point of being able to sleep. If the dreams had all been erotic, he’d have had no complaints. But he wasn’t that lucky.
The first night’s dream starred Lady Charlotte, blooming with passion, as he filled his hands with every delicious inch of her. He’d gasped her name as he awoke, hard and needy. The next night, his carriage accident with Connor played on repeat. The dream had him stuck on the side of the road, holding his broken friend, while his da looked on disapprovingly and his mum wailed to the skies, asking how she’d failed as a mother.
Those two extreme dreamscapes mingled into a messy, angst-ridden nightly disaster he had to live through over and over. A week of this meant he slogged through the days foggy and cranky with exhaustion.
After dinner he fell asleep by the fireplace with a book open on his lap. In this dream, his teeth explored the delicate skin on Lady Charlotte’s tanned neck with light nips, then soothing openmouthed kisses. Thready breaths feathered against his ears while busy hands roamed his back. Ethan raised his head, needing to see her eyes half-lidded with desire, but instead saw the black toe of an evening shoe beside her hair. And above that, a white stocking with silk knee breeches. Then other people surrounded them, his dead cousin’s cronies hiding their laughing faces behind masquerade dominoes. One man’s mask became the sneering face of Charlotte’s father, chastising her for debasing herself with an upstart Scotsman who smelled of damp sheep. In his arms, Charlotte drew away, with an expression to match her father’s.
The man beside the earl, leading the mocking crowd, could be easily recognized by the bleeding, empty pant leg that hung useless and tattered beside his other healthy limb.
“Lord Amesbury. Milord? Get up, Ethan. You’ll wake the maids with your caterwauling.”
“Connor?” Ethan winced against a bright lantern shining in his face.
