Page 33 of Any Rogue Will Do
Amesbury stilled beside her. “I see him. You’re more than capable of handling him. But I’d like tae stay close.”
Lottie hugged his arm as an answer. Moving away from Montague, they greeted acquaintances, sipped champagne, and fielded the questions underlying each innocuous exchange. People smiled and laughed in a friendly way while hissed conversations swelled in their wake all around the room.
“I thought Montague signed contracts with her father…”
“Did poor Mr. Montague realize she was considering MacBrute?”
Several women looked her way with envious stares. Lottie couldn’t say she blamed them. The sharp, simple lines of an evening coat suited her escort’s frame. The muscles bunching and releasing in his thighs showed through the fabric of his pantaloons. So many men needed padding to enhance their figures. When faced with the real thing, one tended to stare.
Amesbury tapped her hand, then flicked his finger toward the doorway. Mr. Montague approached them. High collar points framed an elaborate cravat of snowy linen, from which a gem winked in the candlelight. The man who’d pushed himself on her resembled a fairy-tale prince except for the faint bruising under his eyes. Whether from too many late nights or the blow to the face she’d delivered, Lottie didn’t know. With every step he took toward them, her mind screamed for her to run, while her feet froze in place as if she’d grown roots.
“Lady Charlotte.” Montague bowed over her hand. When he attempted to turn her wrist up for a kiss in his customary greeting, she jerked her hand away.
“Mr. Montague.” Ice crystals should have formed in nearby champagne flutes from her tone.
“You used to call me James. I suppose such intimacies aren’t appropriate now.” His eyes turned glassy, as if on the verge of tears. What a handy trick, to summon tears on cue.
Amesbury stood as a quiet pillar of support next to her.
“I wish you nothing but happiness, of course, pet.” Montague grabbed her hand again. She tugged, but he held firm, increasing the pressure of his grip with brutal force.
“Release me at once, sir.” The quiver in Lottie’s voice betrayed her, but with any luck no one would notice. She dug the tips of her fingers into Amesbury’s arm in a silent cry for help.
Montague ignored the demand and smirked at Amesbury. “When you marry, what shall we call her? Lady Amesbury or Lady MacBrute?”
Amesbury covered Montague’s wrist, his fingers easily encircling the bone, as well as part of his forearm. “I don’ care what you call me. However, you’ll listen tae the lady and release her now.”
At last, Montague let her go. As blood rushed back to her fingers, she swallowed a gasp. Goodness, that hurt. Refusing to let him see her pain, she raised her chin and channeled every lesson in decorum Mother had pounded into her brain. “Goodbye, Mr. Montague. I see no reason to speak again.”
Anyone watching would think the whispers didn’t matter as she and Amesbury made their way into the next room.
***
Ethan couldn’t get them away from that smug golden bastard fast enough.
“Where are we going?” Lottie trotted to keep up with his long strides.
“Someplace private. If such a place exists in this house.” A corner by the back windows looked appealing. One wall sconce illuminated the small nook, and a potted plant of some kind hid them from the rest of the guests. “Take off your glove, please.”
The “please” was a formality. Ethan would not be swayed in this. Lady Charlotte pulled her glove off carefully, wincing now that they were away from prying eyes. Her hand was already swelling at the knuckles, discoloring in places. Ethan cursed low, keeping his fingers gentle while examining the damage.
“I only understood half of what you said just now. Did you know your accent gets heavier when you’re upset? The ‘sheep-loving son of a whore’ reference is self-explanatory. But what is a ‘feartie’?”
“‘Feartie’ means ‘coward.’ The least offensive thing I called him, I think. Apologies. I shouldn’ speak like that in front of a lady.”
“Oh, pish. I don’t mind your language one bit. I even learned something,” she joked, then gasped when he tried to put her fingers through their full range of motion.
“He hurt you, lass. I want tae rattle his skull.”
“When I tried to remove my hand, he squeezed harder. Thank you for intervening.” She grimaced at the blooming bruises. “At least my glove will hide it.”
“Lass, one day I hope you’ll tell me what happened between you, so I can determine exactly how bad a thrashing he needs. No one should hurt a woman. Ever.”
Her smile was a bittersweet thing. “Thank you for the sentiment, Lord Amesbury. Actually, may I call you Amesbury? We are engaged, after all. And friends. Perhaps we can drop the formality.”
“Call me Mac. Everyone does.”
“I most certainly will not.” A glance at her face confirmed he’d somehow misstepped. “That’s the name everyone gave you because thetoncouldn’t be bothered to call you by your proper title. Your name isnotMac or MacBrute or any variation thereof.”
