Page 57 of Any Rogue Will Do
Lord, that letter from Father needed to arrive soon. Putting pen to paper, she scratched out a response to Rogers’s letter.
While waiting for the ink to dry, Lottie stretched in the desk chair, pausing when her neck protested the position she’d held while writing and a tender area in her nether regions throbbed against the seat. Last night’s delicious activities meant sore muscles today. A ride on Dancer would help work out the kinks. Besides, pounding hooves on turf and feeling the wind whip her face were excellent stress relievers. Nothing said she couldn’t go out on her own later, but riding had become one of those activities she associated with Ethan. Yet another sign that she’d inadvertently stumbled into becoming part of a “we.”
A glance at the clock showed he might be arriving at Woodrest in about a half hour. The view out the window revealed no surprises. Late October meant gray weather. Ezra was a solid mount, and Ethan a brilliant rider. No need for her to worry. He’d get there in time. He had to. Thankfully, Connor was more than capable as a manager, steward, or whatever other title Ethan might call him. Connor would have handled the situation before now.
What had Connor called her? A distraction. She crossed her arms and tapped out a rhythm on her forearm with her fingers. Before Ethan left, he’d said something on his way out the door.I should have been there.What did he mean? Their engagement ball was last night. They’d agreed he’d stay in London until they heard from Father.
Or were they the words of a man who felt responsible—guilty that he hadn’t been there when tragedy struck home? The tapping of her fingers slowed, then stopped. Were they the words of a man who knew he’d failed his people because he’d prioritized her? Focused on their relationship, had they somehow become just like her parents and ignored the needs of the people who depended on him? Ethan had mentioned that Connor’s letters were full of calls to come home and deal with the brewery construction, reminding him of the need to be present for the large business enterprise he’d invested in. The feeling of being torn was real for Ethan, yet he’d chosen her. Over and over. Oh God, why hadn’t she seen it?
Tenant cottages could be burning right now—tenants like the Thatchers. Their livestock might suffer, crops from this harvest could go up in smoke, and if their lord hadn’t been in London chasing her, he might have been there to stop it. Or he could have caught it earlier.
Dread bloomed, shortening her breath. Connor had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t listened. All she’d cared about were those depressingly dark blue walls in that breakfast room.
Agatha’s voice cut into her spiraling thoughts. “Are you done, my dear? Madame Bouvier is expecting us soon. At this time of day traffic might be a snarl.”
“The modiste? I thought we were discussing wedding plans today.” Plans she really didn’t want to pursue given her worry over Ethan and Woodrest.
“We are. You can’t get married without a dress. Not just any dress will do. Your gown is the most important part of the wedding.”
“I’d think the bride and groom were the most important part.”
Agatha would not be deterred. “Your gown will set the standard for this Season’s weddings. We leave in ten minutes. Please try to keep up, love.” The subtle scent of expensive perfume lingered behind after her godmother.
“A dress. Thus, it begins.” Heaving a sigh, she tried to shove down the panic and concern over Ethan, Connor’s warning, and her father. Agatha wanted a gown, so they’d buy a gown. At least Madame Bouvier would offer tea for her trouble.
An hour later, Lottie wished for something stronger to drink than tea. They sat in the same parlor-style fitting room she’d entered months before, upon her arrival in London. Back then she’d worn a dress destined for the rag bin. Today Lottie was a beautiful example of a well-turned-out woman, dressed head to toe in Madame Bouvier’s designs. Her wedding gown would be a work of art.
“Beaded chiffon overlay or a lace overskirt? What do you think, Lottie?” Agatha held the two fabrics. Not waiting for Lottie’s answer, she turned to Madame Bouvier, who cradled the pale-blue silk they’d already chosen. “The chiffon, I think. But pearls, not beads. That much lace might look busy. We mustn’t overpower the bride, after all.”
If lace could outshine her, they had bigger issues to discuss, but Lottie held her tongue. Aunt Agatha was the arbiter of fashion, not her. If left to her own devices, Lottie would spend most of the day in breeches. Truth be told, while she loved the effect achieved by luxurious gowns, she missed the utilitarianism of her old dresses and work trousers. She’d never dream of sitting in the grass by a stream in the dress she wore now—or climbing a tree or chasing a lamb in a pen or any number of other activities that had once been her day-to-day life. She imagined how Ethan would respond to seeing her in breeches. Grass stains after that encounter would be a certainty, and they would both be happy afterward. She smiled into her teacup and sipped.
“The dress must show to advantage not only in the church but on canvas. Definitely pearls,” Aunt Agatha said.
“Canvas? What are you talking about?” Lottie nibbled a small cake, picking out the dried currants with her teeth to relish first.
“Your wedding portrait, of course. Had you forgotten? I’ve already sent a letter to the artist who painted your parents.”
The wedding portrait. Her mother’s family immortalized their brides and had for generations. It was sweet of Agatha to continue the tradition.
That painting of her mother hung in the library, where her father could see it all day. He conversed with that portrait as if her mother might step off the canvas at any moment and answer him. It was too good of a likeness for her tastes—it had hurt to look at the picture for a year after Mother’s death. The artist had captured her essence, right down to the bottomless love she’d held for the earl, shining from an eternally youthful face.
“Forgive me if I overstepped by commissioning the portrait. It’s what your mother would have done. She would be over the moon for you.” Agatha’s eyes shone until she blinked away the moisture with a sniff. “As her best friend, it is my duty and privilege to handle this affair as she would.”
The shards of grief surprised Lottie as they cut deep. Mother had condemned Ethan with the ferocity of a lioness after the Paper Doll debacle. Maybe she’d have come around these past few months and softened under Ethan’s apologetic charm. Maybe not. Now that she found herself planning a wedding to the man declared an enemy by her parents, her mother’s absence found new ways to hurt.
Silly, but she hadn’t thought of it before now. Lottie would walk down the aisle, and her mother wouldn’t be there. Emotions swelled until her chest felt ready to burst. The burning behind her eyes threatened tears that might never stop if the first one fell. The reality was that Mother would never have the opportunity to succumb to Ethan’s charm or hear his apology or appreciate what a decent man he’d grown to be. The burn of grief made it tempting to run away from the discomfort, run away from the nagging worry over her father’s reply, and definitely run away from the wedding planning. Everyone’s lives would settle back onto their previous courses.
Maybe then Ethan would focus on the brewery and never again fail to be present for the ones who depended on him. Shaking her head, Lottie shoved the thought aside.
Squeezing Agatha’s hand, Lottie grappled for composure. “Thank you for thinking of it. Pearls and chiffon it is.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dawn crept into her room in increments. First, the sound of birds through the small opening in her window. She’d lifted the sash to allow for fresh air sometime during the wee small hours, hoping the chill would clear her head. The yeasty scent of fresh bread from the kitchens followed the chirp of birdsong as a new day greeted the world. It would probably be a beautiful day. One of the last before winter took hold.
Lottie’s fingers clutched the edge of her blanket, as they had for the past countless hours. Sleep had been elusive. Grief was a funny thing. It lingered in places you didn’t expect, appeared in situations you hadn’t considered. She’d gone from the high of finally coming together with Ethan in bed, then kissing him goodbye when he raced home to fight a fire, to the reality of worrying over him and wondering if they’d be allowed to marry. Choosing a wedding gown while pretending all was well had been a challenge, but then grief ambushed her. Her mother should have been in that shop yesterday, deliberating between beads and pearls. It wasn’t fair.
The corners of her eyes were crusty from the dried tracks the tears had left on their way to her pillow. She’d cried as if feelings were liquid and if she could only pour them out, she’d once again be happy and clean. Instead, she was simply hollow.
