Page 8 of Any Rogue Will Do
She maintained eye contact while sipping from her tankard. “Thank you for your apology.”
For a moment the plump curves of her mouth distracted him. With her bottom lip wet with ale, he would bet his last farthing the brew tasted better when drunk from her lips.
This dangerous path his thoughts insisted on traveling could lead only to trouble. Apology delivered. What she chose to do with it was her business. When he stood, a whiff of tangy citrus followed him. There could be no other possible source for the fresh scent except her. She smelled like his favorite desserts. Lemon ice. Lemon tart. Lady Charlotte. Delicious.
Yes, he had to go—now, before he made a bigger arse of himself.
“Why do you even care? Why make amends now?” she asked as if the question had come as an afterthought.
“I tried tae call on you after…well, before. You’d left Town already. I have much tae answer for, and this was my first opportunity tae say I’m sorry.” He’d judged her harshly—and wrongly—years ago. The fact that within moments of her reentering his orbit she’d rekindled his interest made Ethan wonder if there might be something between them worth pursuing—assuming she ever stopped hating him.
On an impulse, Ethan brushed her cheek with a fingertip, needing one touch, however brief. All those years ago he couldn’t stay away, and he couldn’t seem to stay away now. Lady Charlotte jerked her head away. That was foolish of him. “I’m sorry. But I’m glad there’s more tae you than I realized, Princess.”
***
The next morning Lottie awoke to an eerie silence. No raindrops on the roof serenaded her. No splash of water hitting the windowpanes with gale-force winds invaded the sanctum of her bedchamber. The blustery storm had echoed her inner turmoil as she lay awake late into the night. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she tried to muster enthusiasm for another day at this inn. There would be no traveling until a carriage arrived for Patrick from home. She wouldn’t leave him alone, and Darling would probably revolt if she suggested such a thing. At least the weather would be a boon to a schedule that was already a disaster. Small comfort.
The first attempt at standing brought a groan. As a general rule, mornings were loathsome. Anyone who thought differently was touched in the head. With each step she discovered that the morning after a carriage accident was pure torture. Going through the motions of her morning ablutions, she had never been so grateful for simple garments in her life. Stockings, a shift, front-lacing stays, then a petticoat topped with another utilitarian gown.
Patrick’s room was three doors down, tucked in the corner of the inn. A knock received no answer, but it was early. Opening the door a crack, she spotted Darling, right where she’d expected her to be. Her maid dozed in a chair beside Patrick’s bed, their hands clasped in their sleep. Lottie smiled. Darling made a wonderful nurse. Patrick couldn’t be in better hands—figuratively or literally.
The picture they made—two former outcasts, comforting one another, warmed her heart. Darling had been the town’s fallen woman, trading her favors to survive after her husband’s death. Patrick had lived in the bottom of a bottle. Yet here they were, sober, happy, both respectably employed, even though Father would have kicked and screamed if he’d known about her hiring them at the time. Sometimes Father’s habit of hiding from the world worked to her advantage. By the time he realized what was happening, Darling and Patrick had started over and shown themselves to be model employees.
Easing the door closed, Lottie shuffled toward her room and the stairs beyond, covering a yawn with one hand. Heavens, it was early.
Lord Amesbury stepped into the hallway. They stared at one another for a moment. He’d slept across the hall from her all night. Odd that she hadn’t realized.
“Good morning. I’m checking the road conditions and having breakfast,” he said a bit too cheerfully given the hour.
Lottie blinked. She didn’t care what he did. She needed tea and food. In that order. Their conversation last night had kept her awake, so her natural instinct was to blame him for her exhaustion. To say as much would be telling, and the man didn’t need that kind of encouragement. Deciding what to do with him was something that could wait until she’d had tea and she had both eyes open.
In the narrow stairwell, his shoulders dominated the space. “Could you be any wider?” she grumbled. His answering laugh was a low rumble she felt in the air more than heard. Wouldn’t it be her luck that he was one of those awful people who were happy in the morning. The mind. It boggled.
The main taproom had filled with patrons and residents for the breakfast service. Through the window, the stable yard looked to be mucky but passable. A large portion of sky shone a bright, clear, beautiful blue that seemed to bully the soggy clouds into a retreat. Lottie searched the room for an unoccupied table, trying to ignore the obnoxiously perky man beside her. He hummed a tune and greeted the patrons. It was unnatural.
“One moment, Lady Charlotte.” Amesbury piled the dirty dishes from a narrow table near the wall onto the bar, then brushed a hand over the tabletop, sweeping crumbs to the floor. He held out a chair, waiting with a small smile on his lips.
She cocked her head, a bit puzzled at the casual gallantry. The highest-ranking man in the room had just done servant’s work to find her a seat. Clearly, Lord Amesbury wasn’t your run-of-the-mill aristocrat. But then, he wouldn’t be, would he? During dinner he’d mentioned that before the title he’d been a shepherd. Granted, the last time she’d been in London, the details surrounding his inheritance hadn’t been her focus, but she remembered his reception had been mixed.
A maid trotted by with her hands full of plates. “Tea please?” Lottie called. The servant answered with a cheerful smile. As she took her seat, Amesbury pushed the chair into place beneath her like a footman at a dinner party, then sat down across the table.
Lord Amesbury’s hair, damp from his morning wash, curled about his head, with one lock falling almost into his eye. She had to clench her hands to stop from brushing it off his forehead. It clearly didn’t annoy him as much as it did her, but really—he needed to push that curl out of his face, and she needed tea before her head exploded from dealing with people this early.
When the maid returned with a pot of magical dark brew, Lottie nearly wept in gratitude. After pouring the drink into an earthenware mug, she added sugar and blew on the surface before taking her first sip.
“If you don’ mind, I’ll take a cup—”
Lottie cut him off by holding one finger in the air. She mutely filled another mug, nudged it his way, then raised the finger again to signal silence.
Tea. She needed tea.
He laughed at her. Not a big belly laugh, but a muffled sort of snort he didn’t even try to hide.
When she added sugar to her second cup, he asked, “Is it safe tae speak now?”
“I don’t know. Will you continue to be unreasonably chipper?” His responding grin made no promises, so she ignored him and refocused on the tea.
Lottie always loved the second cup more. It was the perfect temperature to drink straightaway, without waiting. The first cup gave her life, but the second was pure gratuitous indulgence. Amesbury’s apology last night may have stolen her sleep, but she’d be damned if he stole her tea bliss too.
