He tugged at the lapels of his coat and assured himself that it did not matter. Even if he decided to use Red—he’d forgotten her actual name—in his plot to thwart his uncle, it shouldn’t matter that he’d just humiliated himself and disgusted her. She’d pretend he was dashing and wonderful even though she was likely repulsed. And he’d play the attentive beau for a bit while he needed her.
The plan took shape in his mind. He’d introduce her to his uncle, claim to wish to marry the girl. They’d court, and then, when he showed his rakish ways, allow her to end the charade. He’d not ruin her entire future. In fact, she’d be sought-after from his attention. They’d both leave the relationship in a better position.
But by then, his birthday would have passed, and he’d be on his way to building his own fortune, his father’s all spent.
If his uncle realized the state of the finances before that….He’d be liable to seize control all the assets.
Ethan shifted. The beauty of courting a woman so far from London was that he’d only need to see her occasionally, and at least she was lovely to look at while he needed to be here. Plan made, he sat back, content to rest for the remainder of the journey, which ended a few short minutes later when the carriage stopped again.
He groaned as he climbed out and Lord Rushton Smith stepped out his front door.
“Nice place you got here.” Ethan gave his business partner a grin as he stepped from the carriage. “How’s the new wife?”
Rush quirked a half smile as he trotted down the stairs, taking Ethan’s hand. “She’s a fair sight better than you. Somersworth, you look like shit and you smell worse.”
“Do I?” Was it the vomit or the alcohol likely seeping through his skin? He gave himself a sniff. Hard to say…
“What are you doing out here in the country? I pictured you as a city fellow.”
He was. Very much so. “Your brother sent me.”
“Which one?” Rush asked, frowning.
“Gris.” A gin maker—the man had just gotten married, and he’d asked Ethan to make this journey to check on Rush and his new bride. A common enemy had attacked Gris in London and the other Smith wanted to be certain that his brother was safe.
“Why?” Rush’s frown turned black. The Smith men were fiercely protective of their family.
Ethan sighed. It was a long story and he was damned tired. “Nothing so pressing that it can’t wait an hour. Can I eat before I tell you all of it?”
Rush’s brows drew together and his frowning gaze swept down Ethan. “You’re not coming into my house like that.”
He gave himself another sniff. “You’re not going to make me bathe in the river, are you? It’s too bloody cold for that.”
Rush waved him forward, calling to a footman, “Bring his trunk to the stables.”
“The stables?”
“The stables. Even my horses smell better than you.”
A quarter hour later, he’d been stripped to the waist, buckets of partially heated though still frigid water pouring over his head.
His body came alive, more of the hangover clearing as Rush handed him soap. “I’ve got another bucket warming for you to rinse with.”
“You Smiths sure know how to show a man a good time,” Ethan answered, dutifully scrubbing his skin and hair. Rush and his brothers were pivotal to Ethan’s plan and so he’d bathe in the stable if he had to. Hell, he’d likely have jumped in the river, despite the near-freezing January temperatures.
“A good time. Is that what you’re here for?” Rush asked, grabbing the brush they used to wash the horses and dipping it into the bucket of warming water, his gaze menacing.
“You’re not going to wash me down like your gelding, are you?”
“Perhaps,” Rush answered, lifting the soaking brush. “You still stink.”
He grunted, wondering what Red thought of him. It didn’t matter, he knew it didn’t, but still…some part of him balked to know that she likely found him repulsive. “I met your neighbors. The viscount and viscountess. They had with them the most adorable auburn-haired—”
The brush slammed into his chest with a force that nearly knocked him over. “Don’t,” Rush gritted out as he thumped him with the brush again.
He yanked the brush from Rush’s hand, tossing it to the ground. This was not the first time that a man close to him had forbidden him to date his sister, friend, or neighbor. In fact, it happened with striking regularity.
He ought to point out that her uncle had been salivating for Ethan to attend dinner, but he knew that had nothing to do with him. That was the title. The people who truly knew him—his friends, his business partners—they did not want him anywhere near women they cared about. Hell, his best friend in the world, Baron Boxby, had forbidden Ethan from going anywhere near his sister, and that had hurt. “The viscount invited me to dinner.”
“Don’t go.” Rush stepped up to him, his chest expanding. His fierce eyes held Ethan’s in a way that might intimidate a lesser man.
“I have only good intentions at heart,” he lied. Partially. “I plan to marry.” He hated himself a bit more for those words. But they were necessary. He’d leave Red better than he’d found her, in any regard.
Rush gave him a long, suspicious glare before he turned back, grabbed the second bucket, and dumped it over Ethan’s head.
And then he tossed him a blanket to dry with.
“That is surprising. You with good intentions. Tell me why Gris sent you and then maybe I’ll believe you.”
Ethan sighed. He supposed it was too much to ask to eat first. “The short version: You know a baby landed on Gris’s doorstep. And that he hired a nanny with Triston’s help.”
“I didn’t know the second part,” Rush said with a grunt.
“Oh. Well. He did. Lovely lady, the nanny. He’s marrying her and keeping the baby. But amidst the courtship, the man who has been attacking our clubs, Gyla, attacked your childhood home—”
“What!” Rush roared.
Ethan shook his head. None of the Smiths had much in the way of tact or patience.
“Your brother thinks he shot Gyla, so there is that. But Upton is keeping Gris safe while watching the clubs and I was sent out here to help you.”
“You?” Rush looked him up and down.
He didn’t need to sound so insulting. “Yes. Me.” Why did no one trust him?
The next night, Natalie sat across the table from the Earl of Somersworth, relieved that he looked a bit more neatly kept this evening. His hair was pushed back, his skin less sallow. His gaze was a bit blurry, but still, he gave her an easy smile as he took a sip of his wine. She didn’t smile back.
“Natalie,” her mother said from the end of the table, “you must play the pianoforte after dinner.”
She dipped her chin in agreement without speaking a word. She was quiet by nature, and her mother was doing plenty of talking.
“She’s a lovely dancer as well, my lord. It’s a shame Emma’s not here to play so that you and Natalie might dance.”
“Shame,” Somersworth murmured in agreement, his growing smile only partially masked by his glass.