whispered. The sun was hot and the noise roared in Lottie’s ears but she was aware of nothing but Ethan’s lips on hers and the strength in his arms as he held her.
“There,” he murmured as he released her. “That was not so bad, was it?”
Not bad at all, Lottie thought. She felt hot and confused and dizzy. Somewhere along the way she had definitely misplaced her town bronze. She smoothed her gown, intent on covering quite how much that brief kiss had affected her.
“Ethan!”
Up until that moment, no one had addressed or even acknowledged them. It had been uncomfortable but hardly unexpected. Now Lottie looked around to see that a tall man on a bay stallion had drawn alongside the phaeton. His presence was causing almost as much excitement as the fact that he had stopped to speak with them.
“I apologize for interrupting you,” the man said, smiling broadly, “but I felt I had to make my presence known before you vanished beneath a tide of disapproval. How are you, Ethan?”
“Northesk.” Ethan drew rein and leaned over to shake hands with the newcomer. “I didn’t know you were back in London,” he added in a slightly mocking tone. “I thought you had settled abroad for good.”
The other man smiled. “I heard that you were in England so I made a particular effort to return.” He laughed and Ethan laughed, too, and embraced him. The crowd of onlookers murmured with surprise.
Ethan turned to Lottie, who was almost expiring with curiosity now. She knew that the Marquess of Northesk was the heir to the Duke of Farne and therefore Ethan’s half brother. She had never met the Marquess in society because he had been in exile for the best part of ten years, banished abroad after a shocking duel with his wife’s lover. It was interesting, she thought, that there was at least one member of his family with whom Ethan was evidently on good terms and looking at them now she could see a faint family resemblance. Ethan was very dark, where Northesk had auburn hair as rich and red as a fox’s pelt. Ethan’s eyes were vivid blue, where Northesk’s were deep brown. The real resemblance, she thought, lay deeper than in coloring. It was in their bone structure, their gestures, in the slant of a head or the movement of a hand that was almost a mirror image. It was odd seeing together the Duke of Farne’s offspring down the right and the wrong side of the blanket.
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