Lottie stared for a moment.
“I prefer to stand,” she said.
It was truth. She liked that he had to look up at her.
“Your reticence is only to be expected.” His smile turned uncertain at the edges.
He touched his pocket-watch which rested beside him on the counterpane.
“I . . . I owe ye an apology, Lady Charlotte. I . . .” He trailed off.
The fire popped.
He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair, setting it all askew.
“You . . . ,” she prompted.
He cleared his throat.
“I . . . behaved like a . . . bumbling,glaikitoaf,” he said and then continued on, phrases spilling like a burst dam. “My sharp words were inexcusable. I assure ye there was no truth to them. Just my foul temper blowing hot air. I hope that with enough groveling on my part, ye will find it in your heart to forgive me.”
He said nothing more.
Lottie rocked back on her heels, her senses as startled as her equilibrium.
First, that he would apologize so promptly upon seeing her.
But, second, that he offered up no excuse. No litany of reasonswhyhe behaved as he did.
The laudanum addled my wits.
I was struggling to adapt to new circumstances.
Both reasons were true.
He said none of it.
He accepted that he had done wrong and asked for her forgiveness.
No excuses.
How very . . . mature of him.
Lottie was, in a word,astonished.
And what did it say about the men in her life when a heartfelt apology felt like an earthquake?
“Apology accepted, Dr. Whitaker.”
They stared at one another, as if the ceasefire had been brokered, but now neither army knew what to do.
Lottie nodded her head and then pivoted, intent on the door.
“I read your commentary.” His words stopped her.
She looked back at him.
“Pardon?”
