Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

L ottie had bedded the Duke of Brandon.

No, that wasn’t true. Not precisely. Rather, she had rutted with him on his study desk like a common doxy. After which, she finally had gathered her wits and slid from the waterlogged correspondence-strewn surface, shaking her skirts back into order. They had fallen around her, perfectly in place, yet hopelessly wrinkled from their frantic coupling.

“Thank you for tending to my hands, Your Grace,” she had managed. “Good day.”

“Lottie,” he had called after her, tucking his spent cock back into his trousers.

She had ignored him and fled, of course. Because when he had been holding her in the aftermath, she’d known a moment of tenderness for him. A moment of contentedness that did not belong between two lovers with no future together. And it had terrified her.

That had been mere hours ago, but it may as well have been a lifetime. Now, Lottie stood on the periphery of the ballroom floor, watching Brandon dancing with a young debutante who was perfect for him in every way—eighteen, golden-haired, beautiful, and innocent. Everything Lottie was not.

“Are you attending me, Lottie?”

Her friend’s voice jolted her from her disquieting reveries. She turned away from the ballroom crush and the sight of Brandon smiling down at the lovely Lady Lavinia Westermere and tamped down all hints of jealousy she had no right to feel.

“Of course I am, Rosamund, darling,” she chirped with feigned brightness.

But her dear friend was not so easily convinced.

“What did I say?” Rosamund asked, pinning Lottie with a shrewd look.

Lottie bit her lip, trying to recall any hints of conversation flitting about in her mind. But all she could think about was the moment she’d spied Brandon across the ballroom with Lady Lavinia in her pale-pink silk gown. Watching the two of them spin together had caused a physical ache deep within her.

“Was it something about Megs?” she guessed weakly.

Rosamund arched a winged brow. “No.”

“The Duke of Camden?”

“Not in this instance.”

Blast.

“The ballroom being a crush?” she tried next.

“What I said was that you certainly do seem preoccupied with the Duke of Brandon and his dance partners this evening,” Rosamund said pointedly.

She’d been caught. Heat crept up her throat.

“Is he in attendance? I hadn’t noticed.” She shrugged one shoulder, feigning indifference.

“You needn’t try to fool me, you know,” her friend said conspiratorially. “Something is going on between the two of you.”

“Whatever it was, it’s passed,” she muttered, trying to keep her gaze from seeking him out again and failing miserably.

He was one of the tallest gentlemen in attendance, which made him easy to spy. Curse the man. What a dashing figure he cut, far more handsome than any man had a right to be. Her heart pounded as she thought about him on the floor before her, on his knees, his tongue and mouth doing wicked, delicious things. His reputation as London’s greatest lover hadn’t been wrong. She simply hadn’t expected to receive that confirmation on his study desk when she was dusty and disheveled from a fall in Hyde Park.

“Then why are you staring at him?” Rosamund asked.

Lottie’s ears went hot, and she forced her eyes back to her friend, who looked resplendent herself in a becoming purple silk evening gown. “I wasn’t staring at him. I was…taking note of how poorly he dances.”

Another lie, but she didn’t want to confess the raw truth to Rosamund here in the midst of the ballroom, that she had been as intimate as a man and woman could be with the Duke of Brandon earlier that afternoon, and that they were now in attendance at the same fête, avoiding each other as if they were strangers.

Which was how it ought to be. How she wanted it to be, she reminded herself sternly.

Brandon glided expertly through another turn as Lottie and Rosamund watched.

Rosamund sent her a wry smile. “It looks as if he dances quite well to me.”

“To you and Lady Lavinia both,” she grumbled before she could help it.

“Are you jealous?”

Lottie flapped her fan wildly, making the fringe of curls artfully arranged on her forehead flutter. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rosamund. Why should I be jealous of Lady Lavinia Westermere? She’s a mere babe. Only look at her, fresh from the schoolroom. I’ve no doubt she scarcely knows anything at all.”

As the bitter words left her, Lottie realized just how very envious she sounded. Petty, as well. She heaved a sigh, disappointed in herself. She didn’t compete for a gentleman’s affections. Grenfell had been the last man she had shared, and she had vowed never to do so again.

“I do believe she is newly eighteen,” Rosamund agreed mildly. “If the Duke of Brandon is looking for a biddable young wife, Lady Lavinia would be an excellent choice.”

Yes, she would. Admittedly, Lottie had placed Lady Lavinia on her list of prospective brides for Brandon. But that had been before, when she had been secure in her belief that she would never be intimate with him herself. The notion of crossing out the debutante’s name was undeniably appealing now.

“Indeed.”

Oh, how the concession cost her pride. Lottie was not so very old, but compared to a young chit like Lavinia, she felt positively ancient. To say nothing of the trials her marriage had put her through.

“They do make a well-matched pair,” Rosamund continued thoughtfully. “His dark to her light, his height to her shorter stature.”

“You make them sound like horseflesh, my dear.”

“Finding a husband or a wife is scarcely any different,” her friend said. “Bloodlines are considered. Teeth must be examined, et cetera.”

Lottie laughed. “What a sight it would be, the Duke of Brandon inspecting Lady Lavinia’s teeth on the ballroom floor.”

It certainly would have improved her mood to see such a scene. It would have made her feel less… raw . She didn’t know why she should be affected so. She’d taken lovers before. But then, none of her past lovers had been interested in marriage. Their needs had been as clear and plain as hers. Pleasure, nothing more. Nothing permanent. No emotions involved—purely the physical.

Not that she had developed anything so foolish as feelings for the Duke of Brandon. Because she most assuredly hadn’t. It was merely that watching him with another woman who might become his wife and the mother of his children…well, it left her at sixes and sevens.

“We couldn’t be fortunate enough to have that much entertainment,” Rosamund said. “Balls are dreadfully dull affairs, are they not?”

“Quite tiresome,” she agreed, taking note of the way Brandon leaned nearer to his dancing partner, murmuring something in her ear.

Lady Lavinia laughed. She looked even comelier in the throes of her amusement. Lottie was sure the sound was as clear as tinkling church bells.

“Perhaps a glass of champagne would help,” Rosamund observed kindly. “You seem in need of distraction.”

Her friend caught the eye of a liveried servant passing with a tray of champagne glasses. The servant hastened in their direction. Lottie quickly snapped her fan closed and hung it from her wrist before snatching up some champagne. Rosamund accepted a glass as well, and the two of them drank in companionable silence for a few moments.

“I think I’m going to marry him, you know,” her friend said at last.

Lottie slanted a surprised look in her direction. “The Duke of Brandon? I do believe the champagne has gone right to your head, darling.”

Rosamund chuckled. “Not Brandon, you goose. Camden.”

Relief and shock warred with each other within her. “You’re going to marry the Duke of Camden? Truly?”

As the heiress to unimaginably vast sums, Rosamund would be best served—in Lottie’s opinion—to never marry and to keep her funds wholly under her own control, along with the rest of her life, regardless of how great her yearning for vengeance was.

“I do believe that I am, yes,” Rosamund acknowledged quietly.

Almost wistfully.

“What has so persuaded you?” Lottie wanted to know. “You are currently firmly in possession of the reins, my dear, in control of your fortune and all that comes with it. Why would you wish for your circumstances to change? And marrying a cad like the Duke of Camden? I don’t think the man has it in him to make a good husband.”

“That wouldn’t matter,” Rosamund said. “Not truly. It isn’t a husband I want, of course, and you know that. It’s revenge.”

She knew about the retribution her friend sought, and she well understood the reason for it. Women with broken hearts were forces to be reckoned with, and no one deserved to be meted his punishment more than Lord Wesley.

Lottie took another sip of her champagne. “Revenge at the expense of your freedom, however? Do you truly think it would be worth it, Rosamund? Would you chain yourself to Camden just to spite his brother?”

“He destroyed me, Lottie,” her friend said, her voice low but laden with emotion. “And I understand Lord Wesley all too well. It will eat him alive to know that his brother has married the fortune he once coveted for himself.”

Lottie noted that Rosamund spoke of her inheritance and not herself.

“You are worth far more than your money,” she told her friend staunchly. “Surely you know that.”

“I don’t know that. For the entirety of my life, I’ve been the Payne heiress. Men look at me and see a fat golden cow to milk. That is how it has always been, and that is how it shall always be. Camden is no different, but at least he was honest about what he wanted.”

The sadness in Rosamund’s voice made her heart clench. “You are beautiful, clever, witty, and amusing. To the devil with any man who cannot see that.”

“I am plain, of moderate intelligence, and eccentric. Even I know my faults, though I do thank you for your loyalty.”

“I love you dearly, Rosamund, which is why I must tell you that you are wrong.”

“We shall agree to disagree,” her friend said, raising her brows. “We’re about to have company.”

“Company?” Frowning, she followed Rosamund’s gaze, startled to realize that the dance had finally come to an end, the Duke of Brandon having separated from Lady Lavinia.

And he was striding in their direction. Her foolish body’s reaction to his powerful form was instant and nettlesome.

“Why is he coming over here?” she muttered to Rosamund.

“He looks as if he’s quite intent upon you,” Rosamund said sotto voce , no help at all.

“Is it too late to hide?”

“I’m afraid so,” her friend said as Brandon reached them.

“Lady Grenfell, Miss Payne.” He bowed, and somehow even the ordinary, polite act was rendered indecently sensual. But then he held her gaze with his emerald-green one and spoke, shocking her even further than his presence before her already had.

“I believe this is my dance, Lady Grenfell.”

Checkmate , Brandon thought smugly as he watched realization dawn in Lottie’s brilliant blue eyes.

It wasn’t his dance, of course. He hadn’t asked her. But he’d pinned her neatly in a difficult situation. She could either call him a liar before her friend or quietly accompany him.

“So it is,” she said at last with a marked lack of enthusiasm, offering him her hand.

He took it, bringing it to his lips for a lingering kiss, inhaling deeply, searching for hints of her scent. And there it was, violets and roses and Lottie, making his randy prick go instantly hard in the midst of a crush of people. It seemed an eternity had passed since those forbidden moments of passion this afternoon, and he remained as desperate for more of her as he’d ever been. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, guiding her toward the sea of dancers who were assembling for the next song.

“You need not look so enthused at the prospect of waltzing with me,” he told her wryly as they took up their positions opposite each other, making certain to hold her body closer to his than propriety called for.

“Why are you dancing with me?” she asked, unsmiling. “Surely there is another debutante eagerly waiting her turn with you. Lady Lavinia is an excellent choice for a bride, but there are others who are every bit as lovely.”

Hmm, so she had been watching him dance with Lady Lavinia, then. He didn’t miss the bitterness in her voice now, and he couldn’t say why, but it pleased him.

“Why would I not dance with you?” he countered, lacing their hands together as the waltz began.

What did she expect after what had happened today in his study? That he would simply never speak to her again? Clearly, she hadn’t thought he would approach her this evening. But how was he to stay away? He’d been able to think of nothing but her every second since he’d watched her flee his study in a swirl of dusty navy skirts.

“Because I am not a prospective bride,” she said through gritted teeth as she smiled at him. “And you are in dire need of one.”

“But I like you,” he countered smoothly, turning them with effortless precision.

An understatement. He more than liked the woman. It was reasonably possible that he worshiped her. His inconvenient preoccupation with shagging her was already growing tiresome.

She scoffed. “Not a sufficient reason.”

He leaned nearer, his lips close to her ear. “Perhaps I’ve been thinking of being inside you again ever since you left my study, and dancing with you is the closest I can find myself at the moment.”

Her swift inhalation was his reward. He’d hit his mark. She stumbled, nearly tripping on her hems. Brandon saved her, turning her about once more, unable to keep from grinning.

“Are you always this scandalous when you dance, Brandon?” she asked sharply, distinctly unamused.

“Only with you,” he told her easily, bewitched by the smattering of freckles on her nose.

“I cannot think Lady Lavinia would approve,” she said, holding herself stiffly, her gaze trained on a point over his shoulder.

“Since she is neither my wife nor my betrothed, her opinion doesn’t signify at the moment.”

Lady Lavinia, he had already decided, was not for him. She was pleasant enough. Pretty enough. Hailed from a fine enough family. She was even an excellent dance partner and witty conversationalist.

But he didn’t want to fuck her on a desk. He wasn’t obsessed with the color of her hair or the tilt of her lips or the sounds she made when she came.

Most of all, she hadn’t championed his daughter. Hadn’t caught a runaway mongrel to her own detriment. Hadn’t taken a cruel nursemaid to task.

She wasn’t Lottie.

“Truly, Brandon,” Lottie said, still frowning at the place beyond his shoulder. “It looked as if the two of you were thick as thieves. You needn’t prevaricate on my behalf. I know that what passed between us today was an aberration. You’re hardly my first lover, nor shall you be the last.”

He wasn’t sure if she meant that as a challenge, but he took it as one. He looked at her, stunning in the glow of the chandeliers, her fiery hair glinting with hints of spun gold, and was possessed by the sudden, fierce notion that he would be her last lover. To make it so. The emotion accompanying this tremendous realization confounded him. This time, Brandon nearly tripped, only catching himself at the last second before the two of them landed in an unceremonious heap.

But he would show none of this to her, for he knew instinctively that a woman as clever as the Countess of Grenfell must never be permitted the upper hand. She would be ruthless with it.

“An aberration,” he repeated. “Yes, of course. It shan’t happen again.”

“It cannot,” she insisted crisply.

“I was simply caught up in the passion of the moment.”

“It was a mistake.”

“A dreadful one.”

By this point, he had maneuvered them so that they were positioned near one of the doors leading to the hall. Without hesitation, he danced her over the threshold. He was familiar with the Earl of Abernathy’s town house, and he knew there was a convenient salon adjacent to the ballroom.

“Brandon, what are you doing?” Lottie asked him in hushed tones. “You’ve moved us into the hall.”

“Oh dear, have I? Allow me to rectify that.”

He spun them into the salon, closing the door behind them, and whirled again, so that her back was to the portal. She was flushed, her lips parted, eyes glistening.

“This isn’t the ballroom,” she said, breathless.

“Do you want to return?” He held his own breath, awaiting her answer.

So much hinged upon it.

The very world, it seemed.

“No,” Lottie told him, softly, quietly.

Lust arced through him, intense and potent. It didn’t matter that he’d had her this afternoon on his desk. If he didn’t slide inside her again within the next five minutes, he would combust like dry kindling.

He allowed himself the pleasure of drinking her in—the gown she was wearing was a marvel, fitted to the architecture of her body like a sleek glove. The silk was neither purple nor blue, but some mystifying shade in between that rendered her eyes a stunning iolite hue. Her creamy breasts were mounded high above the bodice, a cluster of silk flowers and fine tulle adorning them. It occurred to him that he had yet to see her breasts, and this seemed an egregious lapse on his part.

He needed to be alone with her, with the luxury of time and without the fear of interruption.

But that was a worry for later. For now, his aim was simple and single-minded. He passed the backs of his fingers slowly, lightly, over the soft swells of her breasts, reveling in the hiss of her breath as she inhaled. How satiny her skin was, gilded with coppery flecks. Deliberately, he ran his caress along the ridge of her collarbone, pausing in the dip at the base of her throat to feel her pulse throbbing in time to his.

He could explore her all day. Every inch of her was a revelation, but desire had cast its heady spell over him, and he couldn’t resist lowering his mouth to hers. He kissed her with all the longing that had been burning within him, devouring her lips, giving her his tongue and tasting the sweetness that was Lottie mingling with champagne.

She made a low, throaty sound of need, clutching at his coat with one hand whilst the other found the fall of his trousers. His cock was already rising toward her, and the brush of her palm over his erection was enough to make him groan in turn. Was she as mad with wanting him as he was for her? He had to know.

Grasping her voluminous skirt and petticoats in one hand, he lifted them high, his hand unerringly seeking her cunny. She was wet and ready for him, his questing fingertips finding her swollen clitoris and strumming over her. Her hips chased his hand, her tongue greedily invading his mouth.

He toyed with her, rubbing, stroking, lightly at first and then with greater pressure, wanting to prolong her pleasure and torment both. She found the buttons on his falls and flicked them open, his cock springing free into her waiting hand. As if she had been waiting all evening, she stroked his rigid length firmly from base to tip, her tight grasp and hum of appreciation making him harder.

Brandon traced her seam to her entrance, sinking a lone finger deep. The velvet grip of her cunny was almost enough to make him spend in her hand. All the while, he fed her kisses, long and slow and demanding, their tongues tangling, their ragged breaths and sounds of frustrated need blending to become one. His thumb fluttered over her pearl as he worked in and out of her. He needed to make her lose control, to make her come here pinned against this door while just beyond, a ballroom laden with people danced and laughed and made merry.

And he wanted, with sudden, possessive need, to know that his seed was inside her. For her to return to the ballroom filled with his spend. He didn’t know where this urge was coming from, only that it was. Foolish. A risk he couldn’t take. He didn’t need another bastard child in the world, particularly when he was trying to find a wife.

But he couldn’t excise the thought from his mind, from his blood, and when she reached her pinnacle, her cunny tightening on his finger as she moaned into his kiss, he knew he couldn’t resist. He had to be inside her, to claim her. To make this woman his.

She was still pulsing around him when he withdrew and shifted their positioning, hooking her leg around his hip so that he could have her as he wanted. She was open to him, ready and waiting, soaked. No words were exchanged. There was nothing left to say, their lips and bodies communicating for them.

Lottie guided his cock to her center, slicking him up and down the wet petals of her sex before bringing him to her entrance. He gave them what they both needed, sliding into her in one deep thrust, the door at her back making a small creak of protest at the sudden motion. Sensation flooded him. He was intensely, almost violently aware of the place they were joined, his cock clenched in the silken hold of her cunny. Aside from this, they were fully clothed, adding to the erotic, forbidden nature of the moment.

Despite his rakish reputation, he could honestly say that he had never, in all his years, fucked a woman against a door in a secluded little salon at a ball. Taking Lottie like this was perilous—she had not been wrong in her earlier assessment that he needed a wife. Impressing debutantes was not achieved by clandestinely shagging one’s lover.

But nothing else mattered. He was inside her, where he belonged, and every single second that had passed between them had led them here, to this inevitable moment of utter sensual abandon.

Lottie was impatient as he held himself still, buried within her, reveling in the feeling of her wrapped snugly around him. Her hips swiveled against him, her head falling back against the door with a soft thud as she broke the kiss.

“More,” she demanded.

And he gave it to her, losing all restraint. He took her mouth as he withdrew and then plunged into her again and again. He scarcely had the presence of mind to reach between them and stroke her clitoris until she was crying out into his kiss, her body trembling from the force of her release, the clamp of her cunny on his cock nothing short of exquisite.

He pumped in and out of her, riding the ripples of her orgasm. The thump , thump , thump of him driving her into the door rose to rival their ragged breaths and the faint din of the orchestra from the ballroom. If anyone were to pass on the other side, there would be no doubt of what was happening within. Somehow, that only made him harder, more frenzied. He wanted all of London to know this woman was his, to carry her out of this room and take her away with him. To strip her naked and tie her to his bed and fuck her a hundred different ways.

For now, he had to settle for this one way. Part of him knew he ought to exercise caution. To withdraw from her. But the other part of him, the primal part of him, didn’t want to stop. One more thrust, the angle of her hips nothing short of exquisite, and white-hot bliss rolled up his spine, pouring out of him. Brandon surrendered himself to the beautiful oblivion of release, filling her with his cock, with his seed, with everything he had, giving her some intangible part of himself he hadn’t known existed.

Filling her until he collapsed against Lottie and the door, his heart racing hers.