Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

L ottie woke the next day when her lady’s maid brought in a massive vase of fresh flowers.

“For you, my lady.”

She could understand Jenkinson’s excitement—the woman was practically floating above the Axminster as she glided into the room with an arrangement that was almost the size of a small country.

Lottie blinked blearily at the blossoms, wondering what time it was as she sat up, the bedclothes pooling around her waist. “Thank you, Jenkinson. However, I didn’t ring for you just yet.”

It was a gentle reminder that her slumber had been interrupted.

She’d spent the previous day racing after the giggling, wayward blur that was the Duke of Brandon’s daughter. And her impetuous dog too, of course. By the end of the quite massive favor she’d given Brandon, Lottie had abetted in the thieving of biscuits from the kitchen, in the charcoal sketching of admittedly unrecognizable self-portraits—Lottie’s skill at drawing had waned in recent years without practice—and she had played a game of hide-and-seek that Pandy had inevitably won, thanks to her smaller stature and lack of bustle.

“Oh, I know you didn’t ring for me, my lady, and I must beg your pardon. But the young man who brought the flowers insisted upon waiting until you offered a response to the note that accompanied them. He’s been waiting in the kitchens for nigh on three hours now, and Cook has grown tired of him eating all her sweets.” Jenkinson settled the vase on a table and straightened, beaming. “I feared incurring her wrath, Lady Grenfell.”

Cook’s wrath was indeed quite legendary. She was temperamental, yet undeniably talented. It was her culinary marvels that made keeping her on—and keeping her happy—a necessity.

“Three hours,” Lottie repeated, frowning. “What time is it, Jenkinson?”

“Half past one, my lady.”

She had slept through luncheon.

“Goodness, having a miniature caller about must have exhausted me.”

Pandy’s boundless energy certainly had been taxing. Enjoyable, but taxing nonetheless.

“Children oft tend to be wearying,” Jenkinson agreed, offering her the missive. “The note, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Lottie took the sheet from her lady’s maid and unfolded it, reading the slanted, undeniably masculine scrawl.

Lottie,

Kindly consider these flowers my insufficient means of expressing gratitude for the favor you paid me yesterday. I eagerly await the favor you shall, in turn, request of me.

Pandy tells me that you are quite clever at hide-and-seek and that you were infinitely patient with Cat, who only managed to eat a small bite of one table leg on account of her being provided with a soup bone from your cook.

I am forever indebted to you. Do enlighten me as to the favor.

Suspense renders me bilious.

Yours,

Brandon

As she finished the letter, Lottie realized she was smiling. Oh, this wouldn’t do. She tamped down her levity. He wanted to know her favor already? She hadn’t even considered what she would ask of him yet. The reason he had instructed his servant to await her response was clear, however.

She folded the epistle again, holding it as she slipped from the comforting warmth of her bed. “I suppose I must provide an answer, then, so that the young man belowstairs can cease disturbing Cook.”

“It would be most beneficial if you did, my lady,” Jenkinson offered as she fussed busily over some of Lottie’s garments across the room.

Lottie padded to her writing desk and sat, taking up pen and paper.

Your Grace,

Thank you for the flowers. The gesture was unnecessary, though appreciated. I fear I haven’t had sufficient time to ponder the favor in question. I do hate the notion of being responsible for your biliousness. Perhaps a cup of tea would ameliorate your condition.

Yours,

Lady Grenfell

There. It was a subtle reminder that there must be a return to formality between them. He was going to marry soon, and she had to accustom herself to that reality. She folded the missive and gave it to her lady’s maid, who hastened to the kitchens and returned carrying a tray of breakfast and tea for Lottie, whose stomach growled as she took in the delicacies awaiting her on the salver.

“I understand why the poor fellow didn’t wish to leave,” she admitted with a sigh of pure appreciation as she tucked into her meal.

After eating, she began her toilette , only to have it interrupted by another servant bringing the news that the letter-bearing lad had returned with yet another missive. It was passed to Jenkinson, who delivered the new note to Lottie.

She opened it, foolishly amused that Brandon had taken the time to send round a second communication.

Dearest Lottie,

Tea shall not suffice as remedy. There is only one panacea my feeble constitution requires, and it is the honor of your company.

Say you will join me on a drive in Rotten Row at the fashionable hour, else I shall perish.

Yours in bilious despair,

Brandon

A chuckle stole from her. The absurd man. She ought to deny him. What good would come of being seen in his carriage by polite society? He needed a bride, and she most assuredly would not be it. What was he thinking, inviting her? Surely Lady Lavinia would make a better accompaniment.

“Will you send an answer, my lady?” Jenkinson inquired.

“I suppose I must.” Huffing a small sigh, she hastened to her writing desk, dashing off her reply.

O Duke of Bilious Despair,

I should never forgive myself for denying you the cure you seek. Although I must caution that you would be better served in finding a suitable lady to join you on Rotten Row, your elegant pleading has persuaded me to accept.

Yours,

Lady Grenfell

She had finished with her toilette when the next note arrived.

My dear Lottie,

There is no lady more suitable than yourself. Fear not, a new nursemaid has been procured. Pandy and her demon shan’t be accompanying us.

Your faithful servant,

Brandon

Lottie couldn’t help but to smile as she scrawled her response.

Brandon,

I admit that I prefer the company of Miss Pandora and her beloved spaniel to most people. Consider me gravely disappointed that she and Cat will not be joining us.

Yours,

Lottie

At the last moment, she realized she had signed with her name instead of her title. A telling slip. She must gird herself against him better. For although she had been as intimate with him as a man and woman could be, she had been doing her utmost to maintain a necessary distance.

Lottie,

Would that you were mine.

Yours,

Brandon

The last missive quite took her breath. She didn’t know how to respond, and as it was soon time for their drive in Hyde Park, Lottie decided to maintain her silence.

Brandon detested drives in the park.

He loathed Rotten Row, the fashionable hour, and the notion that he must be seen.

He couldn’t abide by the simplistic courtship rituals so beloved by polite society.

But none of that mattered one whit as he drove a matched pair of Bays toward the park. Because the woman at his side made all the rest of it fall away. Of all the barouches in London she might have seated herself in this fine day, Lottie, the Countess of Grenfell, had chosen his.

A miracle.

The sun was shining—a rare occasion, indeed, and one to be celebrated, so much more for the gingery glints it brought to life in Lottie’s hair. Her fiery tresses had been subdued into plaits, then confined in a knot at her nape. Curls framed her forehead and face beneath the brim of her jaunty hat. Light reflected in her eyes, rendering them somehow an even brighter hue of blue. She was nothing short of delicious.

He wanted to devour her. He didn’t want to bloody well take her on a drive like a proper swain. He wasn’t a proper swain. He’d shagged her, and quite rudely, in a salon at a ball. And another time, equally salient, upon his study desk. It was undeniable that he had proceeded with his courtship out of the correct order.

However, he’d never been respectable. And it was too damned late to start now, anyway.

He had pressed his luck mightily today, and he had emerged the victor.

“My notes charmed you,” he said, unable to keep from grinning. “Confess.”

“I wouldn’t say charmed so much as obligated ,” she countered in true Lottie form, her mouth unsmiling, her contralto measured and yet cutting in a way that was uniquely hers.

He transferred one of the reins to his left hand and clapped his right palm over his heart in dramatic fashion. “I am wounded, o beloved sorceress of wayward children and ragtag mongrels.”

His ebullient praise earned nary the hint of a smile from her berry-pink lips. “O tolerated driver of sleek barouches, I beg you to steer our conveyance with more than one hand and whilst directing your attention to the road ahead.”

“Ah, but the road ahead is so very uninteresting,” he pointed out, continuing to drive one-handedly, his gaze glued to her. “What is there to be seen other than the rear of boring carriages or the arse-end of a horse?”

She bit her lip, looking as if she waged an inner war against levity and her pride. “There is the road one must navigate.”

“Boring,” he declared. “I’d rather ogle you.”

She sputtered.

He grinned harder.

“Ogle,” she spat, as if it were a foreign word, unfamiliar on her tongue. “Me?”

Surely she didn’t doubt her allure. She carried herself like a woman who well understood her worth and who knew she could command it from the men permitted within her charmed circle.

“Why wouldn’t I ogle you?”

“Because gentlemen don’t ogle.”

“And?” He waved a hand at himself in dismissive fashion. “You are aware of my reputation, are you not?”

Color crept up her throat, chasing the smattering of golden freckles on her ivory throat. Clearly, the Countess of Grenfell’s spots were the most entrancing in the history of humankind. Brandon had never been similarly enthralled by another’s.

“Of course I am aware,” she muttered, pinning him with a grim look. “All of England is, I daresay. And perhaps farther. One never knows where you have traveled.”

“To a great many countries, of course,” he informed her. “Would you care to hear which ones?”

“You may keep your conquests to yourself,” she said primly.

“Never say you’re jealous, my dear.”

“Hardly.” She sniffed, as if the notion couldn’t be more ludicrous.

But he didn’t miss the way her spine stiffened.

“Mmm,” he hummed noncommittally, transferring the reins to his other hand again as he navigated a turn.

“What does that mean?” she demanded.

He kept his gaze on the road ahead. “That you protest too much.”

“Tell yourself whatever you like.”

Oh yes, he had her where he wanted her. Well, not exactly where he wanted her. Not physically, anyway. That would have to wait for a more opportune moment. One containing both privacy and a bed.

He smiled. “You needn’t worry about past conquests, you know.”

“Wonderful, because I wasn’t.” She diverted her attention to the road, an elegant and icy queen.

God, she was delectable. When she was cool with him, it made him want to do wicked things to her.

“Wonderful,” he repeated cheerfully, allowing a silence to fall between them because he knew it would only heighten her discomfiture.

In his mind, he began to count, suspecting he wouldn’t make it beyond a full minute before she surrendered to the need to speak.

Thirty.

One-and-thirty.

Two-and-thirty.

Three-and-

“Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” she burst out.

He cast a glance in her direction, admiring the creamy column of her throat, where a dusting of coppery freckles disappeared into her bodice. “I was seeing how long you could last without speaking to me.”

Her head swiveled to him, giving him a view of her entire lovely face rather than only her profile. “I beg your pardon?”

“Just over thirty seconds,” he added, unable to keep a note of smugness from his voice. “I don’t blame you for yearning to hear my voice.”

“Perhaps I was bored,” she countered. “About to expire from ennui . Have you considered that?”

Brandon grinned. “Not even once.”

She made a small huffing sound that made him grin harder whilst he turned his attention back to the road as they approached Hyde Park. A crush of conveyances had already begun to descend upon Rotten Row. Everyone would know, and in quite short order, that the Duke of Brandon had been seen with the Countess of Grenfell.

“Only think of what the gossips shall say when they see the two of us on a drive together,” she said, almost as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “You ought to have asked Lady Lavinia to accompany you instead.”

“I’m not courting Lady Lavinia,” he said, keeping his tone mild.

“You aren’t?”

They were in the official procession, traveling down the bridle path as onlookers watched from the rails.

“I’m not,” he affirmed.

“Who are you courting, then?”

You , he might have said. But again, Brandon knew the woman at his side well enough to understand that such news would not be greeted with enthusiasm. No, best to conduct his courtship covertly. To plead his case without her aware of it.

Until it was too late.

“You certainly have taken quite an interest in my romantic entanglements,” he observed instead.

“I’m merely trying to help you,” she countered.

He slanted a glance in her direction. “Generous of you.”

She shrugged. “My mother taught me that one must perform good deeds in one’s life.”

“A clever woman indeed.”

“Perhaps not always clever. She did encourage me to marry Grenfell, and I count my marriage as the great disaster of my life.”

She didn’t often speak of her marriage. Or her husband. Brandon wasn’t unfamiliar with the gossip concerning her. Grenfell had been an unabashed philanderer, both before and after their nuptials.

“Yours was an unhappy union?” he ventured.

“Vastly.” She sighed, her mouth tightening as she revisited painful memories before she forced a smile—for his benefit, he knew. “Grenfell was an adulterous scoundrel.”

“Only a fool would have strayed from you,” he told her quietly, meaning those words to his core as he turned his attention back to the bridle way.

“Or perhaps only a fool would have believed in his avowals of love,” she said, her smile fading. “Or for expecting constancy in a marriage. Faithfulness is so very bourgeois, I’ve learned.”

“I am sorry for the pain he caused you, Lottie. You deserved far better.” He looked at her, holding her gaze to show her it was not a mere platitude he offered.

He meant it sincerely. Grenfell hadn’t been worthy of her, the bastard.

She nodded, her countenance softening. “Thank you for saying so. It is exceedingly rare for a man to admit that a woman has a right to something more.”

“Perhaps you’ve been keeping company with the wrong men,” he suggested gently.

Her gaze turned thoughtful. “I’m beginning to think that I have.”

They spent the remainder of the drive engaged in lively conversation, deftly avoiding such weighty matters. They spoke of their reading preferences—Lottie adored mysteries. He preferred romances. They both favored the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. As they approached her town house, he found himself reluctant to part.

“Will you join me for dinner this evening?” he asked, hoping she wasn’t otherwise engaged.

He needed all the time with her he could manage to beg, borrow, or steal. If he was to plead his case—and with all haste—he needed as many of the hours in the day that she was willing to give.

“Shouldn’t you be continuing your hunt for a bride?” she asked pointedly.

Damn her for her persistence on that subject. Yes , he thought to himself, and continuing is exactly what I will be doing. With you. But he kept that carefully bottled away inside.

“There comes a time when every hunter grows weary and needs to rest,” he offered instead.

She frowned. “Who will be in attendance?”

“You’re looking at him.”

Her eyes narrowed, drawing his attention to those brilliant orbs and coppery lashes. “Just you?”

“You find me an insufficient dinner companion? I ought to be affronted.”

“Hardly, but it seems an unwise decision to accept your offer.”

“Unwise, how?” They had reached her dwelling now, a humbler affair than his own town house, though still fine for a widow’s portion. He stayed the horses and turned to her fully, thinking her quite the loveliest—and most stubborn—woman he’d ever known.

“Because we have already…” Her gloved hand waved between the two of them. “And that portion of our association is decidedly at an end.”

“Is it?” he asked mildly. “I wonder if you would think so if I were to kiss you now.”

Her eyes went wide. “Kiss me? Before all of London?”

“Before all of London presently on this street.” He slid nearer to her on the bench, until his thigh pressed into her voluminous skirts.

“To do so would be an invitation to disaster,” she said, sounding properly scandalized.

Which was rich for a lady who had no qualms about shagging against a door at a ball.

He leaned nearer to her, tantalized by the faint scent of roses and violets. “Then you had better accept the invitation to dinner instead, my dear.”

“Dinner,” she conceded, looking adorably flustered. “Very well, but I’ll bring my new list of prospective brides along with me since the last round didn’t pass muster.”

Her bloody lists. Unless she brought one with her name atop the latest version, she was wasting her time.

Brandon smiled anyway, for he had achieved yet another victory in this protracted war of theirs, albeit a small one. “I’ll see you tonight at half past seven.”