Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

T o Lottie’s dismay, there was no hint of Pandora or Cat upon her arrival at the Duke of Brandon’s town house that evening. Instead, she was led to the drawing room where Brandon himself awaited her, cutting a dashing figure in evening black.

He bowed solemnly at her entrance, and she had to forcibly remind herself that she had not come here to be seduced. The crisp white of his shirt and necktie were in stark contrast to his mahogany hair, and his emerald eyes seemed somehow greener in the lamplight.

He grinned as he straightened, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips for a chaste kiss. “Good evening.”

It was scarcely the whisper of his mouth upon her, and yet, he may as well have skimmed his hand over her cunny for the way her body reacted. Warmth settled low in her belly, and her nipples hardened instantly beneath the familiar shield of her corset.

“Good evening,” she managed.

Lottie didn’t know how she had been cozened into dinner with the Duke of Brandon. It was both foolish and reckless. As a widow, she possessed the freedom to dine with him alone, certainly. However, he was seeking a bride. Continuing to spend time in his presence was only leading to inevitable disappointment.

Because whilst Lottie had no qualms about taking lovers, she took great care to make certain none of them was married or engaged. She would never visit that pain upon a fellow woman. It had been too late when she had learned that Grenfell had been keeping a mistress during their courtship and subsequent betrothal.

She would simply have to resist Brandon and his sensual allure. She’d come armed with her list. It was in her reticule, folded neatly in thirds. The fourth such draft, not that he needed to know that she had spent the intervening hours between their drive and her departure for dinner privately agonizing over her choices and striking lines through half a dozen ladies’ names before rewriting the list.

He released her hand, his gaze searing hers. “Shall we proceed to dinner?”

“Of course.” Stupidly, she had left the reticule with her wrap and hat. She would just have to remember to fetch it before she left and deliver it to him.

He brought her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I enjoyed our drive today in the park. I’m pleased you accepted my invitation to dinner.”

“As I recall, I was rather blackmailed into acceptance,” she couldn’t help but grumble, reminded of the way he had neatly trapped her.

He chuckled. “Hardly that. More like sound persuasion than blackmail.”

“How is Pandy getting on with the new nursemaid?” she asked, because she was curious and because she needed to change the subject to something safer than his kisses, potential or otherwise.

“Splendidly.” He guided her from the opulent drawing room, down the carpeted hall. “Cat has yet to eat her skirts, and Miss Bennington seems to genuinely enjoy Pandy’s exuberance.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Pandy wanted me to tell you hullo, by the way. She was dreadfully disappointed that she had to retire to the nursery before you arrived.”

“I’ll admit that I was hoping I might get to see her. Please do tell her hullo from me and give Cat an ear scratch.” She smiled with genuine warmth, thinking that Pandy and her dog were equally high-spirited. A matched pair.

He inclined his head. “I will be happy to relay your greeting. As for the ear scratch, however, I’m not sure the beast deserves one. She’s managed to mangle another pair of my boots, and I’m quite peeved with her over it.”

Lottie bit her lip, trying not to chuckle at the picture his words painted. They moved into the dining room, where settings had been laid and an assortment of freshly cut flowers decorated an epergne at the center of the table linen. The place settings were at an intimate proximity, which was customary for lovers sharing a meal.

Except they weren’t lovers.

Not current lovers, anyway.

Past lovers. Never to be lovers again. He was getting married, and she was remaining a merry widow. That was what she wanted.

Of course it was.

“I brought my list,” she announced, determined to maintain her fortitude even as his scent curled around her.

Musky citrus and something that was indefinably him. She inhaled through her mouth instead.

“Your list?” He stopped before her chair.

“My new list of prospective brides, that we spoke about on our drive,” she elaborated. “I left it in my reticule. I can fetch it now so we can review it together during dinner.”

“Later, perhaps. I have no wish to discuss something as dull as debutantes over the soup course. Dullness makes me bilious.”

She almost chuckled at his dramatic statement but refrained at the last moment, allowing him to seat her. “Rather a lot of things seem to make you bilious.”

He sat in the chair at the head of the table, to her right. “What can I say? I have a highly sensitive disposition.”

She shouldn’t find his nonsense charming.

Or endearing.

Or amusing.

And yet, she did, curse him.

“When it favors you to have one,” she countered wryly.

He smiled at her, and when the Duke of Brandon smiled, he smoldered, capable of sending any female within reach up in flame. Lottie was vexingly not immune.

“My dear Lady Grenfell, why should I do something that isn’t in my favor?”

With a single motion from him, dinner officially began.

Wine goblets were filled, and a tureen of artichoke soup was delivered. Brandon discreetly dismissed the attending footman, leaving the two of them alone as he raised his glass of wine to her.

“A toast is in order, I should think,” he said. “To the loveliest lady I know agreeing to accompany me for dinner.”

His attention was steady upon her, and just as it had been earlier during their drive, the unwavering intensity of his stare cut through her defenses. She couldn’t look away, even though she knew she would be better served to distract herself with the wine in her glass and the delicious-smelling soup awaiting in her bowl.

“To the most maddening gentleman I know,” she returned with meaning, clinking her goblet against his.

He laughed, the sound deep and dark and decadent. He was somehow even more handsome when amused. Goodness, it required all the self-control she had to keep from launching herself upon the table and offering her body as the evening’s feast instead of the courses his cook had planned.

They both drank.

And still, he didn’t look away, holding her ensnared in his emerald gaze. She watched the way his lips molded to the rim of the glass, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he drank. He was so potently masculine. She well understood how he had left a trail of conquests across England and—if his teasing earlier was to be believed—the world beyond as well. He was magnetic and intoxicating. A man who made a woman want to savor him.

She couldn’t do that, however, so she settled for his wine instead. It flowed over her tongue, awakening her palate.

“This is delightful.”

“Procured from one of my travels to the Continent,” he said. “Fine French wine is becoming dearer and dearer, thanks to the phylloxera pestilence. It’s a crime, what is happening to some of the world’s best vineyards.”

“I’ve been reading about it in The Times .” And although she wasn’t well-versed in the art of wine, she knew enough to appreciate the dire circumstances facing France, with the roots of grapevines being systematically destroyed. “It sounds perfectly dreadful.”

“That is because it is,” he agreed, bringing a spoonful of soup to his mouth. “Nearly half the vineyards of France have been, or are in the process of, being destroyed by it. Despite the measures being taken to stop the plague from spreading, it continues to do so.”

She ruminated on his words and the soup she had just tasted. It was excellent. Apparently, the Duke of Brandon’s cook was quite skilled. This didn’t surprise her in the slightest. He struck her as a man who demanded the best of everything. His apparent interest in French vineyards, however, did.

“Have you visited France in your time on the Continent?” she asked.

“I have,” he confirmed with uncharacteristic brevity.

Her curiosity took control of the conversation and her tongue.

“And how did you find it? I have always longed to travel to France. Not to Paris, as is so common, but to Bordeaux. To visit the grand wineries, the first-class vineyards such as Chateau Lafitte or Chateau Margaux .”

He smiled with genuine warmth, displaying enthusiasm and true pleasure rather than the suave charm he so often affected. It disturbed her to realize she could discern the difference now. That she knew this man well enough.

Not just his body, as had been the way of it for her with past lovers. But his personality. The deepest, truest parts of himself. She’d learned long ago that giving one’s body to another was purely a physical act. One’s mind was the true source of intimacy. The rest was merely assuaging a need, like eating to dispense with hunger.

Grenfell had taught her that.

“I have an 1864 Chateau Margaux that is a marvel,” he told her. “We must try it together. Tell me, why have you never traveled to France?”

“I was a girl when I married, only eighteen. Grenfell didn’t prefer to travel abroad, for he suffered from terrible seasickness. I suppose, in hindsight, that the seasickness may have been a ruse. Likely, the true reason was because he didn’t like to stray too far from his mistresses here in London. Either way, after he died, I threw myself into the London whirl as well.”

“He hurt you badly,” Brandon observed, his jaw clenching.

How odd to speak about her failed marriage with a man who was her former lover. A man who had persuaded her to dinner. A man who could not be hers.

And yet, how right it felt. Surprise washed over her at the realization. She felt comfortable with the Duke of Brandon. And it had nothing to do with the physical intimacy they had shared and everything to do with the times they had simply spent in each other’s company, talking.

She swallowed hard. “He did, but we needn’t speak of it. That’s all where it belongs now, in the past.”

“Is it?” He raised a brow, his gaze searching, seeking. Seeing.

“Not entirely, perhaps,” she allowed.

“I would love nothing more than to plant him a facer,” he declared grimly. “For the grief he caused you. For failing to realize what he had in you. For being the source of the hurt I see lurking in your eyes. For everything he did and all he didn’t do that he ought to have done. No man deserves a sound drubbing more.”

No one had ever said that to her. Most of the members of her inner circle had been sympathetic yet firm. Keeping mistresses was the sort of thing men in their circle did. And wives looked the other way. Some of them took their own lovers after they’d done their duty of providing their husbands with the heir and spare. Everyone pretended not to care.

She didn’t know what to say, how to adequately express her convoluted emotions without giving herself away. So she took up her wineglass and drained half its contents.

“Thank you,” she said when she could find her voice, her silly hand trembling as she replaced the goblet on the table.

Hopefully he wouldn’t take note of how deeply affected she was. She loathed speaking of her terrible marriage. Hated talking about Grenfell. It was a part of her life that she had closed away, like an awful secret locked in an attic, never again to see the light of day. Except the Duke of Brandon was resurrecting all the ghosts of her past. Shining light into the darkest corners of her soul.

She didn’t like it.

And yet, she couldn’t resist it.

What a strange, compelling man he was.

“You needn’t thank me for stating the obvious, Lottie,” Brandon said, frowning.

“Some people wouldn’t think it obvious,” she pointed out. “Most husbands are unfaithful to their wives. I shouldn’t have been so na?ve as to expect differently. It’s the way of our world. Indeed, I scarcely imagine that you will be a faithful husband to your bride.”

His stare was rapt upon her, trapping her as surely as if he’d caught her in an embrace, and she could not look away. “Is that what you think of me, that I intend to treat my wife as Grenfell did you?”

She didn’t want to think about him in relation to his wife. His young, innocent debutante, who would be lovely and sweet, a credit to him on his arm. Perhaps he would fall in love with whomever he chose. Perhaps he would be faithful to his duchess. Perhaps he would never stray, and they would live happily and create a brood of bubbly children just like Pandy. Those thoughts were acid poured upon her soul.

“I’m sure it isn’t my place to think about such matters,” she forced out.

And yet, he refused to relent, holding her gaze, so still that he might have been a statue but for the sensual heat he radiated. “But it is, you see. I’ve asked the question of you.”

The soup course was cooling in their bowls. Her stomach—once eager for the delicious meal ahead—was mutinying. It wanted nothing of food, tied up in knots of envy she had no right to feel.

Lottie took another sip of wine, trying to calm her wildly vacillating emotions. Failing. She had somehow done the unthinkable. She had failed to heed her own rules for conducting herself with lovers. She wanted more from the Duke of Brandon than his body and the pleasure he could bring her.

“I think you are a rakehell with a reputation,” she answered. “I think you have never proven yourself faithful. I think that when you marry, you will continue to be sought-after and desired by many women, to whom it shan’t matter that you are someone else’s husband. That sort of temptation can be difficult to resist.”

At least, that was what Grenfell had claimed. He hadn’t wanted to betray her. It had simply been his nature. He was a virile man, made to spread his seed.

Her hand trembled as she settled her wine goblet back on the snowy table linen.

“If you were my wife, Lottie, I would cleave unto you, and you alone,” Brandon told her with an earnest intensity she could not doubt was anything other than genuine.

Something inside her quickened. His words reached a place she’d thought long inured to feeling, a place that had been hollow and numb. But that wasn’t the sole effect. Heat blossomed between her thighs, an unwanted reaction she couldn’t suppress. Her body was clearly a lunatic. So was her heart.

“But I shan’t be your wife,” she forced herself to say quietly. “I hope that such steadfast devotion will also be applied to the lady you ultimately bestow that honor upon.”

“Why are you so unwavering in your resolve to never wed again?” he asked softly instead of speaking to whether he would be faithful to the lady he ultimately chose as his bride. “You’ve never explicitly stated the reasons. One can presume your unhappiness with your former husband is a concern, but surely you cannot imagine every man will treat you as he did.”

The reasons were many. And deeply private. Something else occurred to her.

“You have never explained precisely why you need to marry,”

she countered. “I find it difficult to believe you would take a wife simply because your grandmother demanded it of you. It would seem neither of us has been entirely candid with the other.”

He inclined his head. “Touché, my dear.”

The soup course was whisked away and the next was laid before they could further their conversation. Although it smelled as delicious as the previous offering had, Lottie found herself loath to partake of it.

“If you must know,” he began solemnly when the footmen had once again retreated and they were alone, “I must marry because my grandmother has decreed it to be so. She hails from a wealthy family, and she is a property owner in her own right. One of her properties, Wingfield Hall, is especially dear to me for many reasons. However, Grandmother recently informed me that she intends to will Wingfield Hall to a distant cousin of mine if I fail to do her bidding.”

She studied his countenance and found nothing but unguarded, unvarnished truth there. The Duke of Brandon may be a rake as she had pointed out to him, but he wasn’t a liar. Still, Lottie sensed there was a portion of his tale that was missing.

“Why now?” she asked curiously. “What has spurred her sudden decision?”

He winced. “I’m afraid it is the fact that my natural child was delivered to her door after my domestics refused her mother entrance here. When my grandmother arrived to inform me of what had transpired, there was a regrettable incident with a famous opera singer, which, no doubt, did nothing to inspire Grandmother’s faith in me.”

“Oh my,” she said, because she was so stunned that she couldn’t think of anything else to say for a moment.

He sighed heavily. “I only learned of Pandy’s existence from my grandmother that day when she arrived to give me a dressing down and impart the news of Wingfield Hall.”

The revelation surprised Lottie, for he had seemed quite at ease with his daughter. Pandora and her father appeared to have a natural bond, even if the girl did refer to him as Duke. Lottie had supposed it was a courtesy instilled in the child, paying deference to his rank and her unfortunate position in life as an illegitimate daughter.

She found herself curious to know more. However, she knew that she didn’t have the right to ask. Heavens, what they had already discussed was beyond the pale. And yet, she wanted to know. It startled her to realize the reason—that she was fond of Pandy. Fond, even, of her menace of a dog, Cat.

“Her mother no longer wished to keep her?” she asked, unable to comprehend the notion, but recalling Pandy’s words at their first meeting.

She’s gone on a grand adventure ’n young girls can’t go on adventures. Did you know that, missus? They might fall off the ship and get drowneded.

“Her mother left for America with her most recent lover,” Brandon explained, his tone and expression equally grim. “A grand adventure that didn’t require the unwanted burden of a child. And lest you think me heartless, Pandy’s mother never informed me that she bore my child. We had an…association. And then she disappeared from London and my life. I presumed she had moved on with another chap. She had, of course, as I later learned, and married him. But after her husband died, she found a new lover, one who was not willing to bear the burden of a child that wasn’t his own. Pandy was abandoned like an unwanted mongrel sent to the streets. I can only thank God her mother knew to try my grandmother’s address before surrendering Pandy to only Christ knows what fate.”

Her heart ached anew for the child to hear the desperately sad circumstances of her young life thus far. An illegitimate child, never truly accepted or belonging, then summarily abandoned by her own mother at such a tender young age. Lottie had never been terribly close to her family, but the very notion of them abandoning her was anathema.

The food before them was cooling, and it occurred to her, quite distantly, that neither of them had touched their plates.

“I’m very sorry to hear what happened to Pandy,” she said softly, honestly. “And to you, Brandon. You seem, to your credit, not just tolerant of her as some men in your place would be, but adoring.”

“I love her,” he said, holding her gaze. “I understand that is, perhaps, irregular in our world. But the circumstances of Pandy’s birth mean less than nothing to me. She is my daughter, and if I had known of her previously, I would have moved heaven and earth to see that she was, if not with me, then well provided for. I would have made certain she knew me. In the absence of the opportunity to interview her mother myself, I can only guess at her reasons for failing to apprise me of Pandy’s arrival.”

“That is quite honorable of you.” Many aristocrats would not be so moved to acknowledge or house the children they sired on the wrong side of the blanket.

It was a dreadful offense against the children, and yet it was simply a fact. Men had children out of wedlock. Polite society turned the other way. The innocent children suffered.

The smile Brandon gave her was small, almost sad. “I’m hardly an honorable man, but I’m trying to be better for Pandy’s sake.”

There was no doubting his sincerity. And as she sat at the Duke of Brandon’s table with him, Lottie made the most astonishing realization of all.

She hadn’t just come to care for Pandy.

She cared for the Duke of Brandon as well.