Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

B randon was awakened by a familiar scratch at his door, accompanied by an equally recognizable bark.

Pandy and Cat were awake.

“In a moment, Pandy girl,” he called, rising from his bed to the cool air, for once grateful for the dressing gown he’d been sleeping in since her arrival at his town house.

Her new nursemaid had stressed the importance of Pandy observing boundaries and rules. Such as not running wildly about the house each morning and bounding into his bedroom unannounced and uninvited. He had given in to Miss Bennington’s wisdom on the matter. Because, whilst he detested the notion of making his Pandy sad, he was more than aware that when he married, Pandy couldn’t come sprinting into his bedroom with Cat at her heels.

In bare feet, he padded across the cool Axminster to the door, opening it to the sight of his beloved daughter in her dressing gown, nightgown, and cap, her hair a dark cloud spilling over her shoulders.

“Good morning, my dear.” With a narrow-eyed stare, he settled upon the incorrigible pup, whose tail wagged excitedly as she regarded him, tongue lolling. “And Cat.”

“Good morning, Duke!” Pandy executed a small curtsy. “May I enter?”

Progress, he reasoned. “Of course, Pandy girl. Thank you for using your manners this fine day.”

She made a moue of distaste. “Miss Bennington says I must, and I don’t like no manners, but I do want to make you proud of me. Does manners make you proud?”

Something in his chest tightened painfully. “I am incredibly proud of you, poppet, manners or no. However, it is very important to comport one’s self in a mannerly fashion, as Miss Bennington so very wisely suggested.” He gave her head an affectionate rustle over the nightcap. “In with you, then.”

She raced over the threshold with her customary enthusiasm, Cat chasing at her heels and nearly tripping her as she rushed to his bed and launched herself into it as if she were capable of flying. Her diminutive stature and his high, large bed meant that she could only attach herself to the side, rather like a barnacle, until she climbed higher. Cat leapt with graceful ease.

“Cat, you’re going to make my bed all full of fur,” he said grimly.

The beast eyed him and then burrowed her face into his pillow, shoving it halfway across the mattress as she inhaled and snorted.

“Cat doesn’t got no manners yet,” Pandy told him, lying on her back atop the coverlets and hanging her head over the edge to regard him, upside down.

“So I see,” he murmured as his pillow went sailing to the floor and Cat rolled happily on her back, burrowing herself into the bedclothes. “Pandy girl, you mustn’t hang your head like that. What if you fall upon it?”

“I ain’t gonna,” she declared, grinning.

Her nightcap fell to the floor, joining the pillow, her hair dangling.

His daughter was as stubborn as he was, but Brandon had learned there were ways to maneuver her into doing what he wished. So he crossed the room and laid his fingers on the coverlet, wriggling them.

“What if a spider were to tickle you?” he asked with feigned portent. “Then you might fall.”

Her eyes went wide. “Not the Duke spider!”

His fingers crept closer. “The Duke spider loves to tickle girls who don’t listen to their papas.”

It was the first time, he realized, that he had referred to himself as her papa. If Pandy took note, she didn’t comment upon it, but perhaps that was because in the next moment, his fingers had reached the place under her chin where he knew she was ticklish, making a peal of giggles ring from her.

Swiftly, he scooped her up and moved her so that she was lying safely in the midst of the bed before straightening. Cat took the opportunity to bathe her face with kisses until, giggling and wriggling, Pandy freed herself from the dog’s keen attentions.

“Blech,” she declared, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Cat, your breath smells like pig trotters. It’s asgusting.”

“ Disgusting , you mean,” he corrected gently, amused.

“That too,” Pandy agreed, wide-eyed.

He chuckled. “No, Pandy girl. The proper pronunciation is dis gusting, not as gusting.”

“Oh,” she said. “Are you my papa, Duke?”

The question hit him with the force of a blow. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. All the breath seemed to have leached from his lungs. He hadn’t known how to address the circumstances of her birth, nor how she had come to live with him. Nor had he understood how to speak to little girls, particularly his own, whom he had only recently learned about. And so, he had held his tongue, biding his time. Waiting.

The time had come.

“Yes, Pandy girl,” he answered, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. “I am your papa.”

“I knowed it was you,” she said solemnly, scratching Cat behind her ears.

“How did you know?”

“Your eyes.” She nodded. “They’re just like mine. And Mama always said I had another papa somewhere. A fancy bloke. One what was importament.”

“We do share the same eyes,” he agreed, a rush of tenderness sweeping over him. “And the correct pronunciation of the word is important , my dear, although I don’t know how important I am.”

Indeed, he’d never felt so until now, with his daughter’s gaze upon him.

He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Wondered if she was happy here. If she resented him for only entering her life now.

“You’re the most importamentest to me, Duke,” she said.

A strange tickle began at the back of his throat, accompanied by a prickle behind his eyes. His vision blurred and he blinked furiously. The Duke of Brandon didn’t cry. He was stronger than that.

“That’s the loveliest thing anyone has ever said to me, Pandy girl,” he managed to say, still struggling to keep those tears at bay.

Pandy reached into a pocket on her night wrap and extracted a small scrap of fabric. “Here y’go.”

He accepted the handkerchief from her. “Thank you.”

Feeling foolish, he dabbed at the corners of his eyes.

She nodded sagely. “I only used it for my nose a time or two.”

Sweet God.

He instantly held the cloth away from his face, peering at it as it dangled from his fingers. There was something suspicious and dried marring one of the corners. His stomach tightened.

“Next time, you might warn me before I use your handkerchief,” he managed, holding it out for her.

She nodded, taking it back from him and stuffing it into her pocket. “Are you going to find a wife soon? That’s what the frowning old lady said when she bringed me to you. Her said you need a duchess to keep you from trouble.”

Ah, his grandmother. He could well imagine her response if he told her Pandora had referred to her as the frowning old lady .

“I am trying to find one, Pandy girl, yes,” he admitted gently. “The frowning lady was not wrong. But you needn’t fear that my doing so will change anything. You shall always be my very best poppet.”

Cat rolled happily to her back, inviting Pandy to give her a belly rub, and the meager, remaining hopes of keeping his bed free of dog fur vanished.

Pandy obliged, but her gaze was solemn and so like his. “I like Missus Lady Grenspell.”

His heart quickened. “I like her too, Pandy girl.”

He thought of their dinner, which had been meaningful yet chaste. He’d been careful not to press his suit, not with Pandy in the house. Losing his head that day in the study had been risk enough. Instead, they had spent an excellent evening learning about each other’s pasts, and at the end of their dinner, he had seen her to her carriage, brushing a kiss over her gloved knuckles after he handed her up into the conveyance.

Pandy nodded, looking thoughtful for a moment as she rubbed Cat’s white stomach. “Duke?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Should I call you Papa now?” she wondered.

His heart seemed to swell to twice its size. “Yes, Pandy girl. If that is what you want, then you should.”

She grinned at him. “It’s what I want.”

This time, Brandon didn’t bother to hide his tears. “I do too, poppet. I do too.”

“Hell’s bells, hell’s bells,” chirruped Megs from her position on Rosamund’s shoulder.

“Hush,” Rosamund chided, giving the parrot’s head a gentle pet. “I told you to behave today.”

“Behave today, what a good little parrot,” Megs said. “Megs wants pistache.”

Lottie bit her lip to keep from chuckling at the bird’s antics. Once again, her friend and the African grey who was her beloved companion were joining her for tea. And once again, Lottie was grateful for the distraction they provided.

“Where did our dear Megs manage to obtain her interesting lexicon?” Lottie asked, seeking to divert herself even more.

Because ever since she had left the Duke of Brandon’s house the evening before, she had been thinking about the way they’d parted.

A chaste kiss on her knuckles as he handed her into the carriage.

Nothing more.

Not even the slightest hint of impropriety.

To say she’d been disappointed at his lack of attempts at seduction was a vast understatement. She’d been left aching with pent-up longing and no cure, save her own attentions once she was safely abed for the night. But thinking about Brandon’s cock deep inside her and feeling it fill her, stoking the flames of need ever higher, were two different things entirely.

Heat swept over her cheeks—she hoped Rosamund wouldn’t take note.

Her friend sighed, happily oblivious. “I would like to claim complete innocence where her vocabulary is concerned, but I’m afraid she has learned some interesting language from my household. However, Megs belonged to someone else before she came to me. A sea captain whose own language must have been somewhat…er, salty.”

That explained some of the parrot’s more colorful quips.

“Salty, salty,” Megs squawked, cocking her head at Lottie.

Lottie found the parrot’s scrutiny a bit disconcerting. It was as if Megs could look into her soul and find her darkest secrets lurking.

“Saltier than the sea,” Rosamund quipped, offering the parrot a bite of tea biscuit. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with a biscuit, Megs. I’ve forgotten your pistachios at home.”

Megs accepted the biscuit, chewing greedily, a shower of crumbs falling from her beak into Rosamund’s lap.

“At least she will always keep the conversation lively and interesting,” Lottie said with a chuckle. “No one shall ever be bored with Megs about.”

“Indeed. You should hear the things she’s said to Camden.” Rosamund laughed too, apparently unconcerned with the African grey’s lack of manners.

“Speaking of Camden,” Lottie said, seizing upon that thread of conversation, “I saw the notice of your engagement in The Times . You’re certain, then?”

Rosamund’s smile faded. “As certain as I shall ever be. Marriage is not a decision I make lightly, of course.”

“Lightly, of course,” chirped Megs. “Lightly, of course.”

“Believe me, my dear, I understand.” Lottie took a sip of her tea, trying to calm the disquiet within her that had been rising steadily ever since the Duke of Brandon had offered his unexpected proposal. “Marriage can be quite dreadful. Although I hope it is different for you than it was for me.”

Speaking about marriage took her back to dinner the evening before and the surprisingly deep, meaningful discussions she had shared with Brandon. Lottie hadn’t been honest with the Duke of Brandon about her reasons for wanting to avoid marriage. If she had been, she might have revealed a truth so stark and debilitating that it was impossible to comprehend. She kept it shut away, like a cursed treasure in a box, hidden and never to be opened again.

Her marriage to Grenfell had nearly destroyed her.

But like a phoenix, she had risen from the ashes. She had made herself wanted, lighthearted, amusing, desired. She had transformed herself into a lover, a merry widow, a woman who was unabashedly who she wanted to be, with no one to answer to. She had not, however, found that ever-elusive feeling she’d spent the years since Grenfell’s death seeking.

Contentment.

Happiness.

Peace.

“I don’t think there’s any need to fret over my marriage with Camden,” Rosamund reassured her. “Ours is not a love match. We are, each of us, free to carry on our lives in whatever capacity we like. There shan’t be feelings involved.”

“A marriage of convenience,” Lottie said. “I do so wish that was how Grenfell explained our union to me. Instead, I told him I loved him, and he returned the sentiment.”

And then, on their wedding night, he had consummated their marriage quite unsatisfyingly in the dark before going to his mistress.

It had been the first time he had shattered her heart, but it hadn’t been the last.

“I am so very sorry for what you endured with Grenfell, my dear,” Rosamund said, her tone sympathetic. “I am quite confident in the agreement I’ve made with Camden. I never considered marriage a business decision, but this one is. And in truth, I understand business matters so much better than I comprehend affairs of the heart. It is far more familiar territory to me—and far less easily manipulated.”

Rosamund was a shrewd businesswoman. Although she was an heiress in her own right, she had steadily built upon her family’s wealth. Lottie dearly hoped her friend was taking every effort to protect her autonomy and her funds from Camden, though she was also mindful that her friend had not requested advice. Rosamund was an intelligent woman, and her decision had been made clear by the betrothal announcement.

“All I want is what’s best for you, my dear,” Lottie told her, refraining from voicing her fear that marriage to the Duke of Camden decidedly wasn’t it.

“What’s best, what’s best,” Megs said. “Hell’s bells.”

“Megs, you’re being perfectly dreadful,” Rosamund scolded the parrot.

“Perfectly dreadful, perfectly dreadful,” Megs squawked. “Close your gob, close your gob.”

“Yes,” Rosamund said pointedly. “Do follow your own advice, if you please. Truly, I don’t know why I ever deign to bring you along with me when you can never be a lady.”

“Never a lady, never a lady,” Megs said. “Show me your bubbies.”

“Oh good heavens.” Rosamund’s face was red, her embarrassment as comical as the African grey’s disreputable behavior.

Lottie chortled. “The sea captain strikes again.”

Her friend offered up another bite of biscuit for the bird. “There you are, you little scamp. Eat this and be quiet.”

Megs obligingly ate the biscuit, sending a new shower of crumbs falling.

“I don’t suppose she’ll be a guest at the wedding?” Lottie asked, biting her lip as she struggled to contain her merriment.

“She most definitely won’t,” Rosamund confirmed, her tone grim. “But I do hope you will be in attendance. Say you will.”

As a rule, Lottie despised weddings. But she had exceptions, as in the case of her dear friend Hyacinth. For her friends, she would hold her head high and pretend as if her own marriage hadn’t torn her apart, piece by piece, second by minute, hour by day by year, until there had been nothing left.

She forced a bright smile. “I’d love nothing better.”

A second invitation, far more formal and yet infinitely more dangerous, arrived after Rosamund and Megs had taken their leave.

Lottie stared at the by-now-familiar masculine scrawl on the missive she’d just unfolded, her heart pounding fast.

O beloved sorceress of wayward children and ragtag mongrels,

Join me for dinner again this evening. I’ll send my carriage for you at seven.

B.

Although his salutation had her smiling even when she knew she shouldn’t allow herself to be amused by his ridiculous charm, Lottie couldn’t help but to take note that Brandon hadn’t requested her presence for dinner, nor had he inquired after whether she would need the use of his carriage. Also, taking his carriage as opposed to her own felt far too intimate when she couldn’t afford to allow herself to get any closer to the man.

Falling for him would be the height of folly, and from such lofty altitudes, there was so very far to fall.

She struck the smile from her face and hastened to put her own pen to paper. What was she thinking? Accepting a dinner invitation from the Duke of Brandon would be nothing short of disastrous. Her response was swift.

Your Grace,

I am not yours to command, nor shall I ever be. For future reference, presumably as it may pertain to your courtship of a bride, a lady ought to be asked. Her presence must be inquired after, not demanded.

Further, I always prefer to take my own carriage, as you quite know.

Sincerely,

Lottie, neither sorceress nor beloved

His response was hasty. Jenkinson brought her a new note within the hour. And although she told herself to allow the missive to sit, unopened and unread, for at least fifteen minutes, she scarcely lasted two before she tore it open.

My darling L.,

Never think you are not a sorceress, for you have surely and thoroughly bewitched me, along with my daughter and her vagabond of a hound. Forgive me for the blunt clumsiness of my previous invitation. Having been intruded upon by a slavering dog bearing a pig trotter and a wayward child playing a game of chase-chase, I had to make haste.

Allow me, I beg of you, a second opportunity to cure my mortal ailments with the elixir of your presence this evening. Will you please accompany me for dinner tonight? Also, if you please, I would prefer the discretion of my own conveyance to your John Coachman.

Yours,

B.

His dramatic flair had her chuckling despite herself. The man truly was charming when he wished to be. And for some reason, he wished to be today. With her.

Peril lies ahead , warned her mind. Proceed at a very great risk to your own welfare.

Experience was the truest form of authority. She knew better than to continue whatever it was between herself and Brandon. And yet…

And yet, there was another part of her that longed to be desired. To be charmed and wooed and seduced. Brandon wasn’t engaged to another woman yet, after all. What could be the harm in one more dinner, perhaps another wicked interlude, before they inevitably parted ways?

She bit her lip.

Paced the floor.

Wandered to the window and looked down at the familiar sights below, vaguely aware of the jangling of tack as horses and carriages passed.

Paced some more.

And finally sat down to jot her reply.

Brandon,

We shall agree to disagree on the matter of whether I am a sorceress—decidedly, I am all too woefully human—however, I will forgive you for commanding me to dinner. I will join you this evening. However, I remain quite firm on taking my own carriage.

His next reply arrived as quickly as the previous one had.

L.,

I insist upon the carriage. I shall see you this evening.

B.

The audacity of the man. He was taking for granted that she would simply accede to his wishes. And the worst part of all was that he was correct in his assessment. She would. Because as much as he teasingly referred to her as a sorceress, he had a similar effect upon her. The man had clearly addled her mind.

“Will there be a reply, my lady?” Jenkinson asked, hovering at the periphery of Lottie’s preferred salon.

“No,” she decided, adding Brandon’s latest missive to the stack she was already keeping, tied together neatly with a satin ribbon. “There won’t be. But we do have a change of plans for this evening. I’ve just received an invitation to dinner. Please lay out my gold silk.”

Jenkinson’s brows rose only the slightest hint at her announcement. Lottie didn’t know if the reaction was down to her choice of dress or her sudden reversal of schedule. Either way, her lady’s maid was nothing if not loyal. She dipped into a curtsy.

“Of course, my lady.”

Absently, she thanked Jenkinson, watching her bustle from the room to see about preparing her toilette . The gold evening gown was one she had deemed too scandalous to wear, for the almost shocking expanse of her bosom it left bare. Almost to her nipples. She had worn it precisely once, standing before her looking glass on her way to a ball, and decided it must never be worn in public, lest she wish to tear her reputation entirely asunder.

But it wasn’t her reputation she was thinking of now, the slow, steady ache of anticipation beginning deep within her. Rather, it was the satisfaction of wearing the gold silk for the Duke of Brandon. For it was a gown that had been cleverly designed by one of the finest Paris houses to bring every man to his knees.

And Lottie had suddenly decided to use it for its intended purpose.