Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

B y the fourth day of avoiding Brandon, Lottie was miserable.

She had dismissed every invitation he issued with a litany of excuses. She was too busy. She had calls to pay. She had stubbed her toe and couldn’t be imposed upon to dance at a ball. And last, the refusal that had made her stomach feel leaden with guilt—she was abed, too ill to leave her sickroom.

To make matters worse, Brandon had come to her upon hearing she was unwell.

She’d been forced to have her butler turn him away.

Now, seated in the small library of the town house that had been Grenfell’s gift to her in death—a home of her own instead of relying upon the alms of family or her widow’s portion—she was hopelessly listless. The book in her lap didn’t hold her interest. The crackling fire in the grate offered warmth but no comfort. And she’d eaten her last chocolate and been forced to ring for Jenkinson in the hopes that her lady’s maid could procure more.

The door to the library opened at her back, but Lottie didn’t bother to look over her shoulder. “Jenkinson dearest, I’ve eaten all the chocolates. Could you have one of the footmen run and fetch me some more?”

She had a feeling she was going to need them. Either chocolates or good French wine. But French wine would only make her think of Brandon, and thinking of Brandon made her miss him and his sinful lips and his verdant eyes that made her melt and his knowing hands and clever tongue… No, she didn’t dare have any wine at all. Chocolate it was.

“Too ill to venture from your sickroom, are you?”

The deep, masculine drawl thieved a gasp from her as she cast a wild look over her shoulder to find Brandon standing at the threshold instead of her lady’s maid. He was tall, handsome, and potently male. If she hadn’t been seated in the chair, she might have been tempted to launch herself at him like a stone loaded into a catapult and unceremoniously flung.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, and then instantly wondered if she had chocolate smeared in the corners of her lips.

Her tongue darted out to catch any lingering traces of the sweet she had been consuming in a fruitless attempt at diversion.

“I was worried about you,” he explained, striding deeper into the room, his emerald eyes burning into her, rendering her incapable of looking anywhere else. “When I was turned away and told how ill you were, I was determined to see you myself, regardless of what your damned butler said.”

Heat crept up her throat.

She’d been caught.

Lottie gripped the arms of her chair, refusing to relent. “Are you playing house cracksman now, Brandon?”

He stopped perilously near, towering over her, and it occurred to Lottie that he was still wearing his hat, gloves, and coat. The scent of rain melded with musk, citrus, and leather. She tried to quell the stinging surge of lust that arced through her at his proximity.

He cocked his head, looking down at her with an unreadable expression. “No, I’m playing concerned suitor. Why did you lie to me?”

“You’re not my suitor,” she hedged, snapping her book closed in her lap and wishing he hadn’t effectively trapped her in her chair.

He was so blasted tall, and she had to crane her neck to hold his gaze. As if he possessed all the time in the world, he removed his hat with a calm, efficient motion, depositing it on a nearby table. His hair was all mahogany waves beneath.

“What am I, then?” He planted his hands on the arms of her chair, leaning down. “Hmm, Lottie? What am I to you?”

“You were my lover,” she corrected airily. “Now, you are once more my acquaintance. A friend of a mutual friend.”

“Ah, is that the way of it, then? You have decided to cry off our agreement, and you are too much of a coward to tell me. I thought better of you, darling.”

Lottie resented being called a coward. However, she could inwardly acknowledge that her actions were hardly brave. She had been hiding from him, and there was no denying it. Because resisting the man was so deuced impossible. It was a form of self-preservation, really. If she never saw him again, she might have a hope of remaining impervious to his charms.

“We didn’t have an agreement,” she pointed out instead of saying aloud any of the wayward thoughts running through her head.

His dark brows both hiked upward. “What would you term spending almost every night in my bed for a fortnight, then?”

She wished that he weren’t so close. That he weren’t so handsome. That she weren’t so damned tempted to kiss him.

That she could resist this man. Her defenses were disintegrating by the second.

“A man and a woman seeking mutual pleasure,” she told him curtly. “You needn’t act as if I were your mistress. What we shared is…”

“Incredible,” he finished for her.

“Over,” she said in the same moment.

“Over,” he repeated, staring at her. “That’s what you think? That we’re over?”

Oh God , she wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss his sulky mouth more than she wanted to see another day.

I can resist him , she thought sternly.

“Yes, Brandon,” she said slowly. “That is what I think. That we are over. It was lovely whilst it lasted. However, the time has come for us to part ways. You are marrying a debutante, and I am going about living my life as I wish.”

“I see.” He nodded, holding her gaze.

For a moment, she believed she had won their battle of wits and words.

“Good,” she forced out, feeling numb. “I’m glad.”

“Tell me something first, if you please.” He leaned forward, impossibly near now, his scent wrapping around her and comforting her, the same way a lullaby soothed a child.

She licked her lips, tasting sweetness. “What would you have me tell you?”

Perhaps if she held her breath, she might better resist.

His head dipped, his lips brushing her cheek in a light, tender kiss. “Does this feel like we’re over?”

Lottie was still holding her breath, and she told herself that was why she didn’t answer him.

Apparently, he took her silence as acquiescence. Because his mouth brushed her temple next. “Does this feel like we’re over, Lottie?”

She swallowed, her heart pounding. Soon, she would need air. But she bit her lip, delaying the inevitable.

He laid a hot, gentle kiss on her jaw. “What of this?”

Her throat was next, and she inhaled, her lungs feeling as if they might explode. But that was no good, because he was all she could smell, that glorious, irresistible blend of man and musk and citrus mingled with the crispness of rain and the earthiness of leather and the faint, clean hint of shaving soap too.

“Answer me, Venus.”

Not his pet name for her. How could she withstand such torture? She couldn’t, and he knew it. Just as she hadn’t been able to face him to put an end to their affair. Because she didn’t want to end it. She wanted it to go on and on. She wanted to spend every night in his bed, in his arms, to kiss him whenever she wished. She wanted him to be hers and hers alone, and that terrified her more than words could possibly convey.

He kissed the hollow behind her ear, and she shivered. “Does this feel like we’re over?”

“Brandon,” she protested, unable to lie with him so near, his tender, sensual onslaught bringing her to her knees more swiftly than the most passionate seduction ever could.

“How about this?” He feathered a kiss over her brow next.

“How did you get in here?” she muttered, trying to think of anything other than what he was doing to her and the effect his reverent, carefully placed kisses were having on her. “Whoever allowed it is sacked.”

“I let myself in through the servants’ stair,” he said, amusement lacing his voice as he kissed the bridge of her nose. “But enough of that. You’re meant to be telling me if it feels as if we’re over to you.”

His lips found the corner of hers, and a strangled sound of longing emerged from her before she could stop it.

She gripped the book in her lap so tightly that her fingers ached. “Are you trying to torment me, damn you?”

“No.” He lifted his head, his gaze tangling with hers once more. “I’m trying to prove to you that we very much aren’t over. That we’re far from it, in fact.”

She heaved a sigh of frustration. “You know as well as I that we cannot continue in this vein. You need to marry, and I will never wed again. To carry on as if our futures were otherwise is nothing short of pure folly.”

“And yet, you can’t tell me that we’re over,” he pointed out, more than a trifle smug. “You can’t say the words. Perhaps you should show me, then. Kiss me and convince me you feel nothing.”

Lottie inhaled, bringing the heady scent of him into her lungs, trapping it there as if she could somehow keep this part of him forever. Because that was what she wanted, even if she only dared admitting it to herself. She wanted the Duke of Brandon selfishly and foolishly. She wanted him to be all hers, only hers. Always hers. She felt dizzied from the maddening combination of his nearness and his mouth. She could not kiss him and remain unmoved. She knew it, and she did not doubt that he did too.

“I’m not playing games with you,” she told him.

He cupped her cheek, his leather glove cool on her heated skin, and she wished that his hand was bare so that she could feel him without encumbrance, this trapping of civility removed. “Yes, you are. And they must stop. Just as you must stop lying to the both of us that you don’t want me. That you want to put an end to what’s between us. It’s as much a prevarication as every one of your excuses these last four days.”

He was not wrong, curse his stubborn, beautiful hide.

What had she been thinking, allowing this man close? Rakes were like flames. Venture too near, and one was inevitably bound to be burned.

She held his stare defiantly. “Very well. I want you. It is only natural. I’m a woman with needs, and you’re a reasonably handsome man. You’re also skilled in the bedchamber.”

He chuckled, his breath falling over her lips. “Only reasonably handsome, darling? I would have thought you could do better than that.”

“Vain wretch,” she complained without heat. “You know how despicably gorgeous you are.”

“Perhaps I like to hear you admit it.”

Silence fell between them again, their gazes locked. “You know why we cannot continue, Brandon. Why are you still here?”

“For the same reason you have yet to tell me that it feels like we’re over.”

Another moment of heavy, heated silence descended. A quickening began, deep within her. A physical acknowledgment of the effect he had on her. Her nipples were hard beneath the stiff boning of her corset. And between her legs, she was embarrassingly wet. There was no question she desired him. That had never been her fear. Passion and lust were raw, elemental. They were physical aches like hunger, easily enough placated.

But the heart—that was what she truly feared most. Because she knew from experience that it could not be governed. The heart, that restless, foolish enemy. And hers knew what it wanted too well.

This man , it whispered insidiously. Him.

“Brandon,” she began, not certain of what she intended to say, only that she had to fill the quiet with something, that she had to protest before she did something truly dangerous and—no, she wasn’t going to—oh heavens, yes, she was…

She acted without thought, wrapping her arms suddenly around his neck and pulling him to her, pressing her mouth to his. The kiss was so sudden and ferocious that it was almost painful. Her teeth were mashed against her tender inner lips. It didn’t matter. In the next breath, his tongue demanded entry, and she surrendered without hesitation.

Somehow, he performed the feat of gathering her from the chair and into his arms. Her book went sailing, landing with a thump on the floor. The world spun, their lips chasing each other’s hungrily, tongues writhing, and then he had whirled them about so that he was in the chair she had occupied and she was in his lap.

He broke the kiss for but a moment, rearing back to sear her with his potent stare. “We’re not over, Lottie.”

She swallowed, still reluctant to make the concession aloud, even if every part of her body and soul and all her stupid heart had already made the decision for her. Even if she knew to her core that they would never be over, that though they might travel far, and he would wed another, her body would always ache for his. She would forever want him.

A strange prickling sensation burned the backs of her eyes then. She refused to believe it was tears until she felt the hot, wet glide on both cheeks and her vision blurred. And though she blinked furiously to clear them away, he saw them.

Of course he did.

He caught them with his lips, drying each drop where it fell. Then he kissed her again, and as she tasted the sweet bitterness of chocolate and the salt of her own tears, she knew that the last of her defenses had shattered. Nothing remained. Not even pride.

And all the while, he kissed her as he had not kissed her before. Slowly, tenderly, but worshipfully too, as if she were indeed the goddess he had proclaimed her to be, and he a mere mortal at her feet. Lingeringly, patiently, as if he had all the time in the world to hold her thus, cradling her as if she were fashioned of finest crystal instead of weak flesh and bone. He made her feel revered in a way no one ever had. Not just desired, but needed too.

And that scared her.

Badly.

But she was too far gone for him to stop it now.

He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her. And though they had engaged in sexual congress many times before, his lips on hers somehow felt far more intimate than any other act. More intimate, even, than his cock in her mouth and his spend shooting down her throat. Because this was different. It transcended physical desire. He took his time, his hands caressing her with soothing motions, almost as if she were a horse easily spooked. And he made no move to undress her.

He touched nary a button nor a hook nor a tape. Her hem stayed where it was, her bustle crushed at an awkward angle beneath her bottom, his length buried somewhere under the layers separating them. All he did was ravish her mouth. Again and again and again until she felt delicate and new, as if one false move might destroy her.

No one had ever made her feel like this.

She cradled his face in both hands, holding him to her, returning his kisses, accepting his tongue, giving him hers. Until finally, they were both breathless, her lips swollen, and he gently tipped her head back, severing the connection.

“Tell me that felt like we’re over to you,” he rasped.

She stared at him, struggling to gather a comprehension of the English language. She felt like a forest that had been burned to the ground, and now that the flames had died, she must find new life again.

“It doesn’t feel like we’re over,” she admitted quietly.

To him. But, perhaps, most importantly, to herself.

“Good.” He leaned into her, pressing his mouth to hers in a surprisingly chaste kiss before breaking away. “I’ll send my carriage for you tomorrow after luncheon. Come and spend the afternoon with me and Pandy.”

She gawped. This was not what she had expected him to say or do. An invitation to bed. A crude shag in the chair, yes. Chaste kisses followed by a request to share the day with him and his daughter? Decidedly not.

“I… Brandon…”

“Cat too,” he added, grinning and making her heart beat faster. “We cannot forget our favorite rotten-pig-trotter-loving mongrel.”

“Rotten pig trotter?”

She had been reduced to repeating his words. But she was lost. Confused. Adrift at sea, trying to find any piece of flotsam to which she might cling.

He chuckled, the sound low and pleasant as silk drawn over her bare skin. “A long story. One I will share with you. Tomorrow.”

With that, he rose, the two of them moving as one until he settled her gently on her feet. Her knees threatened to buckle, her legs like those of a newborn foal.

“Please, o beloved sorceress of wayward children and ragtag mongrels. Say you will join us.”

Lottie shook her head, amused by him. Entranced by him. Falling further for him despite herself.

What was wrong with her? How had her plan to avoid him gone so amiss?

“My coachman will deliver me,” she said, feeling as if she must at least retain some manner of control.

“You and your bloody coachman,” he grumbled.

“John Coachman knows my secrets.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “I never thought to see the day I’d be jealous of a coachman.”

Was this more of his dramatic flair? Surely he couldn’t be serious.

She searched his gaze. “Why should you be jealous of him?”

“Because I want to be the keeper of your secrets. I want to be the man you entrust yourself to, Lottie.”

The earnestness in his voice made her breath catch. Before she could form a response, he stepped away from her, retrieving his hat in one elegant motion and placing it atop his head.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated. “Bring your own carriage if you must.”

With a bow, he started for the door. She watched him, feeling oddly bereft.

“Brandon,” she called.

He stopped, cocking his head toward her.

“No need to use the servants’ entrance when you leave,” she said, feeling foolish because she hadn’t wanted him to go, and she had been grasping at any means she could think of to stay him.

He inclined his head. “Through the front door like a proper suitor, it is.”

And then he was gone, and her heart was still beating wildly. Belatedly, it occurred to her that she hadn’t bothered to correct him when he had declared himself a suitor. She wasn’t certain why.

Tick, tick, tick went the mantel clock.

From his vigil at the fireplace, Brandon tried not to count the seconds that had passed as he waited. Instead, he concentrated on sounds.

Thump, thump, thump went his daughter’s feet on the Axminster.

Bark, bark went her silly hound.

He had been waiting for Lottie’s arrival one quarter hour, but it felt more like a century had passed. Likely, his interminable pause wasn’t helped by Pandy’s enthusiastic and boundless energy. She was like a watch spring, too tightly wound and then suddenly set free.

Brandon watched with mild amusement as his daughter galloped in a circle around the drawing room, Cat trailing happily at her heels, occasionally offering a cheerful bark. Likely, he ought to take her to task. Tell her to seat herself like a lady and calmly await their guest’s arrival.

But he didn’t have the heart to chastise her. He’d leave that duty for Miss Bennington.

“Pandy girl, you shall wear yourself out before Lady Grenfell even arrives,” he cautioned as she made another gleeful circumnavigation of the chamber.

“I’m assited for her to visit,” Pandy explained unapologetically.

“ Ex cited, my dear,” he corrected out of sheer habit.

Her vocabulary was large for a girl just approaching five years of age. However, her elocution was decidedly lacking.

“ Ass - ited ,” Pandy repeated, still mispronouncing the word, although she did so with painstaking care.

Oh well. He had tried, hadn’t he?

“Quite.” He smiled at her as she breezed by yet again, her cheeks tinged pink from her exertion.

“Do you think she’ll wanna play hide ’n seek?” Pandy called over her shoulder.

Cat barked.

He watched their procession, a swell of love rising in his chest, making his throat go tight. It was difficult to fathom he’d once had a life without his precious daughter and her ragtag spaniel in it.

Brandon cleared his throat. “I’m not certain Lady Grenfell will be in the mood to play games today, Pandy girl.”

Hell , he hadn’t the slightest notion of whether she would even deign to call. She had spent the last few days in a campaign of avoidance, fabricating all manner of excuses to keep him at bay. He knew why—she was stubborn and determined, and her disastrous marriage with that arsehole Grenfell had left her feeling that she should never trust a man again.

But he was every bit as resolute. He would prove to her that he was nothing like that bastard. Slowly. Carefully. He didn’t want to send her fleeing in the opposite direction, and he had no doubt that if he pressed his suit too far, she would. Lottie was beginning to feel something for him. Recognition had flared within him when he had looked into her eyes yesterday. And it had been those tender emotions that had sent her into hiding.

Pandy raced past him again. Was it her thirteenth or fourteenth lap of the room? He’d lost count, trapped in his own ruminations.

Just then, Shilling appeared at the door, dour and unsmiling. “The Countess of Grenfell to see Your Grace.”

“Missus Lady Grenspell!” Pandy shrieked, clapping her hands in delight.

Cat barked uproariously.

Brandon winced at the din. “See her in, if you please, Shilling.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” his butler said, displaying an astonishing ability to show no reaction whatsoever to the commotion in the drawing room.

He felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders as Lottie sailed over the threshold wearing a violet gown that made her glorious hair appear even more vibrant. Although the bodice was modest, her delicious curves were on full display, from her waist to her bountiful breasts.

Pandy rushed toward her, so eager that she scaled a settee that was in her way, fearlessly launching herself over the gilt-edged backrest.

“Pandy, you mustn’t climb the furniture,” he chided, watching as Cat followed suit, landing on all four paws with a soft thud before scrambling toward Lottie.

Brandon couldn’t fault them for their enthusiasm. He felt much the same at seeing her. For a wild moment, he wondered what his hard-hearted countess would do were he to rush toward her as well.

Instead of giving in to such a maudlin flight of fancy, however, he offered her a bow, remaining where he stood by the mantel and its steadily ticking clock. “Lady Grenfell, you are looking remarkably lovely this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said softly, with equal formality.

Pandy bounded into her, throwing her arms around Lottie’s skirts and nearly sending her to the floor. Cat, who had been remarkably well-behaved in recent days when it came to attempts at eating gowns, took a mouthful of her hems and began tugging.

“Cat,” he scolded. “You are to leave Lady Grenfell’s skirts alone.”

Cat pulled again, gleefully ignoring him.

His house resembled nothing so much as a wayward menagerie at the moment. He hastened forward as Lottie laughed, returning Pandy’s embrace.

“I’ve missed you, Pandy,” she told his daughter.

Her patience and acceptance made him love her even more.

“Cat,” he said sternly as he reached the trio, pointing a finger at the naughty beast. “Stop. Bad dog.”

“Cat, no,” Pandy added, frowning down at her hound. “No eating Missus Lady Grenspell’s dress.”

“Perhaps this is Cat’s way of saying she’s happy to see me.” Smiling, Lottie reached into her reticule, extracting what appeared to be a small hunk of cheese that had been wrapped in a cloth. “Or perhaps she knows I’ve brought a treat for her.”

Cat’s ears twitched, and she immediately released her mouthful of silk, retreating to her bottom, her dark-brown gaze rapt.

“Would you like some cheese, Cat?” Lottie asked.

The dog barked.

“Then you must have manners,” Lottie informed the spaniel.

Brandon felt a keen kinship with the dog in that moment. He wondered if he watched her with the same longing expression of undivided adoration. Likely so.

Lottie gave Cat a small bite of cheese, which the dog didn’t even bother to chew. Then she turned to Pandy. “Would you like to give Cat some cheese as well?”

“Oh yes!” Pandy grinned. “Please.”

Manners? Brandon was astounded. Perhaps some of Miss Bennington’s edicts had worn off on the child after all, despite the furniture climbing.

“Here you are.” Lottie placed the remainder of the cheese in his daughter’s outstretched hand. “But you must command her first. Tell her to sit. Let her know that you are in charge and she must behave.”

Pandy’s fingers closed around the cheese, and she turned her attention to Cat, who had risen at the first bite of cheese, her entire body wiggling with the movement of her tail. “Are you bein’ have?”

“Behaving,” he corrected gently. “The word is behaving , Pandy girl.”

“Sit, Cat,” Pandy ordered the dog.

Miraculously, Cat sat, eyes firmly pinned to Pandy’s hand and the promise of more cheese.

“Good Cat,” his daughter praised, then opened her fingers, allowing the cheese to fall.

The spaniel caught it effortlessly and swallowed it down, licking her chops.

“Excellent work, Pandy,” Lottie said, smiling down at her. “You see? You can persuade Cat to learn her manners by offering her a reward.”

“What is my reward for displaying manners?” he couldn’t resist asking, clasping his hands behind his back to keep from reaching for her.

Lottie smiled at him, and it was as if he’d been hit in the gut, the force of it. “I’m afraid I’m out of cheese, and besides, I’m not certain I would call you mannerly.”

She wasn’t wrong there. He wasn’t the politest fellow in the world.

“Oh, but I would beg to differ,” he countered. “I have been working quite hard on being a gentleman. I will accept all forms of bribery from you, regardless of whether it involves cheese.”

“What’s briarby?” Pandy asked, her nose crinkling as she struggled to repeat the word.

“Bribery, Pandy girl,” Brandon and Lottie corrected in unison.

Their gazes met and held, a becoming tinge of pink creeping over Lottie’s copper-dusted cheeks.

Her affection for his daughter was plain. And he loved her for it.

“Bribery,” Pandy repeated, slowly dragging out the syllables.

“There you have it,” he said, tearing his eyes from Lottie and smiling down at his daughter.

“But what’s it mean?” she wanted to know next, curious poppet that she was.

“It means persuading someone to do something you want them to do by offering them something they dearly love in return,” Lottie answered for him. “Such as persuading Cat to sit by offering her cheese.”

“What do you love, Papa?” Pandy asked him, looking at him with wide eyes so like his own. “So’s I can ribe you.”

“ B ribe,” Lottie corrected gently.

Surely it was wrong to teach an impressionable child how to bribe someone, he thought, trying not to laugh.

“You needn’t bribe me,” he told his daughter. “You’ve already managed to twist me around your pinkie and do your bidding.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “Not true.”

“No? How so?”

“You didn’t let me put a dress on Cat.”

She wasn’t wrong. Given the hound’s penchant for eating fabric, he’d deemed it ill-advised to do so.

A noise stole from Lottie, and he glanced back at her to find her attempting to suppress her laughter and failing. God , she was beautiful when she was amused. She was beautiful always, actually. But her smile, the husky sound of her chuckle, the way her sky-blue eyes danced with levity—it was almost more than a man could endure.

He wanted to kiss her.

But, of course, he couldn’t do that. Not in front of Pandy.

“I pray you can forgive me, Pandy girl,” he said solemnly. “However, I think it was a reasonable enough denial, since Cat likes to make dresses her supper.”

“It wasn’t suppertime,” Pandy pouted.

He sighed. “You know what I mean, dearest. Now, enough talk of bribery. It looks as if the rain is holding off. Why don’t we all take a stroll about the gardens? Unless Lady Grenfell objects?” He glanced at Lottie, waiting.

“Some fresh air would be just the thing.”

“Hope Cat don’t find no more pig trotters,” Pandy grumbled.

Lottie raised an eyebrow, giving him a searching glance, and Brandon launched into his tale of the infamous rotten trotter. By the time he was done, tears of laughter were sparkling in the corners of her eyes, they were crunching down the gravel path past blooming roses, and he didn’t think he’d ever known a moment of such complete and utter happiness in all his life.