Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

L ottie woke to the early traces of dawn being painted across the London sky. A heavy, masculine arm was wrapped around her waist, and the hot brand of a strong chest was at her back. Beneath the counterpane, she was naked. And there was no mistaking the rigid length prodding the cleft of her buttocks.

It took her a moment to blink the slumber from her eyes and recognize her surroundings. She was in Brandon’s bedroom at his love nest in St John’s Wood, where they had decamped for dinner following an afternoon with Pandy and Cat.

Against her better judgment, she had accepted his invitation.

And against all ration and reason, she had allowed him to take her hand and lead her to this room where he had systematically stripped her bare and made slow, sensual, deliberate love to her. Not just once, but twice.

The hand that had been splayed over her stomach shifted, gliding upward to land on her breast. She glanced down at his hand, taking a moment to admire the long, elegant fingers, the signet ring he wore on his pinkie, the smattering of dark hair on his skin, so very masculine, so much larger than her own.

His hand shifted, his thumb grazing over her already hard nipple, which was separated from his touch only by two thin layers of bedclothes. Her breath caught, sensation pulsing to life. She wanted him again.

But she would not give in, she told herself. She would roll away from him gently to keep from waking him. And then she would slip from the bed and gather her garments, dressing in the semi-light before he rose. Before he made her forget all the reasons she must not linger with him. Why she must not continue sharing his bed. Why she must not allow the tender feelings threatening to blossom like a summer rose.

His thumb stroked over her nipple again, and all her stern warnings to herself fled. Lips fluttered over her nape, then found their way to her shoulder. He was awake. The state of his cock and those teasing caresses to her nipple ought to have told her so.

“Good morning, Venus.”

His voice was a low, delicious rasp. She wanted to hear it every morning. Wanted to fall asleep to it as she had last night.

“Good morning,” she said carefully, reminding herself that what she wanted and what she needed to do were two entirely different things.

“I recognize that tone.” He nipped the side of her throat.

“What tone?” Despite herself, she craned her neck, giving him more space to tantalize her.

He kissed her ear. “The one that says you are already thinking of leaving me.”

“Already? I spent the night here. As it is, poor John Coachman has likely spent a very uncomfortable evening in the alleyway behind your house.”

“I sent him home with instructions to return at dawn. He’ll not have passed the night without the comfort of his own bed.”

He sounded pleased with himself. She’d had no notion he had been so high-handed.

Lottie cast an arch glance in his direction, trying to summon outrage and finding it difficult indeed. “Sure of yourself, weren’t you?”

He smiled, looking not at all slumberous, but rather like a big, menacing jungle cat stalking his prey. “I reckon I was rather confident I might persuade you to remain.”

His confidence hadn’t been misplaced either. For he had convinced her with ease. A few expert kisses, a few knowing caresses, and she had been clay ready to be molded in his hands. He had found a place on her inner elbow that was absurdly sensitive. When he kissed her there, it was impossible to remember her name. It was silly, and yet it was true. Languid warmth pooled between her thighs at the reminder of his mouth roaming hungrily over her body the night before.

She tried to banish the needy sensation, and yet it lingered, not helped by his body pressed to hers, his cock prodding her bottom, his scent tangled around her.

“You persuaded me well enough,” she allowed. “But now, I truly must go. I dare not linger and risk discovery.”

“Or,” he said, drawing out the lone word as he kissed her spine, “you could remain with me for a few moments more. What could be the harm?”

The harm could be significant. To both of them, of course. He had to marry. She wished to hold her head high in polite society. Her affairs had always been kept private. One needed to attend to propriety in such matters, or at least observe the pretense.

“I don’t dare,” she said, but there was precious little protest in her voice or in her body.

He kissed lower and then moved, rolling her to her back as he glided beneath the covers. Kisses rained over her breasts, down her stomach, to her navel. How novel, not being able to see him, only to feel his mouth whispering over her bare skin. She was even wetter now, curse the man. But then his lips landed there, at the apex of her thighs, and he kissed her aching clitoris before taking her into his mouth and suckling.

Perhaps a few minutes more, then.

She arched her back, a gusty sigh leaving her as she surrendered to pleasure, legs widening to accommodate his broad shoulders as he wedged himself more firmly between her thighs. Her eyes fluttered closed as his tongue swirled over her, followed by the nip of his teeth. She cried out, bowing from the bed, grasping twin handfuls of the bedclothes.

How could she already be so far gone, on the edge of reaching her pinnacle? It defied reason. He’d had her up half the night satisfying her, wearing them both out until they had fallen into a sated slumber together.

He lapped at her languorously now, as if he had all morning to lazily bring her to her peak. She writhed beneath him, eager, needing more. And when his tongue sank inside her, she hooked her knee over his shoulder, crying out his name.

So close.

She was so close.

He strummed his thumb over her pearl, playing her as if he were a maestro and she his instrument, knowing just where to touch, how much pressure, the perfect pace as he dipped his tongue into her.

She couldn’t withstand another second. Her crescendo burst over her like the sun appearing abruptly after a summer storm. She quaked beneath him, hips pumping, seeking, as he pleasured her to near madness. When the last ripple of bliss had been wrung from her, he lowered her leg gently and emerged from beneath the bedclothes, his mouth dark and glistening.

She was still struggling to catch her breath, thinking him the most handsome man she’d ever beheld when he spoke.

“Marry me.”

Her heart was yet pounding in her ears from the force of her orgasm. She was sure she had misheard him.

“I beg your pardon?” she managed weakly.

His emerald gaze locked on hers, his hair tousled and falling at a rakish angle over his brow. “Marry me, Lottie.”

And just like that, the pleasure drained away like used bathwater from a tub.

She sat up, the bedclothes falling to her lap, her hair a wild tangle that would have to be thoroughly brushed and combed out, but that was a worry for later. “You cannot be serious.”

But he wasn’t smiling, propping himself up on a forearm, unmoving and unrelenting. “I am being serious. Deadly so.”

Lottie stared at him, uncertain of what she should say, her chest tightening, her foolish heart rejoicing. Something deep inside her said this was what she wanted—a husband, a family, Brandon and Pandy. But that was a lie, she reminded herself firmly. That was what the old Lottie would have wanted, the Lottie who had existed before Grenfell. The Lottie who had been na?ve and trusting, who had worn her heart on her sleeve. And it had all been for naught.

“You know I cannot,” she told him. “I’ll never marry again.”

Brandon’s nostrils flared in a rare show of ire. “I’m not him. You understand that, do you not?”

The vehemence in his tone startled her.

She drew the bedclothes over her breasts, feeling exposed to him in a way that had nothing to do with her own nudity, and yet the act felt like a comfort, however small. “Of course I am aware of who and what you are. Good heavens, do you think that makes it any better? You are a bigger rakehell than Grenfell ever was.”

It was the truth. Grenfell had been a philanderer, but his conquests had been few rather than legion. His paramours had been lasting. He’d only had four during the course of their marriage that she’d known of, each one a dagger in her heart.

Brandon’s jaw was as tense as she’d ever seen it. Naked and powerful, the bedclothes pooled at his waist, he straightened his spine. “I am nothing like that bastard, Lottie, and you know it.”

Part of her said he was different from her husband. And the other part of her said he was worse—he was beautiful where Grenfell had been harsh-looking though compelling. Brandon had a rumored phalanx of conquests. Grenfell had fallen in love with few by comparison.

And yet, there was the side of Brandon that had melted her inner ice—the doting father who patiently listened to Pandy and tended to Cat. The handsome lover who always attended to her pleasure first instead of assuaging his own lust. The man who treated her opinions as if they were of value, who made her laugh with his dramatics, who reiterated tales about rotten pig trotters.

She was a torn mess of head and heart, common sense and emotion. She didn’t know which part of herself she ought to trust more. She was astonished to realize she wanted to believe Brandon was earnest in his proposal. And yet, she also knew he made it out of necessity rather than as a man who was in love with her, one who wanted to marry her, who needed her not just in his bed, but by his side.

It would never work.

He needed a wife, any wife, and he had clearly decided that she would do for convenience’s sake.

She shook her head. “Brandon, we’ve been through this before. A marriage between the two of us cannot— will not —happen.”

He flicked the hair from his brow, studying her with an intensity that was as disconcerting as it was rousing. “It seems a sensible enough solution to me. We are well suited to each other. Why do you refuse me?”

If only she could render herself impervious to him. To his charm, his masculine beauty, to his wicked seduction. Well. Grenfell had taught her rather a great deal about how to feign invulnerability.

She eyed Brandon calmly. “It seems like a terrible idea, which is why I’ve already told you that I have no intention of wedding anyone.”

He resembled nothing so much as a young lad who had just been informed that he could no longer have his favorite toy.

“Why?” he repeated, sounding hurt.

She swallowed against an unwanted rush of sentiment. “There are many reasons.”

He took her hand in his, lacing his fingers through hers. “Tell me them.”

The gesture shook her. She wanted to tug her hand away, and yet she found herself oddly reluctant to do so, to sever the contact.

Lottie bit her lip, summoning her reserve. “You won’t change my mind.”

He brought her hand to his lips for a fervent kiss. “I have better means of persuasion than words.”

She knew. Oh, how she knew. Had he not just demonstrated them, after all? And still, her body stirred at the sensual intent in his green eyes. But Lottie also was cognizant of the fact that she needed to remain stalwart. To not allow the protective walls she’d rebuilt around herself to crumble.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that perhaps he thought he could wield pleasure against her as a means of persuasion. Heavens, he likely thought her little better than Cat being swayed by a lump of warm cheese.

She tugged her hand away. “You can’t bed me into marrying you, Brandon.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps not. Or perhaps I can.”

Her eyes narrowed. “There is no perhaps , you rogue. Nothing you can do shall alter my opinion on the matter.”

He tossed the bedclothes away. “Don’t marry me, then. I’ll marry Lady Lavinia and breed her until she gives me an heir and a spare.”

His words were cold. Cutting. But it wasn’t just that. They burrowed beneath her skin. Found a tender, raw place inside Lottie she’d no longer believed was vulnerable. For a moment, it felt as if her very breath were frozen in her lungs.

Oh dear God.

When had she come to care for him so deeply? When had she so thoroughly devastated her own rule that she must never develop feelings for a lover?

She tried not to look at Brandon, but it was impossible. He was so virile, so potent, so beautifully formed, all lean muscle and masculine strength.

“You should marry her,” she forced herself to say, injecting a contrived lack of concern into her voice. “Lady Lavinia would make a perfect duchess, and I’m certain she would bear you all the children you require.”

All the sweet languor from their earlier lovemaking had fled, chased by the grim reality that their continued association was not just unwise, but impossible. She was losing the jagged shards of her heart to Brandon, and she could not bear to suffer beneath the agony of a one-sided marriage again. He’d not spoken a word of tender sentiment. Marry me , he said, as if it were as simple as blinking her eyes.

No, she couldn’t do that. And she couldn’t remain here either. The sun drew higher in the sky by the moment. She threw down the bedclothes and slipped from the bed, cool morning air drifting around her as she hastily retrieved her flung garments from the night before.

“I don’t want to marry Lady Lavinia,” he said quietly from the bed.

A part of her rejoiced, but she tamped it ruthlessly down.

“She is young and beautiful,” she said, priding herself for the coolness in her voice as she discovered her drawers hanging from the edge of a table. “She is everything you would want or need in a bride. All your problems will be solved.”

Lottie snatched up the drawers and stuffed her right leg inside.

“What are you doing?” he wanted to know, his voice a low, dark growl as the bedclothes rustled, indicating he was getting up.

Don’t look at him , she told herself. Do not look.

“Dressing so that I can leave. What does it look like?”

She kept her back to him as she muttered the question, slipping her left leg into the other half of the garment and hastily gliding it up over her knees, thighs, and hips.

“It looks like I’ve angered you with my own stupidity.”

His voice was low. And close.

Too close.

But Lottie wasn’t quick enough. Long arms banded around her waist and hauled her into a hard chest. His bare skin against hers was all she required for that infernal yearning to start building deep within her once more.

“Brandon, let me go,” she gritted, her hands falling on his arms in an attempt to extricate herself.

But the action was futile. He was too strong. And besides, when her hands had been placed over the inviting warmth of his forearms, her ability to resist him eroded precipitously. His chest was a brand at her back, and his lips, when they grazed over her ear in a tender kiss, sent a frisson down her spine.

“Please, Venus.”

She huffed a sigh, hating her heart for the way it reacted to his ridiculous pet name for her. “I’ve told you again and again, I’m no goddess. I’m a widow who is thirty years old. I’m bitter and jaded, and the only thing I want from a man is the pleasure he can give me, not his name.”

But even as she made the protestation, it fell weakly from her. Brandon’s mouth was on her throat now, kissing softly. Her resistance was melting faster than a candle thrown into a blazing fire.

He lifted his head, storms swirling in his eyes. “I’m three-and-thirty, which makes me three years your senior. I’m also bitter and jaded, and until recently, the only thing I wanted from a woman was the pleasure she could give me. But that has changed. Perhaps I’ve even changed.”

No, no, no. This was not what she wanted to hear. She didn’t want tender kisses or sweet protestations. She didn’t want him to stay her. She wanted him to let her flee.

“Brandon.”

“Lottie.”

Another sigh left her, so deep this time that the undersides of her breasts grazed his arms. “You know what I’m telling you. What do you have to gain by keeping me here? You’ll not persuade me to marry you.”

“Because you’re running from me, damn you, and I don’t accept that.” His words were urgent, practically vibrating with undeniable feeling that caused an ache deep inside her. “I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your company these last few weeks.”

“You’ve enjoyed my body,” she countered grimly. “You’ll find another woman to warm your bed with ease. Never fear.”

“Yes, but she won’t be you, damn it.”

He spun her about suddenly so that she faced him, trapped in the circle of his arms, her bare breasts pinned to him, her nipples crushed into a wall of muscle, her hands settling on his broad shoulders. But it was not his finely honed body alone that made a curious tingling pass through her. Rather, it was the way he was looking down at her, such raw tenderness in his eyes, in the relaxed lines of his countenance.

She swallowed hard, trying not to think about Brandon with another woman as he inevitably would be—future lovers, his bride, sharing his bed, knowing him as intimately as she did. How she loathed the notion.

“Whomever you choose as your wife,” Lottie forced out, “she will be better than me.”

He shook his head, ever stubborn, his jaw tightening. “No one can be better than you.”

Was that his charm talking? He couldn’t truly believe that no other woman would make him a better wife. She was too bitter, too old. She had known too much of the disappointments life inevitably had in store, and she didn’t want any more.

“Your grandmother is holding your feet to the fire with an impending marriage, else you’ll lose Wingfield Hall,” she continued, determined to reason with him. “Surely you cannot believe she would be satisfied with you marrying a jaded widow of my advanced age, and one with a noted reputation for taking lovers of her own.”

“She cannot choose my bride,” he vowed. “I would sooner see my odious cousin walk away with the estate.”

“If he did that, there would be no reason for you to wed,” she pointed out quietly.

“But why must I settle?” His emerald gaze searched hers, seeking answers she didn’t want to give. “Why can I not have the wife I desire and the estate that is rightfully mine both?”

“Spoken like a man,” she said. “A duke who has never known a moment of being denied what he wanted, when he wanted it. I’m not an estate, Brandon. I’m a woman. You cannot keep me. Your spoiled tantrums shan’t work on me.”

He worked his jaw some more. “So you mean to tell me that everything we’ve shared has meant less than nothing to you? Is that what you expect me to believe? That you only wanted me for my cock?”

She bit her lip at his crudeness, unsure of what to say.

They were already hurting each other, and she hated it.

“Don’t you see?” She shook her head. “This is what I seek to avoid.”

“What?” he asked. “Feeling? I hate to tell you, darling, but life is all about feeling. You cannot exist for a second on this earth without feeling something. It’s a sheer impossibility that defies all logic and reason.”

“Perhaps I’m mad, then. But I should like to keep myself free of all such encumbrance.”

“You think emotion an encumbrance?”

She closed her eyes as hot tears stung them. “I think it a mistake. A weapon that can be wielded against me. I’ll not allow it to happen. Not ever again.” Her voice was shaking, her hands trembling.

“I hate that bastard for hurting you,” he growled.

Lottie opened her eyes, still trying to keep those foolish tears where they belonged. “Neither of us can change the past. It’s made me who I am. I’m sorry, but this is all I can give you.”

“You refuse to marry me,” he repeated, his mouth drawn in a taut, harsh line.

“It’s for the best. I vowed I would never marry again, and I meant it.”

“What if you’re carrying my child?”

Her heart tripped over itself. Not that she hadn’t thought of the possibility, but it had seemed so very farfetched until he’d uttered it aloud. But she didn’t dare allow him to see the effect it had upon her.

She raised a brow, martialing her countenance into one of complete serenity. “Then I’m carrying your child.”

His jaw tensed. “Lottie.”

“Brandon, I’m likely barren,” she said quietly. “There was no issue in the years of my marriage to Grenfell.”

“It doesn’t matter to me if you are.”

“But it should. You’ll want an heir, surely.”

“I would far prefer to have you.”

Those stupid tears pricked her eyes again, but this time, it wasn’t sorrow for herself she felt. It was an incredible depth of emotion for the man holding her in his arms as if she were precious to him. As if he couldn’t bear to part from her. It was sadness over what might have been, but what could never be.

“You can’t have me,” she told him softly, painfully. “Find a suitable bride. You’re running out of time.”

They stared at each other, at an impasse.

And then he released her so abruptly she swayed on her feet, bereft without his heat and his strength. She had finally convinced him to surrender to defeat. She felt no joy in knowing she had won this particular battle. There was only a tremendous sense of mourning.

Without uttering another word, Brandon helped her to dress.

Lottie waited until she was in her carriage, John Coachman taking her home, before she allowed herself to weep.