Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

K idnapping was out of the question.

Forcing her to marry him by causing a scandal was as well.

Persuading her with lovemaking hadn’t worked.

No amount of reason or pleading his cause had made her waver from her determination to remain unwed.

Brandon faced a dearth of time and options. Who knew that the business of convincing a woman to marry him would be so bloody difficult?

“You’re looking Friday-faced,” King observed shrewdly, breaking through his ruminations.

They were playing billiards, which was ordinarily a game Brandon thoroughly enjoyed. However, he had been preoccupied by thoughts of Lottie, and he had been soundly trounced twice already.

“I’m feeling Friday-faced as well,” he said, grim. “I don’t suppose you’ve one of your potions handy, do you?”

The urge for oblivion was strong.

King grinned, aiming his cue stick for another shot. “Not today, I’m afraid. All I have is brandy and Scotch whisky. Would you care for a dram of either?”

“To hell with a dram. I’ll likely need the whole damned bottle,” he grumbled, gripping his cue stick tightly.

“That bad, is it? I wondered why you were losing so pathetically.”

He glared at his friend. “I’d hardly call it pathetic. Perhaps I was being charitable, allowing you a rare victory.”

King chortled. “Ha! Charitable. Tell me another, if you please. This billiards game is deadly dull, and I’m in need of amusement.”

Brandon sighed. “I have a problem.”

“I know.” King gestured at him airily. “Only just look at that waistcoat.”

Frowning, he glanced down at the satin waistcoat he was wearing. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s purple.”

“And?”

King shuddered. “And it looks like something more suited to a Georgian chap than a modern gentleman.”

“Pandy chose the color for me,” he admitted.

He had taken her shopping, and she had found a bolt of satin at his tailor’s that had struck her fancy.

“Ah, a child is responsible for that monstrosity,” King said. “I feel ever so much better now.”

Brandon scowled. “Why do I like you?”

His friend grinned. “I haven’t an inkling.”

“That makes two of us,” he grumbled.

“Will you take your turn, or are you intending to glower at me for the rest of the evening?” King wanted to know.

Blast.

He hadn’t been paying attention to the game.

“Glowering at you might yield a better result,” he pointed out. “It looks as if I’m about to lose to you for a third time.”

“It does indeed.” King made no effort to hide his glee. “I’ll not lie. Defeating you at billiards is one of my favorite pastimes.”

“You’re only winning because I’m too distracted,” he said, taking aim.

“And what are you distracted about? Your impending nuptials? You never did say who you’d settled upon as a bride. Whitby and I have a bet, and the only thing better than triumphing over you at billiards would be collecting fifty pounds from him.”

Brandon’s shot was woefully amiss. “You’re betting over me, now? Et tu , Brute ?” He straightened to his full height. “Who did you choose?”

“Lady Lavinia,” King said. “Whitby was persuaded that it’s Lady Grenfell. Didn’t think widows were to your taste, however.”

He swallowed hard against a rush of longing at the mentioning of Lottie. “One widow in particular.”

“Oh Christ.” King stared at him. “Never say you’ve fallen under the Countess of Grenfell’s spell.”

Her spell? Damn it. Accurate words. She had ensorcelled him quite neatly, and he hadn’t even realized it until it had been too late.

“I’m not sure I like the way you’ve phrased that, King.”

“How else to phrase it?” King shrugged. “It’s been said she has a magical?—”

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll break this cue stick over your bloody head,” he bit out, interrupting before his friend said something they would both regret. “That’s the woman I love that you’re talking about.”

He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, and he felt his ears and neck growing hot beneath his friend’s steady regard.

King whistled, propping his hip against the billiards table and leaning on his cue stick. “The mighty Duke of Brandon, felled by a feminine sword. I never thought I’d live to see the day our fearless leader would find himself at the mercy of any woman, let alone Lottie Grenfell. When is the wedding, old chap?”

“That’s the problem,” he ground out, his grim mood returning, chasing his ire. “There isn’t going to be one.”

“But you need to marry to appease your grandmother.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re—” King paused, making an exaggerated moue of distaste before resuming “—in love.”

He raised a brow. “Yes.”

“Vomitus.”

“King,” he cautioned. “You are sorely testing both my patience for you and the previously formidable bonds of our friendship.”

“The very thought of marriage makes me queasy,” King said with an unapologetic shrug. “I cannot help it.”

“Try harder to control yourself.”

King sighed. “I shall try, on account of our old and treasured friendship. However, I don’t understand. You’re in love with Lady Grenfell, you need to marry with all haste, and yet you’re not marrying the countess. Why the devil not? It sounds as if you’ve discovered the answer to our Wingfield Hall problem.”

“Because she won’t marry me.”

King’s brows rose. “She won’t marry you?”

“No. That bastard Grenfell hurt her badly, and she’s vowed never to wed again because of it.”

“Well, hell.”

He inclined his head. “Precisely.”

“Have you considered kidnapping her?” King asked.

“Kingham.”

“It was a joke,” his friend protested quite unconvincingly. “Have you thought about blackmail or bribery? Or perhaps slipping something into her wine…”

“Are you suggesting I drug the woman I love to dupe her into marrying me?”

“Odd how neither blackmail nor bribery elicited as strong a response,” King observed.

“You are a Machiavellian menace,” he said without heat.

His friend grinned. “I pride myself upon it. You’ve told her you love her already, so it isn’t as if you could make inroads that way.”

“I haven’t, actually.”

“There you are.” King made a dramatic flourish in the air. “Your problem is solved. Run along and tell the lady that you love her. Women apparently adore that sort of claptrap.”

He had considered revealing his feelings to her. But the notion terrified him. Her rejection of his proposals was one thing, but if she were to reject his love altogether… No, he wouldn’t even contemplate it. There was also the matter of his ineptitude at knowing how to build a proper relationship with a woman, one that relied on love and trust rather than base lust.

“I haven’t the slightest idea of how to properly make such a revelation,” he admitted.

King scoffed. “Well, don’t look to me for advice. I’ve never been in love.”

His claim had Brandon pinning him with a pointed look. “Not even with Miss Townsend?”

King’s expression hardened. “Especially not with her.”

Brandon didn’t believe him for a moment. “If you say so.”

“I do.” A muscle twitched in King’s jaw. “Ask a woman how you ought to proceed.”

“The only woman I know well enough to ask is Lottie,” he said dejectedly, for conversing with any of his past paramours on the matter of securing a wife was decidedly de trop . “Or Pandy.”

King winced. “Yes, but she’s a child, and she approved of that godforsaken waistcoat. Is there no one else?”

Brandon thought for a moment. “Grandmother, I suppose.”

“There you have it.” King beamed. “Ask your grandmother. I’ve no doubt she’ll be pleased to see you married off and obeying her edict. Two birds, one stone, et cetera.”

It occurred to him then, with sudden, painful, almost dizzying clarity, that it wasn’t advice he needed to seek from his grandmother. Rather, it was surrender.

Because he’d spent the last few weeks determined to keep from losing Wingfield Hall, only to realize what mattered most. Not an estate. Not funds. Not the Society. But Lottie and Pandy. They were who mattered to Brandon more than anyone and anything else in all the world.

But if he wanted to win Lottie’s hand, he was going to have to prove that to her.

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand, Brandon.”

He was seated opposite his grandmother in her opulent drawing room, which was laden with so many objets d’art , plants, and pieces of furniture that it made a man feel as if he were suffocating just looking at all the bric-à-brac . He tried to ignore the three-foot-tall monk sculpture that was eyeing him steadily at his left and the cloying fronds of a potted palm at his right.

“You may give Wingfield Hall to Horrible Horace,” he repeated, more than aware that he was being churlish.

He couldn’t help it. He’d never liked the oafish clodpoll. He liked him even less now. Somehow, Brandon would have to make amends to his friends for the loss of Wingfield Hall. If he had to dig into his own coffers to do so, he would. Because he refused to marry anyone but Lottie. And she didn’t seem any more inclined to wed him now than she had when he had first proposed.

“That is a most unkind sobriquet,” his grandmother chastised, frowning as she stroked the pug curled in her lap.

Idly, he wondered how many dogs Grandmother had collected. He’d counted no fewer than eight during his brief call already.

“It is an accurate one,” he pointed out, unapologetic.

“You’ve chosen not to marry, then?” she asked in a tone that dripped with disapproval.

“On the contrary. I intend to marry. However, the lady in question is reluctant to wed. I very much doubt I’ll be able to persuade her to marry me in less than a month’s time. Therefore, I felt it pertinent to inform you.”

It pained him to admit it. Failure was a novel sensation for Brandon. But he could swallow his pride. He could forfeit that which was rightfully his. He could survive the loss of Wingfield Hall.

What he couldn’t fathom was losing Lottie.

“Is the lady’s reluctance regarding the institution of marriage in general or is it down to marrying you in particular, Brandon?” Grandmother wanted to know.

“Marriage in general, I believe. Having endured an unhappy union, she is deeply hesitant to entrust herself to a marriage again.”

The acknowledgment was not without an accompanying surge of fury for Grenfell, that blighter. The man had been too selfish and stupid to appreciate her. Worse, he had hurt her. And Brandon couldn’t lie—he absolutely despised that the bastard had broken her heart.

“A widow,” Grandmother said, raising a winged silvery brow.

“The Countess of Grenfell,” he confirmed.

“That explains the lady’s reticence.” Grandmother harrumphed, thumping her cane for emphasis. “The earl was a horse’s ass.”

Brandon’s lips twitched at her unexpectedly blunt pronouncement. “On that, we are in agreement, madam.”

“Why Lady Grenfell?” Grandmother asked shrewdly, studying him in a way that made Brandon want to shift in his uncomfortable chair.

Something was tickling his right ear, and he realized it was a bloody palm frond. He felt a nudge at his foot and looked down to find another pug nosing at his boot.

“She cares for Pandy. She laughs at Cat’s antics. She looks at me, and it’s as if all the world stops around us.” He did squirm in his chair then, realizing he sounded maudlin, and cleared his throat. “And many other reasons as well.”

“Do you love her?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I do. I’m quite hopelessly, disgustingly besotted with the woman, and there is no one I want to spend the rest of my life with other than her.”

Grandmother’s stern mouth turned upward into a small smile. “Do you know who else was a horse’s ass, Brandon?”

“Myself, on innumerable occasions,” he admitted wryly, preparing himself for a richly deserved scold.

Christ knew he had earned his rakish reputation. He wasn’t proud of it now, but he wasn’t precisely ashamed either. His past had made him the man he was, and that man was a far cry from the wild, reckless youth he’d once been.

“I shan’t argue with you on that account,” Grandmother said. “However, there is a greater horse’s ass I am thinking of presently, and your admittedly ill-advised foibles pale in comparison to his sins.”

Brandon clenched his jaw. “I believe I know to whom you refer.”

“Your father,” his grandmother confirmed. “He was incapable of knowing the treasure he held in his grasp. He was arrogant and cold, and his first and only concern was for himself. Your mother fell in love with him when she was a girl newly come out. He wanted her for her youthful beauty and family fortune, of course. I knew it then, for our bloodlines yet remain too close to the stink of trade. Watching her give her heart to a man so undeserving, one who slowly, day by day, crushed not just her love for him, but also her spirit, was one of the most painful tragedies I have witnessed.”

Brandon swallowed against a rush of emotion and grief. His memories of his mother were precious but indistinct. Her perfume, her smile, her arms wrapped around him, soothing him after he had fallen off a horse once, just before his father had stormed into the room, telling him that men didn’t cry like puling girls. They had argued that day, his mother’s voice rising until there had been the stinging sound of a slap. Brandon had hidden his face in his mother’s voluminous skirts, and he’d been too afraid to look.

But he had known. Even as a lad, he’d understood that his father was a violent brute. He wondered if his grandmother knew the full extent of his sire’s viciousness.

“He did her violence,” he said hoarsely. “Did you know it?”

His grandmother’s nostrils flared. “I suspected. Diana would never confirm when I asked her. She hid a great deal from me, some of which I only learned after her death. It is one of my greatest regrets that I didn’t try harder to dissuade her from marrying Brandon.”

His gut clenched. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about his mother or what she had endured at the brutal hands of his sire for some time now. He wished that he had been older, stronger. That he might have protected her instead of her protecting him.

“I always hated him,” he managed past the emotion tightening his throat. “He was cruel and he was a bully, but it wasn’t until the day I heard him slap her that I realized the true depths of his cruelty.”

He understood now why his father had been so hell-bent upon keeping him away from his mother’s family for so many years, the void that had been driven between them.

“He was a vile man,” Grandmother agreed. “And I feared he had made you in his mold.”

“Never,” he vowed. “I am nothing like him. I would not raise my hand against a woman.”

She nodded, still stroking the sleeping pug in her lap. “I can see that now. Fortunately, you’ve far more of my darling Diana in you than you do of your father. I think that becoming a father yourself has brought out the very best in you, Brandon.”

The pug at his feet licked his boots, so he bent down and offered the fellow a scratch between the ears before straightening in his seat. “Thank you for bringing her to me that day.”

She gave him a pointed look. “I trust there are no opera singers beneath your roof now?”

He winced. “No.”

Grandmother nodded. “Good. Is there something else you would like to tell me? Anything about Wingfield Hall, perchance?”

The last thing he wanted to do was reveal the truth of Wingfield Hall to her. But there was freedom in honesty, and if the last few weeks had taught him anything, it was that he was ready to relinquish his position as the unofficial leader of the Wicked Dukes Society.

“I suppose you know about the Society,” he said.

“As I told you before, I know something of it from those dreadful whispers, though I don’t wish to know all.” His grandmother frowned. “I also know what you’ve been doing with the funds you earn from it.”

“How?” he asked.

She gave him a secretive smile. “I have my ways. I don’t approve of what you’ve been doing beneath my nose, mind you.” She punctuated her words with a regal thump of her cane.

“Of course not.” The pug at his feet placed his front paws on Brandon’s knee, gazing up at him adoringly, his tongue lolling. “I must beg your forgiveness.”

“Yes,” his grandmother said archly. “You must. However, I have decided to reconsider my decision concerning Wingfield Hall and your cousin Horace.”

“You have?”

She nodded, a faint smile reappearing. “I have. I’ll be giving Wingfield Hall to you instead of your cousin Horace, and I’ll begin the process at once. It’s past time I did so, really. I have been holding on to it as if your grandfather were still there, but returning to Wingfield Hall reminded me that he isn’t, and the memories will always remain in my heart.”

He wasn’t certain how to feel about her revelation. He had come here, having already accepted that Wingfield Hall would no longer be his.

“Did you love my grandfather?” he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“Very much so.” Grandmother sniffed, her green eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Now then, I find myself weary and in need of a nap. Thank you for paying me a call, Brandon. I hope you might do so again soon, and you may as well bring young Pandora with you.”

The invitation made him smile. “Of course. I think Pandy would like that.”

She would also adore the overfilled drawing room—the chance to see and touch and potentially knock over so many objects would be a potent lure.

“The mutt, however,” his grandmother warned sharply, “must remain. She isn’t civilized enough to meet my beloved pugs. I’m still suffering nightmares about the scent of that wretched trotter.”

He chuckled. “As you like.”

“And Brandon?”

He gave the pug a pat on the head. “Yes?”

“I wish you luck with Lady Grenfell.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

He feared he was going to need it.