Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“ I ’m afraid I must decline the generous invitation to your home, Lady Grenfell.”

Lottie stared at the Duke of Brandon, certain she had misheard him in the noise of the ballroom crush. Tonight was the night, she had told herself as she had prepared her toilette earlier that evening. The night she persuaded London’s greatest lover to accompany her home so that she might experience his legendary bedroom prowess herself. They had been dancing about each other, traveling in the same circles, Lottie having been invited to not one but two of Brandon’s balls.

The time had come for more.

She moved subtly nearer to him, knowing all too well the way her latest corset from Mrs. Loveton put her ample breasts on display in her daring evening gown. “I must have misheard you, Your Grace. The ballroom is so dreadfully loud. What did you say?”

His startling green gaze dropped to her decolletage for only a moment before meeting her eyes again. “I said I must regretfully decline.”

She felt like a sail ship in the absence of wind.

“Decline,” she repeated stupidly, heat creeping up her throat to her cheeks.

Oh, blast her red hair. Nothing made her more cross than her uncontrollable propensity for blushing whenever she was embarrassed.

But then, this went beyond mere embarrassment. Utter humiliation, she thought with grim self-loathing, would be a far more apt description of her present state.

“Indeed, I fear I have other engagements this evening that preclude me from joining you later.” Brandon smiled, and the effect was as devastating as ever, despite his easy dismissal.

The duke’s hair was a rich shade of mahogany, worn in carefully tousled waves that perpetually looked as if a woman’s fingers had just run through them in ecstasy. And likely, they had. He possessed the sort of astonishing good looks that made women all but swoon over him. Firm jaw, cleft chin, the most sensual mouth she had ever beheld on a man—certainly, a mouth made for kissing—sharp cheekbones, a straight, elegant blade of a nose, and a brooding stare that felt like a caress.

Had she misread the signs that he was interested in her? Since her period of mourning for Grenfell had ended, Lottie had indulged in several flirtations. She was no novice. Surely she had not been wrong about the heated stare she had caught trained on her so many times recently. That, coupled with his association with her dear friend Hyacinth’s lover, Viscount Sidmouth, had made Lottie quite certain of herself.

But now, she had offered a blunt invitation to her bed, and he had refused, quite as if it were of no consequence at all. As if the notion were neither tempting nor even remotely of interest to him.

“Of course,” she murmured, wishing the floor would open up and provide her with a place to hide and forget she had so mortified herself. “There will no doubt be scores of other gentlemen happy to take your place.”

That much was true. Lottie was indeed quite sought-after. But she was also extraordinarily selective.

Brandon’s grin turned self-deprecating as he inclined his head. “No doubt.”

There was nothing more to say, and the floorboards had not obligingly opened to swallow her.

She forced a smile for her pride’s sake. “I’ll bid you good evening, then, Your Grace.”

She moved to skirt past him when he stopped her.

“Wait.”

Lottie paused, angling her head at him even as her wounded pride said she should carry on and forget this dreadful humiliation had ever happened. He watched her with a hooded stare, his eyes intense and brilliant as emeralds.

She steeled herself against the effect he had on her, making her tone impersonal and cool. “Yes?”

Brandon startled her by reaching for her hand, their positioning such that none of their fellow revelers could see what he was about. His hold was gentle, his thumb swirling over her inner wrist in a slow, maddening caress. She wondered if he could feel her leaping pulse and cursed herself for her weakness.

Lottie had been touched before, and far more intimately. There was no reason for her body to catch flame as it did now—her nipples pebbling under her corset, a frisson of awareness stealing through her as quick as lightning, desire pooling low in her belly. And yet, she could not seem to stay her own maddening reaction.

“There’s a salon just out of the ballroom, down the hall,” he said softly, still stroking her sensitive inner wrist with delicate deliberation. “The third door to your right. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

An assignation?

He hadn’t refused her, then.

“Ten minutes, and make sure no one sees you,” he repeated softly, giving her wrist a light squeeze.

Releasing her, he took a step back and then swept into an elegant bow.

Lottie watched him as he moved away, his long-limbed strides containing the casual confidence of a duke who knew his place in the world. He was a breathtaking man. It was impossible not to take note of the way the gazes of other women at the ball strayed to him. The Duke of Brandon had a reputation. A wicked one. And soon, she would be experiencing it firsthand.

A shiver of anticipation went down Lottie’s spine, but not without the accompanying surge of nervousness. She had taken lovers in the wake of Grenfell’s death, but they had been a few, discreet affairs conducted in privacy, with no chance of prying eyes or ears. She had never, in all her days, indulged in a hasty tryst during a ball.

But she was going to now.

Wasn’t she?

Oh good heavens, what if this was a dreadful mistake? She had told herself that being bold and brash and wild was the best revenge she could possibly have upon Grenfell for breaking her heart and then dying, leaving her alone. But she couldn’t lie. Some days, playing the role of merry widow—burying her sadness in diversions that never lasted or satisfied—was naught but cold comfort. Her husband was gone, and despite Lottie having been deeply in love with him, he had never returned her love, instead spending the entirety of their marriage bedding a string of mistresses. She had no children. And the lovers she’d taken had not made the emptiness inside her any less.

Would Brandon?

Oh, if only Hyacinth were here. The widowed Lady Southwick was one of Lottie’s oldest and dearest friends. Hyacinth often understood Lottie better than she understood herself. However, Hyacinth had also been eschewing polite society recently, claiming she was ill. Lottie was going to have to seek her out at the first available opportunity and force her from her doldrums. Ending her affair with Sidmouth had left Hyacinth desperately melancholy, and Lottie knew all too well the pain a broken heart could cause.

“Lottie!”

She turned at the familiar sound of another, different friend’s voice, relieved to banish her concerns for a few moments as genuine pleasure shot through her. “My dear. I didn’t expect to see you this evening.”

Miss Rosamund Payne was particularly resplendent this evening in a silk gown of shimmering gold and pale lavender silk that complemented her gold-red hair, ivory skin, and dark eyes. An heiress in her own right, Rosamund was renowned for her sharp intellect, sharper tongue, and for her beloved parrot, Megs, who often accompanied her to social engagements. The bird was not with her this evening, however.

“I wasn’t intending to come to the ball,” Rosamund confided in conspiratorial fashion, “but then I decided I had to see whether Camden would be in attendance.”

The revelation piqued Lottie’s interest. The Duke of Camden, like the Duke of Brandon, was a rake with a certain reputation. He was also the elder brother of Rosamund’s former betrothed.

The Duke of Camden’s scapegrace younger brother, Lord Wesley Gilden, a second son with a need for Rosamund’s fortune, had broken her heart. He had committed the egregious sin of asking for Rosamund’s hand and pretending he loved her, all whilst carrying on with an actress in St John’s Wood. When Rosamund had inadvertently discovered his treachery— the actress had sent her a letter to inform her that she was expecting a child with Lord Wesley—she had been devastated, throwing Lord Wesley over.

“Why should you wish to know if Camden is here?” Lottie asked, curious beyond measure.

She adored gossip. It was one of her only vices. Well, that and fine Bordeaux. And handsome men.

“Because I need to speak to him,” Rosamund answered with a heavy sigh. “He has presented me with a proposition that I find… interesting , despite my better judgment.”

Lottie’s mouth fell open. “Oh?”

Something salacious, she was sure. The Duke of Camden was a bounder. An unapologetic cad. He would never make a proper offer to anyone, regardless of how desperate his circumstances had become, having had a father who had beggared not just himself, but all the estates in the entail as well. He was a rogue to the rotten core, scarcely any different from his brother.

“Don’t look at me so,” Rosamund chided. “It is not that sort of proposition, if you must know.”

Lottie bit her lip. “What sort?”

“The indecent sort,” Rosamund elaborated, looking distinctly uncomfortable now. “Rather, it was quite proper. He offered me marriage.”

Lottie could have been knocked off her feet with nothing more than a feather, so great was her shock.

“He did?” she managed at last past her own incredulousness.

“In return for something I want very much,” Rosamund explained, taking care to keep her voice from traveling.

“What is that, my dear?”

Rosamund smiled. “Revenge.”

Brandon consulted his pocket watch for the fifth time as he paced the Axminster in the emerald salon—so named for its abject fidelity to the color green—where he had arranged to meet with the Countess of Grenfell. She was late. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Ordinarily, Brandon was the sort of man who waited for no one. But this evening was different, and he was willing to exert his limited patience for one reason alone.

He needed a wife.

Needed one with as much haste as he could muster, and the very notion of courting made him want to stab his eyes out with a pair of dull pickle forks. Grandmother had made herself clear, however. If he didn’t marry within the next three bloody months , she had every intention of changing her will, leaving Wingfield Hall and the rest of her fortune to his dreadful cousin Horace.

The redheaded beauty who had been sending him take-me-to-bed glances for weeks seemed as good a choice as any, particularly after she had issued a brazen invitation to her bed. As a widow, she was experienced enough not to have the missish sensibilities of a virgin. She was friends with Lady Southwick, whom his good chum Sidmouth had recently been in lust with—small world, et cetera, et cetera. Her family was respected and well-known, and Grandmother could find no fault in it, even if Lady Grenfell’s own reputation was a trifle scandalous.

Brandon didn’t give a damn how many lovers she’d taken in the past. Hell, he didn’t care if she took lovers again after they were married. All he did care about was placating Grandmother and securing Wingfield Hall forever. Besides, he told himself as he stalked the length of the chamber once more, feeling like a lion trapped in a cage, he would need someone to look after Pandora. Oh, he knew it wasn’t done to ask one’s wife to tend to a child born on the wrong side of the blanket. However, he wasn’t inclined to send his poppet away now that he had her.

One look at her heart-shaped face and dark ringlets, and he had been irrevocably changed. She had slipped her hand into his, the gesture so trusting and guileless that he had been left speechless. Until she had later upended his inkwell, allowed a bird into the house from the gardens which had promptly shat all over the carpets— but Duke, her name’s Emily, ’n we’re friends —and wetted herself whilst sitting on his lap. Then, Brandon had found words, along with the realization that he required assistance when it came to the little imp beyond the nursemaid he had hastily hired.

Yes, the timing would be excellent in all ways.

He knew what he had to do.

As if on cue, the door to the salon clicked open, and the Countess of Grenfell slipped over the threshold, closing it at her back. Their gazes met and held, and for a heartbeat, something coursed through him—a deep, elemental acknowledgment of her as a woman. She was astoundingly lovely, and it couldn’t be denied.

Lady Grenfell hesitated as he took a moment to admire her. She was lush of form, with a mouth any courtesan would covet, fiery tresses, and sea-blue eyes. Her skin was pale, dusted with a delightful smattering of freckles he wouldn’t mind exploring with his tongue. He wondered if her breasts were dusted with freckles as well. Tiny flecks of gold to contrast with ivory mounds and sweet pink nipples.

His cock went rigid at the thought of exploring her.

Not now, old chap. We have more important matters to attend to just now.

Matters such as marriage.

The reminder made his rampaging prick wilt enough to render forward locomotion less uncomfortable. His trousers were still deuced snug. He strode toward her anyway.

“Lady Grenfell.” Brandon bowed formally when he reached her, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips for a lingering kiss on the knuckles.

He had dispensed with his gloves, but she still wore hers, and the impediment was nettlesome. The pleasant scent of roses, tinged with a hint of violets, reached him. She must have dabbed some scent on her inner wrist during her toilette that evening.

“Your Grace.”

He suddenly wished to tug her glove away and know the softness of her bare skin. But that could come later. For now, he couldn’t afford to luxuriate in seduction. And damn it if that wasn’t a rarity for him.

He straightened but didn’t relinquish his hold on her hand. “Call me Brandon. Surely there is no need for formality between us.”

She inclined her head, still holding his gaze in that brazen way of hers he found so deliciously enticing. “As you wish. You may call me Lottie if it pleases you.”

Lottie. The name suited her. Bright and lovely, rather like a butterfly.

“Lottie,” he repeated, trying the name on his tongue and finding he liked the feel of it as well. “Come and have a seat, won’t you?”

Her brow furrowed, as if she found his request puzzling. “Of course.”

She believed he had invited her to the emerald salon for a tryst. Her befuddlement was understandable, and God knew he wished he had brought her here for that purpose instead. He offered her his arm, escorting her to the seating arranged before the hearth, a generously sized Louis Quinze settee and a pair of wingback chairs.

A sudden sense of indecision struck him.

He had never proposed marriage to a woman before. Brandon had made innumerable indecent and wicked proposals over the years. But never a proper one. Good God, what did one do? He ought to have prepared some manner of speech whilst he had been awaiting her. What should he say? Something flowery? Something pragmatic? A false declaration of love? An ode to her breasts?

Well, Christ. What a conundrum.

Brandon guided her to the settee and then settled himself at her side, her cream-and-crimson silk skirts brushing his trousers. It was bold of her, pairing her vibrant red hair with such a daring gown. But the effect was undeniable. At this proximity, she was even more exquisite. Her eyes were pale blue with a ring of gray circling the irises—quite unusual. He didn’t think he’d ever seen such a shade before.

Long, coppery lashes swept over the eyes he’d been admiring. “This room is…quite…green.”

Her polite, if somewhat grim, observation jolted him from his thoughts.

Brandon gave her a wry grin. “Hence the reason it is known as the emerald salon. Do you find fault with it? I must confess, I’ve never had an eye for such matters. The wall coverings, furniture, and even the pictures hanging are relics from Dukes and Duchesses of Brandon past.”

“I don’t find fault with it,” she assured him, a small smile flirting with the corners of her sultry lips as she discreetly tugged off her gloves and laid them in her lap. “I was merely surprised at the prodigious amount of the color. A Duke or Duchess of Brandon past must have been inordinately fond of the shade.”

“My paternal grandmother, I believe.”

“Oh dear.” She bit her lip, and that had his unruly cock awakened once more. “I do believe I’ve just insulted your grandmother. Quite unintentionally, of course. Forgive me.”

He shifted in an effort to lessen the effect her mouth and nearness were having on him. “I scarcely use this room. Think nothing of it.”

They stared at each other, the ormolu clock on the mantel—another relic from past dukes and duchesses—ticking into the silence, the muted strains of music and voices in the distance as its sole accompaniment. How the devil was he to proceed?

He knew everything about seduction.

But he knew absolutely nothing about proposals of marriage.

“Is this—” she began.

“Perhaps I—” he started in unison.

They both stopped. This was proceeding wretchedly. He was going to have to revert to what he knew best. On any other occasion, he would have already had her skirts around her waist. She would have been moaning his name by now.

Maybe that was the answer he was seeking. He could combine a seduction with a proposal.

Brandon reached for her, cupping her cheek, the smooth warmth of her skin sending searing awareness careening through him. Her gaze fastened on his. He stroked the lip she had been abusing with the pad of his thumb, and then he angled his head toward hers, hesitating for a moment, curiously entranced by the golden flecks dancing along the bridge of her nose.

A potent awareness blossomed between them. She was the first to break the moment, moving toward him swiftly, their mouths meeting. Lottie kissed him with unabashed ardor, her lips as silken as the rest of her, hot and damned drugging. They were soft, laced faintly with champagne. He thought he’d never tasted anything better.

He caught her waist with his one hand, pulling her more snugly against him as he slid the other to her nape, his fingers slipping into her cool, sleek chignon. He knew how to kiss without affecting a lady’s coiffure, but there was some elemental need within him, urging him to pluck pins away, to unravel her long, flaming hair so that he could revel in its glory as it cascaded down her back. Her lips parted, and he took advantage, delving inside with his tongue.

One pin slid free, and then another. A small sound of need came from low in her throat. The desire that roared through him took him by surprise. They had been dancing about each other—literally and figuratively—for weeks now. But she was close to his friend’s most recent inamorata, and he had known he needed to tread lightly where Lottie was concerned. However, all that had changed because, now, he was desperate.

It wasn’t desperation he was feeling at present, though, nor was it desperation that threatened to consume him. It was something far more potent. Because nothing could have prepared him for the way her lips felt on his, her tongue gliding boldly into his mouth.

Or for her hand on the fall of his trousers, lightly skating over his rigid cock in a tease that set his jaw on edge.

He jerked his head back as she gave him another slow, more thorough caress that made his ballocks tighten, holding his stare all the while. Her boldness pleased him so much that a rush of lust knifed through him with enough violence that he hissed in a breath, as if wounded.

Here was a woman who knew what she desired and wasn’t afraid to take it. To take him . And sweet Christ, if that wasn’t the most potent aphrodisiac he had ever known, he hadn’t an inkling what was. His breathing was ragged, his heart galloping. Everything in him screamed to tear open the buttons on his falls and let her do what she would with him. But no, he hadn’t invited her to the emerald salon for a frantic fuck. He had brought her here for another reason entirely.

Summoning all the control he possessed, Brandon snatched her hand away from his raging cockstand and brought it swiftly to his lips for a reverent kiss instead. “Lottie.”

“Mmm.” Her eyes were slumberous, lids low, eyes darkened with desire, twin pools of wintry, storm-ravished seas, and her glorious hair had begun to come undone, curls spilling over her shoulders.

He had to swallow hard against a new rush of need and remind himself that, for the first time in his misbegotten life, his responsibilities outweighed his own selfish wants. He couldn’t allow Lottie to unbutton his trousers, take out his cock, and ride him until they both came.

No, he had to ask her the last question in the world he had ever wished to ask of a woman.

One deep breath, and he blurted it.

“Will you marry me?”