Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

L ottie disentangled herself from Brandon, recoiling to the other end of the settee.

For the second time in the span of one evening, she was convincing herself she had misheard him. And yet, this time, there wasn’t the cacophony of a ball to blame. Nor did she think she had misunderstood his question.

No, indeed, he had enunciated it quite clearly.

And he was staring at her now, unfairly handsome, a wavy lock of hair fallen over his brow in a rakish manner. The expectation on his face was sincere, having replaced the look of sullen desire he had been wearing when her hand had been upon the thick ridge of his cock.

He had asked her to marry him.

Good God, was he mad?

“Are you jesting?” she demanded, struggling to form her thoughts after the turbulent desire that had roared through her at his kisses.

He was unsmiling. “I can assure you that I would never joke about so serious a matter.”

“But-but you are London’s greatest lover,” she sputtered.

He inclined his head. “I am aware of the somewhat dubious title. But I’m afraid I’ve no source of comparison. I cannot lay claim to the veracity of it. My pride, however, would certainly delight in doing so.”

The carved wood of the settee’s arm pressed into her back through her corset. “Are you soused?”

One corner of his lips curved in a mocking half smile. “Unfortunately not.”

Her mind whirled. “Then why…? That is to say, I don’t understand. I thought this was to be an assignation.”

“That is apparent, and as much as I adored your hand on my cock, I’m not in search of that sort of diversion this evening.”

Your hand on my cock.

Her cheeks went hot, and she knew she was flushing like a blasted tomato. “You needn’t be so vulgar, Your Grace.”

Your Grace. How strange and formal the honorific felt on her lips so soon after his tongue had stroked against hers and her hand had covered the indecent bulge that was still present in his trousers. At least his desire hadn’t been feigned, even if his ruse in inviting her here to this room had been.

He lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug, his eyes—even more vibrant here in the emerald salon, surrounded by shades of green—burning into hers. “I was being honest. There was nothing I would have liked more than to let you have your wicked way with me. There are simply other concerns awaiting me that can’t be ignored. I need a wife, and with great haste.”

Let you have your wicked way with me.

Her ears were burning now. Burning with shame. Which was a most unusual response. Since rebelliously embracing her widowhood and seeking her own pleasure, she had never been ashamed. She had held her head high. There was nothing wrong with desire. She could experience it—and want it, for that matter —just as well as any man could. Moreover, unlike Grenfell, she was not being faithless. Her loyalty was to no one, save herself.

Lottie tipped her chin up with defiance. “Perhaps I am the one who must beg forgiveness, Your Grace. I was under the mistaken impression, based upon our past interactions and your reputation, that you were amenable to a tryst.”

A new, small smile curved the duke’s beautiful lips. “Do you think you could have been satisfied at just one tryst with me, darling? If so, I daresay my reputation is in dire need of repair.”

He was making light of this wretched circumstance, but Lottie found no levity in it. Quite the opposite. She was horrified, but her pride refused to allow him to see that.

It required every bit of sangfroid she possessed to hold his stare and raise an indolent shoulder of her own. “Perhaps I wanted to see if you were a worthy enough lover for a second such arrangement.”

“How prettily you speak of fucking, dancing around the subject, neglecting to call it what it is.”

His voice was low, deceptively smooth, and it poured over her like warm honey. Nary a hint of censure or bite, and yet his words held the distinct note of challenge.

Unflinchingly, Lottie met it, smiling back at him, summoning all her bravado. “But we didn’t fuck, Your Grace. If we had, I would well understand the reason for your proposal. Men have a habit of begging me to marry them after they’ve been in my bed, you see.”

That wasn’t entirely true. But neither was it a lie. Her first lover after Grenfell’s death had been a kindhearted widower as nervous as she. But when he had professed his love and asked her to marry him, she had felt vaguely ill at the notion and thrown him over shortly thereafter, having learned her lesson.

Or so she had believed.

Brandon’s grin deepened. “No doubt the poor bastards do.”

She considered him, trying not to be distracted by his smoldering air and aristocratic good looks.

And failing miserably.

He was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life. Far more so than Grenfell, but it had been Grenfell’s charm that had won her over, not his massive, burly frame. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been alone in finding him dashing.

“You said you need to marry in haste,” she pressed, curious now in spite of herself about why the Duke of Brandon, whose rakehell ways were as infamous as they were legendary, would wish to take a wife. “Why?”

“Tut-tut, darling.” His grin faded, his expression going somber. “If you don’t accept my proposal, there’s no need to discuss the matter further, is there?”

How soundly he parried her every thrust. She wanted to know now more than ever. “You must admit that it’s quite unexpected. You are the Duke of Brandon, after all.”

“And I can assure you that I pride myself in never doing what’s expected of me.” He winked. “Unless you wish to accept my offer, that is?”

“No.” Her answer was swift, torn from her marrow. “I doubt that God himself could persuade me to marry again.”

“Ah, a pity. Even I must accept I’m a mere mortal. Thank you for your time, dear lady.”

He rose from the settee, flouting convention by standing in her presence. Lottie sat there, flummoxed, the heat of his lips still burning on hers, her body newly awakened, nipples hard beneath her corset, aching in her core.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

His grin returned, the corners of his eyes crinkling, those eyes of his sparkling to rival the color of the damask walls. “To redouble my efforts, of course. I still find myself in need of a bride. Are you certain I cannot persuade you?”

“N-no,” she stammered, standing, feeling quite as if she had drunk too much champagne.

And perhaps she had.

Brandon bowed. “Then I bid you good evening, lovely Lottie, and good luck on your own particular quest.”

And then he was gone, leaving Lottie standing in the midst of the emerald salon, wondering what in heaven’s name had just happened.