Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

“ D -duke?”

Brandon awoke, as he had each day since his daughter’s arrival at his town house, to a tremulous, girlish voice calling him from the foot of his bed.

He sat up, already wearing a silk dressing gown for this very reason, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “Yes, Pandy?”

“The wolf m-man was comin’ to get m-me again.”

Bloody hell. Yet another nightmare. His poor, sweet girl—her sleep was riddled with them after her mother had abandoned her. He didn’t count himself particularly paternal, but even a dissolute rakehell like him could see quite plainly that the child needed protection and comfort.

He held out his arms to her, forcing a reassuring smile. “Come here, my darling girl.”

His sentence was scarcely finished before she launched herself at him, a tiny bundle of arms and legs and a fat braid that slapped him in the cheek as she landed in his embrace. He cradled her against his chest, patting her back gently as she pressed her wet face to the crook of his neck and sniffled loudly.

Good God, he didn’t know if that was tears she was smearing on his neck, snot, or both. Likely a combination of the two. He really needed to begin keeping a handkerchief by the bed.

“The wolf man cannot get you,” he promised her, laying his cheek atop her head and reveling in the miracle that was this tiny body, somehow a part of him. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise.”

She sniffed loudly, confirming his suspicion that snot was involved. “I tried w-wakin’ Nurse, but she t-telled me good little girls must go b-back to sleep after n-nightmares.”

“The devil she did,” he muttered, thinking he would have a talk with Miss Partridge tomorrow. Or was the woman’s name Wren? Pheasant? Something avian, he was sure of it.

“Y-you mustn’t s-speak of the d-devil,” Pandora warned him. “M-mama said so.”

“She’s not wrong, Pandy,” he conceded. “I ought to watch my tongue.”

Having a child running about his home was still new. He had yet to curb all his base impulses, cursing being one of them.

“B-but she was wrong a-about some things,” she said, clinging to his neck with the tenacity of a hangman’s noose.

He continued patting her soothingly. “What things, my clever girl?”

“That I w-wouldn’t miss her,” his daughter said, her chest rising and falling with uncontrollable dry sobs. “I m-misses her lots.”

That heartless witch. First, she had kept his daughter a secret from him for four years, and then she had abandoned Pandora without a backward glance to sail off with her lover.

“Of course you do, sweeting.” His voice was thick with his own barely suppressed emotion.

“And I m-miss Papa,” she said.

Brandon kissed the top of her head, a pang going through his heart at the way she referred to Helena’s former husband, Mr. Booth, as Papa. He didn’t blame the child, of course. Booth, who had apparently taken ill and died just before Helena had found her new lover, had been the only father Pandora had known. Until she had been unceremoniously dumped at his grandmother’s town house like an outmoded hat, that was.

“I’ve no doubt you do, Pandy,” he said, still patting her small back.

He had never paid much attention to children. Had never supposed he would have a child of his own. Brandon was not the dutiful sort who was happy to carry on the family line. Quite the opposite. He’d been pleased at the notion of it ending with him, just to spite the bastard who had sired him. But there was something undeniably wondrous about the small form clinging so tightly to him. The moment her green eyes had met his, he had seen himself in her, and the accompanying surge of protective instincts had proven unstoppable.

And now? He would burn down the world just to make her heart hurt less.

“I dreamded the wolf man h-hurt Papa,” Pandy said, her frame shuddering with a new onslaught of tears. “He m-made Papa die.”

Sniffle, sniffle.

Something was dripping down Brandon’s neck, but he ignored the sensation and the troublesome question of what that something was. He was too preoccupied with comforting his daughter. He hated the fear in her voice. Hated the way she trembled and sobbed in his arms, the uncertainty and fear.

He swallowed his resentment down, however, knowing he needed to remain stoic for her sake. “It was only a nightmare, Pandy girl. You’re safe with me always.”

“Thank y-you, Duke.” Another sniffle.

He wished she might call him Papa one day. But he was willing to wait and not press the matter. Pandora had been through enough in her short, young life. He had no wish to add to the upset.

“You needn’t thank me. I’m meant to protect you.” He gently shifted her so that she was no longer sliming his neck with snot and tears, looking down at her through the shadows. “I was intending to venture to the kitchens and see if Mrs. Willoughby has left any sweets about to eat, but you wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”

“Of course I w-would!” she exclaimed.

Although she was still overset, the enthusiasm in her voice made him smile. Distraction was in order, and he wasn’t afraid to employ his cook’s decadent confections for that purpose, even if it was the midst of the night.

She was already scrambling from his lap in a flurry of bounding curls and ruffled nightgown and girlish enthusiasm. Brandon threw back the bedclothes and rose as well, making certain to discreetly obtain a handkerchief and mop up his neck before tucking it into a pocket on his dressing gown. Taking up a candle to aid them on their journey, he lit it, light flaring to life in the room.

The flickering flame illuminated Pandora’s tearstained cheeks. He forced a smile for her benefit and took up a fresh handkerchief to dry her face as well.

“I do believe we may find some of Mrs. Willoughby’s famed cabinet pudding,” he told Pandora with a conspiratorial air.

He had begun asking his cook to leave some of Pandora’s favorites aside in the evenings for just such occasions. He already knew the Savoy cake laden with candied angelica and ginger and sultanas awaited them.

His daughter clapped excitedly. “Oh, I hopes we will, Duke.”

“Come,” he said gently, offering her his hand.

She slipped her small fingers trustingly into his, and he led Pandora to the kitchens.

“Have you heard the latest on-dit ?” Rosamund asked Lottie over tea that afternoon, bearing the air of someone who couldn’t wait to relay the scandalous gossip she’d recently learned.

“ On-dit, on-dit ,” squawked Megs from Rosamund’s shoulder.

Her somewhat eccentric friend had brought her African grey parrot along for her call.

Megs was a brilliant bird, but Lottie couldn’t help but to be perpetually disconcerted by the parrot’s presence. She felt quite as if they were being eavesdropped upon.

“I don’t believe that I have,” she said mildly, taking a sip of her tea.

“I should think you would find it most intriguing as it pertains to a certain duke.”

“A certain duke, a certain duke,” Megs added.

“Hush, darling,” Rosamund chided the parrot, offering her a bite of sliced apple that Lottie had requested from the kitchen for just such a purpose. “The Duke of Brandon, to be precise.”

Lottie’s stomach performed a little flip at the mentioning of Brandon. Although several days had passed since their ignominious meeting at his most recent ball, she had been haunted by the memory of his mouth on hers.

But she schooled her features into the blandest expression she could muster, not wanting a hint of her conflicting emotions to show. “I’m sure I don’t have any interest in gossip concerning His Grace—or anything else regarding him, for that matter.”

Megs blinked at her, chewing on her apple from Rosamund’s shoulder. Lottie swore the parrot knew she was lying. She narrowly resisted making a face at the bird, who was far too wise and knowing for a creature so small.

Rosamund pursed her lips. “With the way the two of you were speaking together at the ball, I thought that perhaps you had an… understanding .”

As a single woman, Rosamund was not meant to know such things.

“Your mother would be horrified to hear you speak thus,” Lottie reminded her, feeling that as the older, if not wiser, of the two of them, and certainly as the more experienced, she bore a responsibility.

Rosamund grinned, unrepentant. “I have no doubt that Mama would, which is why I never mention such subjects in her presence.”

“Never mention to Mama,” Megs said. “Do keep it a secret, Megs. Do keep it a secret.”

A slight flush gilded Rosamund’s cheekbones at the parrot’s telling musings. “Never mind you,” she scolded Megs quietly, offering up another bit of apple before turning her attention back to Lottie. “Don’t you wish to know? I couldn’t very well tell my mother about it since she disapproves of gossip. But I’ve been seething with the need to confide in someone.”

How ironic. Lottie found herself feeling quite the opposite. She could see, however, that her friend would tell her whether she wished to hear the on-dit or not.

She sighed, settling her teacup in its saucer with a small rattle. “What is the gossip you have heard concerning Brandon?”

Lottie could only presume that what her friend had heard had been positively scandalous.

Rosamund leaned forward in her chair, lowering her voice as if they were in a crowded room and anyone might hear. “I have it on good authority that he has an illegitimate daughter who is living with him now. She is a young child, no more than five years of age, and she was recently abandoned at his poor grandmother’s town house.”

Lottie bobbled her tea and sent it raining down her silk skirts to pool on the Axminster underfoot. “Oh drat.”

“Spilled tea, spilled tea,” Megs chirped. “Hell’s bells, hell’s bells.”

“Good heavens, Megs,” Rosamund scolded. “I told you that you were to be on your best behavior today, and you agreed that you would.”

“What a good little bird,” Megs chirped. “Good little bird.”

Lottie might have found mirth at the ridiculousness of the scene—she covered in tea, Rosamund attempting to admonish her wayward feathered companion, and the gray parrot seeming to be laughing at them both. But all she could think about was Brandon offering her marriage. Brandon dismissing her offer of a night in her bed.

And everything began to make perfect, horrid sense.

Little wonder he hadn’t seduced her further in the emerald salon. He likely hadn’t wanted her at all. Rather, he had been seeking out a mother for his bastard daughter. The utter nerve of the scoundrel! She had spent the last few days turning his behavior over in her mind, utterly perplexed, wondering what was wrong with her. And here was her answer.

Nothing was wrong with Lottie.

The Duke of bloody Brandon was the problem.

“Lottie? Shall I ring for a maid to sop up the mess?”

Rosamund’s concerned voice broke through Lottie’s whirling thoughts. She blinked, disconcerted by the way the parrot on her friend’s shoulder continued to eye her frankly, as if the bird could see into her soul.

“I shall do it, of course,” she said, recalling that she was the hostess. “You mustn’t trouble yourself for a moment.”

Rising, she strode to the bellpull with determined steps, yanking on it with more force than was necessary. She wasn’t angry with the domestics or the corded bellpull or even herself for spilling her tea. No, indeed. She was furious with the Duke of Brandon. What a liar he was, flirting with her, leading her on a merry dance, and all the while, he had been searching for a wife to mother the child who had been born on the wrong side of the blanket.

“I don’t suppose he would take responsibility for such a child,” she said. “Not in truth. No, he must be seeking a wife upon whom he can foist the girl so that he can carry on with his cavorting.”

“Carry on with cavorting,” Megs said. “Fucking, fucking.”

Lottie’s eyes went wide.

Rosamund bit her lip. “Pray excuse her. She knows not what she is saying.”

“You know me, my dear. Candid speech is always preferable to subterfuge,” she reassured her friend, not offended by the parrot’s language in the least, merely surprised.

Although it was not the first occasion on which her friend had brought Megs to pay a call, Lottie had never heard the parrot swear before. How amusing to think Megs might blurt such coarse language before a stern matron. Little wonder Rosamund preferred to keep to the periphery of polite society.

“You mustn’t say naughty words, Megs,” Rosamund cautioned the parrot sternly.

“Naughty words, naughty words. Fuck, fuck.” Megs blinked, looking distinctly unapologetic.

“Perhaps we ought to ignore her,” Rosamund suggested. “She seems to be having one of her moods. Have you heard from Hyacinth recently? I expected to see her at Brandon’s ball.”

Ah, so Lottie wasn’t the only one concerned about their friend’s recent absence from gatherings.

“She wrote to me that she is indisposed.” Lottie sighed. “But it’s been far too many days now. I believe I’ll pay her a call to be certain nothing is amiss.”

Rosamund nodded. “Capital idea. Please do let me know how she is faring. I’ve missed her.”

A maid gave a discreet knock at the door then, indicating her arrival. Lottie bid her enter and directed her to the tea spill, hoping Megs would at least behave herself before the servant. As if sharing Lottie’s concern, Rosamund distracted the parrot by feeding her another slice of apple. The maid hastily completed her task and left the room.

Lottie waited for the door to close before recalling her conversation with Rosamund at Brandon’s ball. “Speaking of the Duke of Brandon’s fête, did you ever speak with Camden?”

She had been dreadfully curious since that night, she couldn’t lie. But Lottie also wanted to distract herself from all thoughts of a certain handsome, green-eyed duke.

“I did,” Rosamund said enigmatically.

“And?” Lottie pressed. “What have you decided?”

A secretive smile curved her friend’s lips. “I’ve decided that I need more time to consider His Grace’s offer.”

Lottie understood Rosamund’s desire for revenge. However, she didn’t understand how or why the Duke of Camden would facilitate it. She had a suspicion her friend wasn’t ready to tell her just yet either.

“I reckon you will tell me more when it suits you,” she drawled, pouring herself a second cup of tea.

“Of course.” Rosamund fed Megs another bite of apple.

“With all this marriage nonsense in the air, one might think it catching. Fortunately, I am well armed against it. My past experience with that terrible institution is my suit of armor and shield.”

Rosamund’s brow furrowed. “Was it truly so horrid?”

Lottie thought of the heartache she had experienced when she had first discovered the man she loved was bedding another woman. He had left her after consummating their marriage, only to return in the early hours of the morning, smelling of another woman’s scent, his hair ruffled, a bruise on his throat from someone else’s mouth. When she had confronted him, he had acknowledged his infidelity.

“This sort of arrangement is done all the time, my dear,” he had said, without a hint of compunction. “It is good for a marriage.”

And then he had kissed her lightly on the cheek and told her he was weary, that she ought to return to her own bed, quite as if he hadn’t just destroyed her entire perception of him. To say nothing of her heart.

With a grim jolt, she realized that she had been wool-gathering, and she had added far too much sugar to her tea. She took a sip of the sickeningly sweet brew anyway.

“It was the second biggest mistake of my life,” she told Rosamund frankly.

The first had been falling in love with the Earl of Grenfell to begin with. But she had learned her lesson all too well. She would never allow herself to be so weak and vulnerable again.