Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

H er friend’s wedding day had arrived. Hyacinth and Lord Sidmouth had chosen to wed in haste in the interest of avoiding scandal and protecting their baby. But they were both blissfully happy. Indeed, Lottie had never seen her friend so content.

Lottie spent the ceremony trying not to weep at how beautiful a bride dear Hyacinth made. Nor to fear that her friend was making a dreadful mistake in marrying. Sidmouth was a good man. He loved Hyacinth. And he would be a loyal husband. Of that, Lottie had no doubt.

Not every man was cast from the same mold as Grenfell, after all.

Sometimes, she simply needed to remind herself of that fact. Repeatedly and with firm, unwavering determination. Her marriage had been dreadful. But that did not mean that all marriages would be.

By the time the wedding breakfast was at an end, she was beside herself with the need to take her friend aside for a moment of reassurance, however. For Lottie knew she was the catalyst who had catapulted Hyacinth and Sidmouth back together. If she hadn’t revealed Hyacinth was carrying his child, no doubt the viscount and her friend both would have continued to be stubborn. She wanted to know without a doubt that her friend wasn’t upset with her for her interference.

The bride and groom were preparing to say their farewells before she managed to take Hyacinth aside. “Are you sure you forgive me for telling Sidmouth?” she whispered.

Hyacinth embraced her warmly, dispelling any lingering doubts. “How could I be angry with you for making certain everything worked out the way it should have?”

Lottie returned her embrace, relief washing over her. “Oh, thank heavens, dearest. You have no idea how much I struggled over the decision. But I feared you were making a grievous mistake.”

“And naturally, you thought you would intervene.”

The cutting, masculine voice that intruded upon their private tête-à-tête was familiar. Too familiar. And although his tone was biting, the Duke of Brandon’s baritone still slid over her like a caress. He had joined them where they stood on the periphery of the immense gathering. His green stare was cold and assessing as it landed on her. Perhaps he was still nettled over her intervention with Pandy’s dog.

More than once during the course of the wedding breakfast, she had found her gaze wandering to the handsome, elegant figure he cut. And more than once, his eyes had ensnared hers, telling her that she hadn’t been alone in stealing looks. Still, nothing could come of her irritating attraction to him. The Duke of Brandon simply wasn’t the lover for her.

“My intervention was timely,” she informed him coolly. “Lord and Lady Sidmouth love each other and are destined to be together. Anyone can see that. I merely did what was in their best interest.”

“Hmm. Best interest as you deemed it,” Brandon drawled.

Hyacinth frowned, looking from Lottie to the duke and back again. The last thing Lottie wanted was for her friend to deduce there was something between herself and the Duke of Brandon. For there most certainly wasn’t.

Lottie gave a disdainful sniff. “At least they are not living a lie, Your Grace.”

It was bold of her, she knew, referencing their ill-advised assignation in his emerald salon. But Hyacinth couldn’t possibly know what she was speaking of, and the need to put the arrogant duke in his place was strong.

His jaw tightened, the only sign that her words had hit their mark. “Perhaps we have different definitions of what is a lie and what is the truth, my lady.”

Sidmouth appeared suddenly at Hyacinth’s side, tall, golden-haired, and handsome. The two truly did make a delightful couple. Lottie wished them all the happiness, for they deserved it.

“The carriage is ready, darling,” the viscount told Hyacinth. “Shall we go, Lady Sidmouth?”

Hyacinth beamed at her new husband, any worry that had been marring her furrowed brow instantly smoothed by the sight of him. “Yes, Lord Sidmouth. I do believe we shall.”

Feeling an unwanted pang of envy at the undeniable love between the couple, Lottie watched her friend being escorted away to her honeymoon by the viscount. To her irritation, the Duke of Brandon didn’t stray from her side.

“How dare you speak ill of my daughter?” he demanded, voice low and angry, all the easy charm of moments earlier having fled.

Startled, Lottie cast a glance in his direction, momentarily distracted by his stinging ire. “What in heaven’s name are you speaking about, Brandon? I’ve not said a word about that sweet child.”

“Of course you did. Just now, accusing me of living a lie.”

“I was referring to your reputation as a rake,” she countered quietly, “which is quite at odds with a man who declines an assignation in favor of a proposal of marriage.”

He gave her a brooding stare, likely pondering whether he believed her. His daughter was unmistakably a sensitive subject for him, and she could understand that all too well. Pandy would have a difficult life as an illegitimate daughter. Some lords raised their bastard children along with their own, whilst others hid them away, out of sight and forgotten. Either way, the boundary was there, and polite society was nothing if not unforgiving.

Even if the scandal was no fault of the child’s.

“Forgive me,” he said grudgingly then. “I stand corrected.”

His concession surprised her, and despite herself, Lottie felt a surge of admiration for his protective instincts where Pandy was concerned. “Thank you.” She pursed her lips, not wanting to know and yet feeling the need to be polite as she continued, “Tell me, how is the hunt for a bride coming?”

“As well as can be expected.” He gave her a considering look. “And how is the search for a lover?”

The word lover , uttered in his deep, decadent voice made an unwanted frisson go down her spine. Try as she might, she hadn’t forgotten those stolen kisses they’d shared.

Nettled with herself for her weakness where he was concerned, she slanted him a disapproving look. “Who said I was looking for one?”

“You did, in my emerald salon. Or have you forgotten what happened there?”

Dreadful man. They were surrounded by well-wishers seeing off their friends, gossips and scandalmongers amongst their swelling ranks, and this was what he chose as polite conversation?

She gave him a quelling frown. “I said no such thing. All I recall is a smelly dog and an adorable child.”

His glittering green eyes narrowed, and she wished she didn’t find them nearly as mesmerizing as she did. “You and I both know it is a different occasion of which I speak.”

“I’ve quite forgotten that unfortunate little incident already,” she told him with a bright smile.

A lie, of course.

She’d thought of little else.

“How well do you know Kingham?” he asked her suddenly.

His abrupt shift in subject startled her. “The Duke of Kingham and I have traveled in some of the same circles over the last few years. Why should it concern you?”

“No reason,” he said.

Which she knew was also a prevarication, unless she missed her guess. The Duke of Brandon wasn’t a man who asked questions without purpose. What a pair they made, liars, the both of them.

They stared at each other, surrounded by the chattering of their fellow guests and the jangling of tack and plodding of horses on the street beyond. Hyacinth and her viscount were ensconced in their carriage now. Lottie really ought to take her leave, for there was nothing left to see, the wedding breakfast quite at an end.

But she found herself reluctant to leave the duke’s side. To put an end to their verbal sparring.

You truly ought to go, Lottie , she cautioned herself inwardly. Be practical for once. Forget all about the Duke of Brandon and his masterful kisses and that impressively thick ridge you had the fortune to feel swelling beneath his trousers.

But that was the thing about Lottie. She never did listen to her own good sense. And the wickedest part of her was remembering exactly how his cockstand had felt beneath her questing hand. That part of her wanted more. Wanted to return to those stolen moments in the emerald salon.

This simply wouldn’t do.

“Never say you are jealous, Your Grace,” she taunted with a smile, careful to keep her voice low.

A muscle in his jaw tensed. “Jealous? Hardly, my dear. Warm his bed all you like.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“Lovely for the both of you, I’m sure.”

“You did deny yourself the opportunity.”

“I do believe it’s called responsibility, my dear Lady Grenfell. Some of us have to bear it more than others, however.”

“You know nothing of what I’ve had to bear,” she told him frostily, thinking of Grenfell and the countless lovers he had flaunted before her and hidden in secret.

Each time she had discovered another infidelity, a new woman to whom he had given that most sacred part of himself that should have been reserved for her, Lottie’s heart had withered and died a little more.

“I could say the same, madam.”

They glared at each other some more, in a contest of wills.

Finally, she tore her gaze away in time to see the carriage bearing Hyacinth and Lord Sidmouth rumbling into motion. At last, it was done, their fates sealed. Her friend had been undeniably happy today, radiating a joy Lottie had never seen before. She hoped it lasted.

“And away they go,” she murmured. “I suppose that is that, then.”

As the carriage moved farther into the distance, the finality of the moment settled over her—the beginning for Hyacinth and her viscount, the end for Lottie and Brandon. If indeed there had ever truly been a beginning.

“I wish them happy,” Brandon said. “Sidmouth is a good man.”

“And Lady Sidmouth is a wonderful woman,” she pointed out loyally.

He looked over her shoulder then, a ferocious frown overtaking his features. “By God, where is he going with my bloody carriage?”

Lottie turned to follow the duke’s stare, finding a lacquered carriage bearing his ducal crest pulling past them into the street and moving away.

“Someone has thieved your carriage?”

“Not someone,” he muttered, passing a hand over his jaw. “Camden. He accompanied me here, and now it would seem he has decided to carry on without me.”

Lottie couldn’t quite stifle her laughter.

He slanted a wry look in her direction. “Amused, are you?”

“You must admit that it is rather humorous, the Duke of Brandon’s carriage being commandeered by his friend, leaving him stranded on the street. Will you take a hack home? Perhaps an omnibus.” She chortled again.

“I could walk. The day is a fine one.”

As he made the statement, a fine mist began to fall.

Lottie compressed her lips, trying and failing to keep from grinning. “You may accompany me, and I’ll see you home. I’d hate to be responsible for you catching an ague.”

He was silent for a moment, and she thought he might argue. But then he inclined his head. “With both my friend and the skies conspiring against me, it would seem I’ve no choice but to accept.”

His grim response further entertained her.

At least it would be an interesting carriage ride home.

Brandon sat opposite the Countess of Grenfell in her gently swaying carriage, trying to look anywhere but at her. It was a task he was failing at quite miserably. Because it was impossible to avoid noticing her. Everything about her was mesmerizing, from the vibrant cinnamon-gold of her hair peeping from beneath her jaunty hat to the cream-and-pink silk gown she wore, which emphasized her lush curves to mouthwatering perfection.

Even her stubborn chin, the slight dimple in it, the curve of her eyebrows, and, sweet God, her mouth. When those seductive lips of hers were smiling at him with haughty amusement, he wanted to do nothing more than take them with his and kiss her breathless. This was proof—all of it—that he was going mad.

He was going to damned well box Camden’s ears for running off with his carriage and leaving him to suffer the temptation of enduring a ride to his town house in a confined space with a tempting vixen he couldn’t afford to want. He didn’t need the distraction of a woman at the moment, particularly not one he wanted in his bed. He needed a wife, and as his grandmother had paid him a call the day before to remind him, he was running out of time to find one.

No amount of attempting to dissuade Grandmother had rendered her any more amenable to abandoning her threat of willing Wingfield Hall to horrible Cousin Horace. He sighed, drumming his fingers on his thigh, ready to escape this carriage. Grandmother had also managed to inveigle a dinner invitation out of him for this evening, and he needed to prepare himself.

“Deuced crush of carriages,” he muttered. “And at this time of the day.”

“The Duchess of Arrington invited half of polite society to Hyacinth and Sidmouth’s wedding,” Lady Grenfell said, her disposition as sunny as her voice. “What did you expect?”

The duchess was Sidmouth’s grandmother. Impossible to believe that the curmudgeonly woman had deigned to accept Sidmouth’s sudden nuptials. But somehow, she had. If only his own grandmother were so easily won.

Lady Grenfell—Lottie, though he told himself he must not think of her in such familiar terms—was staring at him, a small smile curving her full, pink lips that made him think about how soft and warm they had been beneath his.

She was enjoying his irritation.

Of course she was.

“At this rate of speed, it will take us half a year just to get off this street.”

“You could always walk,” she suggested kindly.

A grim look out the window confirmed that the earlier mist had descended into a sodden, miserable downpour.

“I reckon I can wait,” he told her through gritted teeth.

“So eager to return to the business of courting unsuspecting debutantes?” she mocked.

Scandalously, she had tugged off her gloves, and they were lying in a tidy pile on her lap. But then, she had done far more scandalous things than removing kidskin. He had a sudden, intrusive mental image of one of those dainty, freckled hands wrapped around his aching cock.

He jerked his gaze away from her folded hands and the coppery flecks so deliciously decorating her creamy skin. Up to her eyes, which were watching him intently, those brilliant, light-blue orbs assessing. Seeing far too much.

“Eager to be free of this carriage,” he grumbled, sliding a finger beneath his necktie and tugging. “I’ve been trussed like a Michaelmas goose all bloody day, and the Duke of Camden made off with my carriage and coachman. My grandmother insisted upon inviting herself to dinner, a dog named Cat chewed up my favorite pair of shoes last night, and I inadvertently stepped in a cold puddle of dog piss this morning. If I am lacking in cheer, pray forgive me.”

To say nothing of the fact that Grandmother was demanding that he marry and that, quite unbeknownst to him, Pandy had been eavesdropping upon every word. After his grandmother had taken her leave, Pandy had popped up from behind a settee and blithely suggested he marry Missus Lady Grenspell if he needed a wife.

No, best to keep that particular reason for his sour mood to himself.

“What do you suppose Camden is doing with your carriage?” she asked, sounding curious.

And not at all sympathetic to Brandon’s own plight.

“I’d prefer not to contemplate it.”

“He seems determined to marry Miss Rosamund Payne,” she said, continuing the same bland, imperturbable mannerism that she’d managed for the duration of the carriage ride thus far, as if her sangfroid were unassailable.

As if she didn’t feel the same potent spell of attraction that was driving him to distraction.

“Who seems determined to marry Miss Payne?”

“The Duke of Camden.”

He blinked. “Cam wants to marry? This is news to me.”

He wasn’t sure he liked the notion.

“It would seem that a number of rakish dukes are eager to make matches suddenly,” she added. “It’s almost as if marriage is catching.”

“Like a lung infection,” he grumbled.

None of the members of the Wicked Dukes Society had married. They had all vowed to avoid carrying on their rotten family lines.

She chuckled. “Don’t sound so enthused.”

“I’m glad my misery is cause for such amusement.”

“Why should you be miserable? No one is forcing your hand and making you marry.”

He felt heat creep up his throat, his ears going hot. He tugged at his necktie again, glaring out the window at the lashing rains.

“Oh,” she said, so much in that lone word. “I begin to think I understand.”

“Leave it,” he snapped, not wanting to be poked and prodded for her diversion any longer.

“Are you funds to let?” she asked softly.

“No, madam.”

“Your grandmother, Mrs. Carrington-Smythe, then,” she guessed correctly. “Is she pressing you to marry?”

He plucked off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair, feeling unaccountably weary. “That’s something of the way of it.”

“I must admit, I admire her daring.”

“How lovely for her,” he drawled, and not without a hint of bitterness.

“Have you settled upon a lady yet?” she asked, tilting her head curiously.

He resisted the urge to point out that he had already done so and she had soundly turned him down. “Not yet.”

“I could help you.”

If he’d just taken a sip of something, he would have spat it everywhere, so great was his shock at her offer.

“You?”

He didn’t bother to hide his incredulity.

“Me.” She smiled brightly. “I have a tremendously large circle of friends and acquaintances, you know. Why, I’ve just played matchmaker for Hyacinth and Sidmouth, haven’t I? Only think of how well I would do for you.”

“That is rather a different beast. Sidmouth and his new wife are hideously in love.”

“They are, aren’t they?” Her smile turned wistful. “I am glad for her. Hyacinth deserves nothing but happiness. But you aren’t looking to fall in love with your prospective bride, are you?”

“Christ no.” He shuddered. “I don’t even want a bride. Her role will be to appease my grandmother.”

“As I thought.” She tapped her chin, her quick mind clearly at work. “What of Pandy? Will your future bride be expected to take a role in her life, or are you intending to send her away to avoid scandal?”

The very notion of sending his daughter away had something seizing within his chest.

“She will remain with me. The woman I marry will need to accept her presence in the household.”

“Do you have a preference in appearance?”

He blinked. “You aren’t playing matchmaker for me.”

“Why not?”

Because he wanted to bed her. He wanted to tear away her demure silk and find all the places where those coppery flecks adorned her skin. Because he wanted to sink his hand into her cinnamon hair and wrap it around his fist and…

Damn it, no . He couldn’t keep thinking this way.

Brandon shifted on the Moroccan leather squabs, his cock stirring, and cleared his throat. “Because I don’t want you to.”

“Why, Brandon? Surely you agree that I did an excellent job of bringing Sidmouth and Hyacinth together, do you not?”

“I’m not certain I would call it excellent.”

“Well, what would you call it, then?”

He thought for a moment, recalling poor Sidmouth dripping all over his floor, learning the news that he was to be a father before an audience and not from the woman he loved. “Untidy.”

Lady Grenfell gasped. “ Untidy ?”

She was beginning to give him a headache. The woman was a whirlwind, packed inside a thunderstorm, hidden within a maelstrom. Trouble. She was nothing but tempting, ludicrous, wayward, beautiful, utterly maddening trouble.

“Do lower your voice,” he said. “I’d rather not have your coachman think we’re having a lover’s quarrel.”

“Ha! You would have to be my lover for us to have a lover’s quarrel.”

Oh, how his pride stung at the way she scoffed at the notion.

“Yes, but your coachman doesn’t know that, does he?” he ground out.

“John Coachman knows all my secrets. Who else am I to trust, if not him?” she asked defiantly.

Good God, was she saying that her coachman knew whose bed she was warming at any given moment? And why did he hate the thought of her in anyone’s bed but his? Most specifically, in King’s? Swiftly, he banished all such questions from his mind.

“The coachman of your paramour,” he suggested. “Is that not how these matters are usually conducted? With proper discretion?”

“John Coachman is discreet. You can’t have believed I would allow myself to be at the whim of a lover’s coachman and carriage. I see to myself, as I’ve always done. I trust myself, you see. I trust my judgment, and I trust my loyal retainers. They would go to their graves keeping all my secrets for me.”

There was a note of pride in her voice, and yet he couldn’t help but to hear what she was truly saying—that no man had ever taken care of her. He didn’t know if she was referring to what happened in the bedroom, beyond it, or both. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow himself to care. This magnificent woman and her frank sensuality and bold personality and her freckles and gorgeous hair were not a part of his future.

“No doubt they would go early were they forced to endure a carriage ride with you,” he said uncharitably.

“I ought to box your ears for saying something so wretched.”

Yes, she ought to. However, she was forgetting something.

“I happen to be twice your size, madam. To do so would be inadvisable.”

She raised a brow, unmoved. “It wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve done that was inadvisable. After such rudeness, it would serve you right if I were to rescind my offer. However, because I am good-natured, I won’t.”

Her offer.

For a wild moment, he thought she was speaking about her blatant invitation in the emerald salon, her hand on his cock, knowing, stroking.

Then he realized she was talking about bloody matchmaking, and he regained his senses. “I am fully capable of finding a wife on my own, thank you.”

She raised a brow. “And yet, have you found one?”

Blast the woman.

“I haven’t had time to do much reconnoitering, as it happens,” he defended himself. “If you’ll recall, I’ve been chasing after a spirited child, a stray dog with a penchant for eating things she ought not, wayward friends, and attending weddings.”

“Do you have any preferences?” she asked.

What the devil was she talking about now?

“Preferences?” he sputtered.

“Hair color, eye color, figure?” she enumerated in a methodical tone. “Do you prefer ladies who are clever or dull, quiet or outspoken? Must she be a virgin, or can she be a widow?”

Good, sweet Lord, she was going to drive him to madness.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are infuriating, madam?”

“Never.” She grinned unrepentantly, her eyes sparkling. “And I wouldn’t recommend that you do so either, because this is my carriage we are in, and you would hate to walk the rest of the way to your town house in this deluge, wouldn’t you?”

The minx. She had him there.

He couldn’t say why, nor did he know what devil prompted him to do it, but he leaned forward across the carriage, forearms resting on his thighs. “Cinnamon-gold, blue, and lush. Clever and maddening. I prefer a woman of experience. One who knows what to do with my cock.”

He was talking about her, of course. Because when she had listed off her questions concerning his requirements in a woman, all that had come to mind was the sultry woman whose kisses had been haunting him since their ill-advised assignation in the emerald salon.

Her eyes widened, her pink lips parting in surprise, and for once, he had rendered her speechless. Victory was his, and just in time too. The carriage had finally lumbered onto his street.

“Nothing to say, my dear?” he asked with feigned innocence.

Her chin went up, the fight returning to her. There was nothing more glorious than the Countess of Grenfell when she’d been challenged.

“I’ll send a list of prospective brides around to you.”

The carriage rocked to a halt. “I’ll await it with bated breath. Good day, Lady Grenfell. I thank you for the ride.”

He slid from the squabs and threw open the carriage door, leaping into the rain in the hopes that it might cool some of the fiery lust burning through him.

Damn her, he should have known she wouldn’t allow him to win.