Chapter 15

Annoying people proved quite diverting. Quinton had to keep a firm watch on his lips because more than once they’d stretched up and out and into a wide grin without his permission, without his knowledge. Everywhere he took Lottie, people stared, and when they stared, he stared back until a flustered red crept into their cheeks. Then he grinned like a schoolboy about to touch his first breast, and then, belatedly, he remembered he was supposed to be imposing.

He also remembered he’d soon have the right to touch Lottie’s breast, and—damn—that made smiling even easier, and—

“Quinton.” Lottie tugged at his sleeve as they walked through Hyde Park. “Are you ill? Your face seems to be convulsing. Should we return home?”

“No.” He patted her arm. “I’m well.”

“Do you think it’s working?”

“Do I think the members of the ton are rethinking your scandalous love for naughty books? No, I don’t. But they’re certainly not whispering about that right now.”

“They’re whispering about us. What nonsense. There’s nothing odd about us.”

He snorted. “You are the perfect specimen of a duke’s daughter.”

“I used to be, but now—”

“And I’ve been in the beds of half the women in this park.”

“Half?” she stared up at him.

He felt the heat of her gaze but dared not look down. “An exaggeration. And none lately. Does it bother you?” It shouldn’t. They were not marrying because they cared. They were marrying because she needed saving, and he could save her. They were marrying because he’d kissed her (and more), and he’d discovered it was something like his life’s purpose. No wonder his body had fixated on her after that kiss six years ago. It had known. There would never be anything better. He’d discovered his peak usefulness—making Lottie blush across every inch of her skin. And providing her the protection of his name. And his fist if matters called for it.

“Lottie?”

“Yes?”

“When can we kiss again?”

She slapped his arm where hers hooked through his, a gentle little swat accompanied by a chuckle. “None lately? Why not?” Skipped right over his question to ask one of her own.

Why the hell not tell her? In a fortnight, they’d be wed. “After we kissed in the woods, I found myself unable to kiss anyone else with any sort of… vigor. Entirely lost the ability to care about other women’s lips.”

She hugged his arm tighter to her side. “That’s what you told me at the Woodward ball.”

He groaned. “Was it now? You’ve known my deep, dark, lurid secret all this time?”

“Yes, and I’ve been using it against you.”

“Vixen. What else happened that night? I might as well know.”

She sighed. “Nothing. You interrupted me kissing Phillipspots. Then you scared him off. Then you pinned me to the wall and proceeded to not kiss me. You talked quite a bit. About wanting to kiss me.”

“I still want to kiss you.” A truth. No doubt the bedroom would be the best part of this bargain.

“Wait until later. Now, we must face Lady Woodward herself. No more reminiscing about the ball, an event during which, I must inform you now since you do not remember, you were quite an aggravating fly about my head.”

“Me?” he grumbled. “A fly?”

“Stealing my champagne.”

“Ensuring your health, Merriweather.”

“Chasing away my suitors.”

Mine. The single word that shot through him, a simple, powerful way of saying there could be no other suitors. Not then. And especially not now.

He pulled her closer to his side. “I’m growing possessive. You should know that.”

She glowed. Skipped. “Me, too.”

They stopped before the cabriolet containing Lady Woodward and her husband. Who snored.

Quinton tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, my lady,” he drawled. “I hope you are well.”

The lady sniffed, looked down her nose at them, turned her back to them.

The cut direct. Could he fix it? He felt Lottie’s outrage rumbling through her. If he didn’t, she’d explode.

He patted her hand and hoped she held on to that temper until he’d done his work. “Do you remember that first night we danced, Lottie love? Wasn’t it at Lady Woodward’s ball?”

“Ah.” A choked single syllable as she searched his face for the way forward. “Ye-es. It was that evening.”

“It was not well done of me, my lady,” he continued. “But I saw Lottie dancing with another man and knew. That very instant. I could not let any other man have her.”

Lady Woodward peeked over her shoulder at him.

He swallowed a smile. The impulsive expression came too soon, after all. He’d caught the woman’s attention, but he’d not caught her. Yet. “I must thank you for my happiness. We’re to be wed in a fortnight.”

Lady Woodward turned, opened her mouth so slowly it felt like a year had passed before she said, “You’re marrying?”

“Oh, yes. We were going to hide it, you see. Everything started at your ball, but we wanted to come to know one another’s feelings without the pressure of family opinion.”

Lady Woodward’s gaze flicked to Lottie. “Is that right?”

“Oh yes, my lady,” Lottie said, and likely only Quinton heard the edge in her voice. She did not like playing the innocent.

Quinton sighed. Better to push forward before Lottie lost her composure. “Alas—”

Lottie snorted.

“Alas, we were forced to reveal our growing affection for one another.” He let his face fall into complete sobriety and placed his free hand against his heart. “You may have heard what happened. I’m afraid that I am fully to blame. But I cannot be terribly apologetic for my little mischief.” He softened his expression as he fluttered his lashes at Lottie. “It has brought our love into the sun.”

Lottie almost scrunched up her face, only barely smoothed out the wrinkles before giving the game away.

Lady Woodward glanced between them, then leaned over the edge of her cab, and whispered with a fleeting, dark look toward Lottie, “You’re speaking of… the book?”

“A little joke,” Quinton said with a weak laugh.

“One,” Lottie said with a sniff, finally joining the conversation, “that I do not find diverting in the least.” She ducked her head for a moment, then lifted it again, raising the most innocent, wide-eyed expression to Lady Woodward that Quinton had ever witnessed. “I cannot even enjoy the joke, my lady. I do not know what any of it means. Why has a book upset so many people?”

Quinton rolled his eyes. He only barely kept them in place, managing to peer down at his betrothed with an understanding nod.

Lottie held her hands palm up, shaking her head. “Books are ever good, are they not, Lady Woodward? Vessels of virtue. What can everyone mean suggesting I… I…” She burrowed her face in her palms and shook her shoulders softly as if she’d burst becomingly into little tears.

He patted her shoulder. “There, there, Lottie love. ‘Tis all my fault. I should never have put that book in your reticule.”

She lifted her face to him. A single tear rolled down her cheek. How in hell had she done it? “But why is the book bad, my lord? I just cannot understand.”

Lady Woodward tsked, but the smile she slid Quinton hinted at playful. “You naughty boy, you. To play such a joke on an innocent. Do not fret, Lady Charlotte. Your betrothed does not deserve you, but you do not deserve the nasty gossip I’ve heard lately. And next time I hear it, I’ll let those who slander you know how wrong they are.”

Lottie clasped her hands together. “Oh, thank you, Lady Woodward. It’s all been so perplexing. You must know I shall always think of you with gratitude when my heart is bursting with love for Lord Noble. For it was your ball where we were first forced to face our feelings.”

Lady Woodward sighed. “Perfection. I always knew my events were special. Perhaps next year… a cupid theme.” She shook her husband napping beside her. “What do you think, Franklin?”

He snorted awake. “What? Where?”

“A cupid theme!” Lady Woodward yelled.

Quinton tugged Lottie down the path and away from the newly converted Lady Woodward. Every conversation they’d had this afternoon had ended just the same—denouncing the slander and sighs over a couple in love.

“How’d you do it?” he asked as they strolled. “That single tear. Brava.”

“Entirely real, I’ll have you know. Because I spoke the truth. Why are those books bad? I simply don’t understand. I am not a rampaging murderess for having read them. And when you take fault for having put the book in my reticule, everyone merely chuckles and pats you on the back. Be less naughty next time, Lord Noble.” She growled. “Unfair.”

“Don’t cry. I do not judge you for your reading tastes. In fact, I admire you.” The truth that. “I also admire your acting skills.” He took on a high voice and fluttered his lashes. “Books are very good, are they not? I just cannot understand.”

“I am not the only one with a talent for the dramatic.” She lowered her voice to a baritone. “I cannot be apologetic. It has brought our love into the sun.” She laughed. “Laying it on thick, Chance.”

“Trying to save your hide, Merriweather.”

“And doing a fine job of it. I—oh!” She stopped midstep, almost smacking into another body. When she rocked back into the protective crook of Quinton’s arm and saw the face of the person—the man—she’d almost slammed into, her surprised “oh” took on the sharp quality of a gasp. “Lord Phillipspots.”

The man stumbled back several steps as if trying to put distance between his body and hers. He had the frantic-eyed look of a debutante who realizes she’s in the wrong place and with the wrong people. Quinton knew that look well. Had caused it on multiple occasions, sent debutantes scurrying for the light and their inattentive chaperones. Lottie caused it now, and if Quinton did not act quickly, their stroll in the park might be all for naught.

Pisspot swung around to retreat.

“My lord,” Lottie called, “you are just the man I hoped to run into today.”

Pisspot stopped, turned back toward them slowly. “I have no business with you. Good day.”

Quinton caught his shoulder before he could cut them again, squeezed it, caught the grimace on the young lord’s face as he tried to twist out of Quinton’s grip. And failed.

“My lady desires to speak to you, Lord Phillipspots. You’ll hear what she has to say.”

“Your lady?”

“You may congratulate us,” Quinton drawled. “We’re engaged to be wed.”

“Since when?”

“It’s a new development.”

“But,” Lottie added, “one that has been in development for quite some time.”

“Why should I be concerned with who you marry, Noble?” Pisspot said without a single glance at Lottie. Not even when she’d talked. The chamber-pot-named absolute arse.

“Because it’s my fault.” Quinton managed to speak the words despite grinding his teeth to dust. “The book. It is mine.”

Pisspot’s eyebrows pulled toward one another. “Yours?”

“Yes. She did not know I put it in there.”

Lottie stood off to the side in icy calm. A dangerous calm. A calm that likely meant she screamed inside. She would not relish being swept to the side and being made an object of conversation.

“Did you, Lottie?” A tepid attempt to bring her in.

“Not a clue.” Her voice turned all sweetness and confusion.

“I find it difficult to believe, Noble.” Still, Phillipspots looked to Quinton, sparing not a single glance for the woman whose name he’d gifted so quickly to the gossips.

“You find thought difficult in general, Pisspot,” Quinton growled.

The other man’s hands fisted, and he lunged forward, his upper lip curling.

Lottie jumped between them, placed a hand on Quinton’s chest. “Temper, my lord. Do restrain yours.”

“He’s tarnished your name.”

“She’s tarnished her own name.” Pisspot sniffed. “Even if the book is yours, Noble, you didn’t lure me into the shadows and beg me for a kiss.”

A gasp. “I did not beg!”

“Lottie,” Quinton growled, “remember what we discussed.”

“I did not beg.” She lifted her chin, her eyes narrowed to the thinness of a knife’s edge, one she’d fling at Pisspot, no doubt.

That gentleman shrugged, clearly unaware of his danger. “Doesn’t matter. You wanted it. The book might as well be yours.”

“Where in hell does your brother get these suitors, Merriweather?” Quinton tried his best to sound bored, studied the hem of his glove, pulled it tight. He sighed. “Listen, Phillipspots. She only asked you for a kiss to make me jealous. She had no idea what she was asking for. I’d been teasing her about having never been kissed earlier in the evening. That, too, was my fault.” He lifted his eyes to Pisspot, challenging him to continue his tirade.

The man’s gaze flicked to Lottie, doubt creeping in. Finally. “You’d never been kissed before?”

She folded her hands innocently before her and looked at Pisspot through her lashes. Serene, gentle, innocent. But for that foot in a pale-yellow slipper tap, tap, tapping on the path. “Oh, yes. I’m afraid it was. Surely you knew. Surely you could ascertain my… inexperience.”

Pisspot’s brows slanted, and his eyes took on a glassy sheen. Did he travel back to that night? Was he evaluating their kiss?

Quinton held his hands stiff it at his sides, muscles straining. What was better in this instance? Let the man evaluate and find Lottie lacking? Or play the jealous beau and flatten Pisspot onto the path?

“It was rather… crude,” he finally said.

Lottie hid her face in her palms again, a gesture that had swiftly become her signature move during this stroll through the park. “I’m mortified. Oh, Lord Noble, how could you have done this to me?” She wailed the words, likely working up more fake tears.

He patted her on the shoulder. “There, there, Lady Charlotte, we will wed in a fortnight, and all will be well. I behaved insupportably, but I could not help myself. Jealousy had me in its grip, and I behaved like a beast.” Perhaps, maybe, a little bit true, that.

Pisspot’s face scrunched up as he studied them. “It could be that I was… wrong. Jumped to conclusions.” Took the beefwit long enough. He inched toward Lottie and dipped his head in a curt acknowledgement of his guilt. “I do apologize for not letting you explain the other day. You must have been terribly shocked. Confused.” He straightened and stepped back. “I do hope you will treat your betrothed with more respect, Noble. She’s a delicate creature and should not, even after marriage, be made to suffer your impulses and appetites.” He nodded stiffly and continued around them and down the path.

Lottie fumed, red rising in her countenance like a sea at high tide. Like a hot kettle, she seemed in peril of exploding.

“Hit me,” Quinton said.

Her jaw loosened as her head tilted to the side. “Pardon?”

“Go on, then. Hit me. One good punch right here to get it out.” He thumped his chest lightly with a fist.

And she reared back and smacked him right where he’d told her to.

“Ow!” he yelped, rocking back on his heels and rubbing at the spot. “Hell, Merriweather, there was force in that.”

“I’m angry.”

“I know.”

She inched closer to him, rubbed the spot she’d hit with gentle fingers. “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better, your chest might have smashed my bones to dust.”

“Doesn’t make me feel better at all,” he grumbled, capturing her hand in his, rubbing the knuckles.

“I hate it.” She spit the words out. They were no longer talking about the sort of pain a fist could give. “Pretending to be someone I’m not. I do not relish playing the fool, the clueless innocent. But”—a sharp sigh—“I will if I must because it is better than them thinking ill of my sisters.”

“Shall we put on another matinee? Who shall our audience be this time?”

“No. I’d like to go home.”

“I suppose Pisspot is our most important target. Hopefully, the man who started the talk can stop it.” He offered his arm, and she took it. “It might be the shortest-lived scandal London has ever seen.”

After several steps in silence, she said, “If the scandal dies down, dies completely, you should not have to marry me.”

He stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“You’re marrying me to save my reputation, but if we have saved it with these lies, I see no reason why—”

“You’re smarter than that, Merriweather. Of course we must wed. We’ve just told all of Hyde Park we plan to do so.” And with her held tightly to his side, the thought of letting her wander farther afield, away from him, left him sour, grumbly.

“Yes, but”—she stopped and pulled him to a stop as well, clung to his arm, and lifted a countenance brimming with doubts to him—“as much as I do not relish playing an innocent fool, I do not relish trapping you.”

He raised a brow. “You were fine with seducing me.”

“That’s different. You would have enjoyed it.”

“I’m enjoying this.” And, oddly enough, that was a plain truth. He flicked a curl at her temple. “Buck up, Merriweather. They’ll think you’re not happy to marry me.” He drew her back down the path.

“What will our marriage be like?”

“What an odd question. It will be a marriage like all others.”

“But not all marriages are the same. My parents loved one another deeply. Yours did not. But your father was once married to a woman he loved. His experiences alone prove that—”

“It will be a fine marriage.” He walked more quickly now, and she rested her free hand on her bonnet as she rushed to keep up. Impolite to tug her along? Yes. But the mention of his father’s first marriage, the reminder of the danger hidden in soft things, soft feelings… Better to outrun it than confront it.

“Slow down,” she huffed, clinging to his arm, losing hold. “Slow down!”

He forced himself to do as she asked. “Apologies. I’ve only just remembered I have an appointment with an architect.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so? You must make it. What is it for? Are you to make improvements to Bluevale?”

“The tenant cottages. It is past time they were improved. In some instances replaced entirely.”

“And you need an entirely new architect?”

“I’d like a new design. The current buildings are not ideal in either practical or aesthetic matters.”

She hummed, nodded. “Will you show me? The plans for the cottages? I should like to see them to better understand.”

His gig rose before them, and he waited until he had her seated beside him on the bench before answering. “There’s no need. You’ll take care of matters at Bluevale. Dinner preparations, redecorating if you choose, parties. The children when they come. And I’ll do the rest. You’ll not have to worry yourself with anything like cottages.” He whipped the horses into slow movement, conscious she sat stiff beside him, scared. “Relax. I’m driving at my most cautious. A gig is much safer than a phaeton.” He offered her a comforting smile.

She did not return it.

“I’ve sold it. The phaeton. To a new fellow about Town. He’ll make better use of it than I. I refuse to have you stiff and terrified every time we go anywhere. I know you dislike all carriages, but hopefully a gig is less fearsome than a phaeton, and—”

“Thank you. You did not have to sell the phaeton for me. I can walk. I usually do.”

“It’s nothing. You should be comfortable.” He mumbled the last, pulling at his cravat. The decision to sell had been an impulsive thing done this morning at his club. He’d been thinking of picking up Lottie for this afternoon’s stroll, and he’d remembered what he’d so newly learned of her. And he’d tossed out the offer to everyone in the room.

“Quinton?”

“Hm?”

“Twice you’ve mentioned children. There will… be children, then?” Her words were low and warm.

And they almost made him drop the reins. “Of course. Why shouldn’t there be?”

Her shoulder slipped up, then down in a graceful shrug. “It seems a marriage of convenience between us.”

“Do you know what would be damn inconvenient? Having a wife I couldn’t fuck.”

She gasped, raised a brow.

“Did I shock you, Merriweather?”

“Not at all. A more apt description for my current state is… aroused.”

Hell. Him too. And all it had taken was a single word, a single look. She undid him at every turn.

“There will be several children,” he said, his voice lower than he recognized.

She rolled her lips between her teeth, focusing on the street ahead of them. “That is what our marriage is to be like, then? Passion at night and… friendly separation during the day?”

“Friendly? When have we ever managed that?” He chuckled.

She did not. “We have managed it. Quite well for years and years.”

“I’m upsetting you.”

“A bit. Quinton. We worked well in the park today. Do you think we might work similarly well in our marriage?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“But you also do not try to see much past your nose.” She huffed.

“What do you want, Merriweather? Tell me truly, and I’ll do my best.”

She sighed. “I want you to… I want you and I to…” She shook her head. “I want my sisters to walk freely through society without censure, so that they have choices.”

“We’re giving them that.” He patted her thigh, realized he liked the plump, warmness of it under his palm, and kept it there.

“Yes, we are. Thank you.” She looked down for several breaths, studying her hands folded primly on yellow muslin skirts and watching his large hand sprawled across her thigh. “Two weeks, and then we’ll be man and wife.” She said the last three words through a hard swallow.

“We must survive a gauntlet of events before then—parties, balls, every kind of thing designed to drive a man mad.”

“And it might not even matter. It could be no one shows, invitations are discarded instead of replied to.”

“Not after today, Merriweather,” he said, squeezing her thigh, then moving his hand back to the reins. “Because we make an excellent team.”

Yet she seemed unconvinced, her face drawn and pale, her hands lifeless in her lap. The phaeton ride or… him? Their betrothal? He’d just have to convince her. This was the right thing to do. A good thing, too. Their walk today proved it. They worked well together. And with her organizing the house at Bluevale and him taking care of all else, they’d make a life of teamwork.

Barnaby was wrong. Lottie wouldn’t be his weakness. And his marriage would not be like his father’s first. Because they were not in love. Lottie had called it a marriage of convenience, and that sounded like the most perfect description of marriage he’d ever heard.