Chapter 3

Why must everything begin and end with lips? Lottie’s this time. (Lottie’s always.) Pressed into a thin line. Her face pale, her hands clutched in her lap. Their exact texture and taste weighed on him still, an ever-present ghost that chased all other kisses away.

He hated it.

He rustled the reins to push his team through a hole between a hack and a cart.

And Lottie squeaked.

“Scared?”

“Never.” Her voice was tight, though.

He didn’t dare glance her way. “You should be scared of me.”

“Not of you. What have you abducted me for?”

“You came willingly enough.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m not.” He might be. Her presence always sent him reeling, tied his tongue up in a perfect speechless knot. Not always. Not before the kiss. Before the kiss, he’d talked to her as easily as he did to himself when alone in a room.

Now? Now she owned his lips, his mouth, his tongue. Tied them up as she pleased.

Damn her. No. She. Didn’t. Best to let her know his purpose, then he could dump her back out onto the street.

“You met with my mother today,” he said.

“Ah. That’s what fires your ire.” She slid a glance his way. “I’m allowed to spend a pleasant hour with a pleasant woman I’ve known my entire life.”

“Not if that hour includes machinations against me.”

“I would not call marriage a machination, my lord.”

“What else would it be?”

“A joy. A privilege. A future filled with delight.”

“Ha.” A hard laugh for a man who planned to marry, to take upon himself that joy, that privilege as she called it. “For women, perhaps. For men… unlikely.”

“You are a toad.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“Impossible not to when you croak every time you open your mouth.”

Mouths. Hers was no longer flat and thin but pouty. A perfect bow. He’d kissed many women before and after kissing her, but he had found no lips like Lottie’s. None that particular shade of pink. None with such a perfect bow for an upper lip. None so soft. Or warm. Or sweet.

He focused on the horses’ hindquarters, their flicking tails, their trotting legs. Anything but that one thing he could never quite forget. “No more, Merriweather.”

She tilted her head, her expression a particularly dangerous shade of blank. “No more what, Noble?”

“You will not help my mother plan these courtship events.”

Those lips parted, oh so slightly, releasing an exhale of disbelief. “Your mother asked for my help planning her events. And I am good at planning events. I will not deny a woman who has always been like family to me.”

“You will. I’ll help her. I’ll choose a lady to marry quickly enough so she won’t need all the events. One or two should suffice, and she should be able to handle that many on her own. No need for you, Merriweather.”

“You are not going to fight it?”

“Fight what?”

“Marriage.”

“No. It’s time. I need an heir.”

“And you think you can find a woman to marry in an event or two?”

He shrugged. “Can’t be that difficult.”

“I’ve been working since last Season to locate the perfect candidate for marriage. It’s not a decision to take lightly. It takes time and planning and coming to know the other person.”

“I don’t see how. If my mother invites the woman to one of these infernal events, then she’s acceptable enough to marry. All I need do is discover if being in the same room as her for prolonged periods of time is tolerable.”

“Tolerable!” A high-pitched rage of a word.

“Precisely. And that’s an easy enough task. I merely need to measure her against you.”

Her mouth dropped open, hung for the space of a breath, untaken, then snapped shut once more. “I see.”

Something about her slumped shoulders sent him straight to hell. He’d hurt her. That was the point, though, wasn’t it? Yes, it was. Because when she looked at him with trust in her eyes, he wanted to—

The reins cut across his palms as his loose grip hardened into fists, and the horses shot forward with a lurch.

She gasped, clung to the edge of the seat. He slowed the phaeton, and she relaxed. Did the speed bother her? That bothered him.

He brushed the bother away and cleared his throat. “I expect you to keep your distance from these events.”

She raised her head slowly, gazed out onto the road before them. “You can expect nothing of the sort.”

He might snap the reins in two, squeezing them so hard. The horses danced. “It sounds, Merriweather, as if your time would be better spent securing a husband.” Perhaps then he’d be free. Perhaps that’s what he’d needed—for another man to own those lips so she could stop owning his. “You seem to be failing.”

“I’m not. It’s none of your business, but I have narrowed it down to three suitors.”

“Who?” he asked before he could stop it.

“It hardly matters.”

It did.

He scowled. “You’re right. It does not matter.”

“Three will be one by the week’s end, so it’s hardly worth mentioning them all. You’ll know soon enough. I’ve already secured their dances for this evening’s ball.”

“The Woodward affair?”

She nodded.

Hm. His hands loosened on the reins. Perhaps he should start his hunt at the ball this evening. If he started now, that would be fewer events his mother would feel obligated to host. He’d be engaged even sooner than he thought. And his mother, who truly did need and deserve Lottie’s help, could have what she wished. Only she would not need that help as long as she’d anticipated.

“I’ll be there, too.”

She groaned and let her head fall back on her neck, showing off a smooth column of skin above her high-collared spencer. Creamy skin, delicate above curves he should absolutely never notice. Generous curves. More than a handful of curves, round and plump and perfect and—

No. She was Merriweather, a devil of a woman with the tartest tongue known to man.

Tart? A memory whispered. Not at all. Instead… so very sweet. She’d tasted of strawberries and cream, a summer flavor to live on.

He stopped the phaeton, and without waiting for him, she stood, intending obviously, to swing herself down on her own.

“Hell,” he growled, jumping out of the phaeton and running to the other side just as she swung herself down, skirts hiked, her hem catching on a corner, holding her above as her body jerked toward the ground, falling.

He caught her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Merriweather?” He clutched her to his chest where her heart beat hard against his ribs before releasing her. “It’s too high. You’re going to hurt yourself. Then your brother will want to put his fist into my nose. Or one of his blades between my ribs.”

“I can do it myself.” She stormed toward the door, her bonnet tumbling backward off her head. He caught it, plopped it back on from behind. She froze right before the door, and he nearly slammed into her. She turned to face him, putting his body a hairsbreadth from hers, her chest rising and falling with angry breaths. She lifted her chin, and the bonnet tumbled once more. He reached around her to catch it, and she snatched it from his hands, held it at her side by dangling red ribbons.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Going inside.”

“Why?”

“Not that I must tell you, but I’m going to see your brother.” He smirked. “I’ve need of his Guide.”

“Ha. Yes, you do.” A smile so smug it hit him like a fist.

He’d walked right into that one. He stepped around her and opened the door. “You know, you should seek out your brother’s help as well. You’ve been at this how many years now and have yet to receive a proposal?”

“I’ll have one by the end of the Season.”

“And I’ll have one by the end of a fortnight. Think you can do better?” He should not goad her. But damn it felt good to do so, a small return to how they used to be before his father’s death.

“I know I can. I’ve a head start, after all.”

“We’ll see.”

They faced one another in the door frame of the townhouse, her chin tilted up, him bent ever-so-slightly at the waist, leaning toward her. A tableau that, if drawn, might be titled Before the Kiss.

He snapped upright and held out an arm toward the interior, ushering her into her own home. She marched right through and toward the staircase. He set his steps down the hall toward the duke’s study.

“And my mother does not need your help, Merriweather,” he called out. “Stay away.”

“No!” Her footsteps stomped quickly up the stairs.

He chuckled. He’d not obtained what he’d set out to gain—her agreement to stay away from his mother and these cursed courting events. But what he had gained seemed to make up for it—a contest. Him versus her as it ever had been. Winner married first. God, it had been too long since he’d felt such a thrill, such a challenge. He’d win, find a wife, and kill the curse of Lottie’s lips. Then Lottie would marry soon after, and her lips would be entirely out of bounds within another man’s bedroom. A second bullet in the beating heart of this curse. Excellent.

His steps slowed as he approached Samuel’s study.

Lottie’s lips in another man’s bedroom. He’d never had to think about that before. Why should he? She’d never allowed men to seriously court her before. Except for her first Season, before her mother’s death. She’d accepted suitors then, and… hm.

You didn’t like it, memory whispered.

The men that Season must have been scoundrels. As Clearford’s closest friend, it had been Quinton’s duty to scare off scoundrels.

Who had she said her remaining three suitors were? She’d not said. They could be scoundrels, too. He stopped before the study door, hand half raised to knock.

The door flew open.

“Noble. I heard the footsteps, but didn’t think…” The Duke of Clearford stood in the doorway, the hilt of a small knife in his hand and a sharp question in his blue eyes. He did not much resemble Lottie, had acquired all the shadows Lottie seemed to lack, his black hair a striking contrast to her golden locks. But like Lottie, Clearford was always brightly polished, hair perfectly in place, fashionably cut, cravat pristine with a single simple cravat pin in place. A diamond today. “What are you doing here, Noble? Look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” He waved his empty hand in Quinton’s face. “All pale.”

Quinton pushed his friend’s hand away and stepped into the room. “It’s nothing. I’ve come for your help.”

Clearford strode for his desk and tossed the knife across the room in one fluid movement, where it hit a block of wood hung on the wall there with a solid thunk. Quinton flinched. He should be used to the duke’s penchant for throwing knives, but he never could quite accept flying blades with ease. Especially not when thrown with such accuracy.

Clearford sat behind his desk and kicked his boots up onto it, weaving his hands behind his head as he leaned back into his chair. “With what?”

“You know what.” Quinton mirrored the duke on the other side of the desk—leaned back, hands woven, boots kicked up. “Courtship.”

“It’s about time.”

“You’re one to judge. Your Grace has no duchess, not the last time I checked.”

“I’m working on it. Soon.”

“Who?”

“There is no who yet. I’m working on the how. Once it’s perfected, I’ll choose the who. The who is the most important bit. Can’t rush it. Do you know who?”

“Not at all. Leaving that up to my mother.”

Clearford scowled. His boots hit the floor with a thud as he snapped his body forward and upright. “I’ll not help you if you refuse to take this seriously. Courtship is the most serious endeavor a man can make. The outcome of the process informs the rest of his life, colors it in sun or shadow.”

“Just give me the damn book, Clearford.”

“No. I only help those gentlemen who are ready and willing to marry. You seem to be doing this under duress.” Clearford scratched his jaw, glanced to the side of the room where a giant portrait hung over an equally massive fireplace. His parents and their children, all nine of them. Painted before his parents’ death. Clearford’s face changed as he considered the portrait from impassive determination to something a bit more thoughtful, a bit more bothered. He propped his elbows on the desk and tapped the oak top with all fingers as he thought.

What did he see in the portrait? Quinton saw an awful lot of skirts. Nine females—the mother and eight daughters. Lottie the oldest. He’d known all of them since birth, a natural consequence of their estates bordering one another.

Quinton cleared his throat. “Duress hardly matters. No, it matters more. I don’t have the luxury of time. I need what help I can get to make the best choice as quickly as possible.”

Clearford sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. Who does not marry without duress?” Not really a question. They both knew the answer. Everyone had reasons, and very few reasons ran to romance. “My sisters… as you know, I’ve commanded them to marry. They get to choose, but”—he winced—“I’m denying them the luxury of time.”

He likely expected to be asked about that. Quinton did not care. “You understand, then. You’ll give me a copy of the book?”

Clearford pushed away from the desk and opened a drawer. He pulled a beaten notebook into the light and tossed it onto the desk between them. “Take it. You’re my friend, and Lottie’s suitors have all borrowed it.”

Ah. The three chosen ones. “And they are…?” Quinton kicked his feet to the floor and leaned forward, ready to gather the names.

“Lord Erstwhile, Mr. Pepperidge, Lord Phillipspots.”

Quinton crossed his arms over his chest. “Erstwhile.” The best of the bunch. “Are any of them close to proposing?”

“All of them. They’re waiting on the right time.”

“Waiting? Why don’t they propose and get it done with?”

Clearford tapped the notebook. “Read, my friend. It’s clear you need to.”

“I don’t want to wait.”

“Waiting for the right time is necessary, Noble. You must be assured of the lady’s feelings. She must be perfectly receptive in all ways. Need, longing. Otherwise, she will say no. It’s not about the proposal. It’s about the successful acceptance of the proposal.”

Hell. That made sense. Complicated matters, though. Quinton snatched the notebook and flipped through it, pushing the chair back and standing. “Thank you, Clearford. I’m sure this will prove invaluable. And in less than a fortnight, you may congratulate me.”

“Don’t be too cocky, Noble. Such hubris always seems to come before the fall.”

Quinton waved as he left the room. “I’ll invite you to the wedding.”

Clearford’s laughter followed him down the hall.

And he found Lottie waiting in front of the door. No bonnet. No gloves. No spencer. Only a perfectly starched green gown and perfectly polished golden curls. A pink bow of a mouth. A fierce scowl.

He sauntered toward her, waving the notebook. “Look what I’ve got.”

“Hm.” She tapped her cheek. “It must be titled Being a Successful Suitor for Simpletons.”

Why did she make his jaw clench and his blood rush every damn time she opened her mouth? Her pink bow of a cursed mouth.

“Success is right, Merriweather.” Because wooing a wife would also win him freedom from the horrid mistake he’d made long ago—kissing her.