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 satopposite 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 madeoff 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 marryMissus Lady Grenspellif 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.”
