“Since she is neither my wife nor my betrothed, her opinion doesn’t signify at the moment.”
Lady Lavinia, he had already decided, was not for him. She was pleasant enough. Pretty enough. Hailed from a fine enough family. She was even an excellent dance partner and witty conversationalist.
But he didn’t want to fuck her on a desk. He wasn’t obsessed with the color of her hair or the tilt of her lips or the sounds she made when she came.
Most of all, she hadn’t championed his daughter. Hadn’t caught a runaway mongrel to her own detriment. Hadn’t taken a cruel nursemaid to task.
She wasn’t Lottie.
“Truly, Brandon,” Lottie said, still frowning at the place beyond his shoulder. “It looked as if the two of you were thick as thieves. You needn’t prevaricate on my behalf. I know that what passed between us today was an aberration. You’re hardly my first lover, nor shall you be the last.”
He wasn’t sure if she meant that as a challenge, but he took it as one. He looked at her, stunning in the glow of the chandeliers, her fiery hair glinting with hints of spun gold, and was possessed by the sudden, fierce notion that hewouldbe her last lover. To make it so. The emotion accompanying this tremendous realization confounded him. This time, Brandon nearly tripped, only catching himself at the last second before the two of them landed in an unceremonious heap.
But he would show none of this to her, for he knew instinctively that a woman as clever as the Countess of Grenfell must never be permitted the upper hand. She would be ruthless with it.
“An aberration,” he repeated. “Yes, of course. It shan’t happen again.”
“It cannot,” she insisted crisply.
“I was simply caught up in the passion of the moment.”
“It was a mistake.”
“A dreadful one.”
By this point, he had maneuvered them so that they were positioned near one of the doors leading to the hall. Without hesitation, he danced her over the threshold. He was familiarwith the Earl of Abernathy’s town house, and he knew there was a convenient salon adjacent to the ballroom.
“Brandon, what are you doing?” Lottie asked him in hushed tones. “You’ve moved us into the hall.”
“Oh dear, have I? Allow me to rectify that.”
He spun them into the salon, closing the door behind them, and whirled again, so that her back was to the portal. She was flushed, her lips parted, eyes glistening.
“This isn’t the ballroom,” she said, breathless.
“Do you want to return?” He held his own breath, awaiting her answer.
So much hinged upon it.
The very world, it seemed.
“No,” Lottie told him, softly, quietly.
Lust arced through him, intense and potent. It didn’t matter that he’d had her this afternoon on his desk. If he didn’t slide inside her again within the next five minutes, he would combust like dry kindling.
He allowed himself the pleasure of drinking her in—the gown she was wearing was a marvel, fitted to the architecture of her body like a sleek glove. The silk was neither purple nor blue, but some mystifying shade in between that rendered her eyes a stunning iolite hue. Her creamy breasts were mounded high above the bodice, a cluster of silk flowers and fine tulle adorning them. It occurred to him that he had yet to see her breasts, and this seemed an egregious lapse on his part.
He needed to be alone with her, with the luxury of time and without the fear of interruption.
But that was a worry for later. For now, his aim was simple and single-minded. He passed the backs of his fingers slowly, lightly, over the soft swells of her breasts, reveling in the hiss of her breath as she inhaled. How satiny her skin was, gilded with coppery flecks. Deliberately, he ran his caress along the ridge ofher collarbone, pausing in the dip at the base of her throat to feel her pulse throbbing in time to his.
He could explore her all day. Every inch of her was a revelation, but desire had cast its heady spell over him, and he couldn’t resist lowering his mouth to hers. He kissed her with all the longing that had been burning within him, devouring her lips, giving her his tongue and tasting the sweetness that was Lottie mingling with champagne.
She made a low, throaty sound of need, clutching at his coat with one hand whilst the other found the fall of his trousers. His cock was already rising toward her, and the brush of her palm over his erection was enough to make him groan in turn. Was she as mad with wanting him as he was for her? He had to know.
Grasping her voluminous skirt and petticoats in one hand, he lifted them high, his hand unerringly seeking her cunny. She was wet and ready for him, his questing fingertips finding her swollen clitoris and strumming over her. Her hips chased his hand, her tongue greedily invading his mouth.
He toyed with her, rubbing, stroking, lightly at first and then with greater pressure, wanting to prolong her pleasure and torment both. She found the buttons on his falls and flicked them open, his cock springing free into her waiting hand. As if she had been waiting all evening, she stroked his rigid length firmly from base to tip, her tight grasp and hum of appreciation making him harder.
