He smiled with genuine warmth, displaying enthusiasm and true pleasure rather than the suave charm he so often affected. It disturbed her to realize she could discern the difference now. That she knew this man well enough.
Not just his body, as had been the way of it for her with past lovers. But his personality. The deepest, truest parts of himself. She’d learned long ago that giving one’s body to another was purely a physical act. One’s mind was the true source of intimacy. The rest was merely assuaging a need, like eating to dispense with hunger.
Grenfell had taught her that.
“I have an 1864Chateau Margauxthat is a marvel,” he told her. “We must try it together. Tell me, why have you never traveled to France?”
“I was a girl when I married, only eighteen. Grenfell didn’t prefer to travel abroad, for he suffered from terrible seasickness. I suppose, in hindsight, that the seasickness may have been a ruse. Likely, the true reason was because he didn’t like to straytoo far from his mistresses here in London. Either way, after he died, I threw myself into the London whirl as well.”
“He hurt you badly,” Brandon observed, his jaw clenching.
How odd to speak about her failed marriage with a man who was her former lover. A man who had persuaded her to dinner. A man who could not be hers.
And yet, how right it felt. Surprise washed over her at the realization. She felt comfortable with the Duke of Brandon. And it had nothing to do with the physical intimacy they had shared and everything to do with the times they had simply spent in each other’s company, talking.
She swallowed hard. “He did, but we needn’t speak of it. That’s all where it belongs now, in the past.”
“Is it?” He raised a brow, his gaze searching, seeking.Seeing.
“Not entirely, perhaps,” she allowed.
“I would love nothing more than to plant him a facer,” he declared grimly. “For the grief he caused you. For failing to realize what he had in you. For being the source of the hurt I see lurking in your eyes. For everything he did and all he didn’t do that he ought to have done. No man deserves a sound drubbing more.”
No one had ever said that to her. Most of the members of her inner circle had been sympathetic yet firm. Keeping mistresses was the sort of thing men in their circle did. And wives looked the other way. Some of them took their own lovers after they’d done their duty of providing their husbands with the heir and spare. Everyone pretended not to care.
She didn’t know what to say, how to adequately express her convoluted emotions without giving herself away. So she took up her wineglass and drained half its contents.
“Thank you,” she said when she could find her voice, her silly hand trembling as she replaced the goblet on the table.
Hopefully he wouldn’t take note of how deeply affected she was. She loathed speaking of her terrible marriage. Hated talking about Grenfell. It was a part of her life that she had closed away, like an awful secret locked in an attic, never again to see the light of day. Except the Duke of Brandon was resurrecting all the ghosts of her past. Shining light into the darkest corners of her soul.
She didn’t like it.
And yet, she couldn’t resist it.
What a strange, compelling man he was.
“You needn’t thank me for stating the obvious, Lottie,” Brandon said, frowning.
“Some people wouldn’t think it obvious,” she pointed out. “Most husbands are unfaithful to their wives. I shouldn’t have been so naïve as to expect differently. It’s the way of our world. Indeed, I scarcely imagine that you will be a faithful husband to your bride.”
His stare was rapt upon her, trapping her as surely as if he’d caught her in an embrace, and she could not look away. “Is that what you think of me, that I intend to treat my wife as Grenfell did you?”
She didn’t want to think about him in relation to his wife. His young, innocent debutante, who would be lovely and sweet, a credit to him on his arm. Perhaps he would fall in love with whomever he chose. Perhaps hewouldbe faithful to his duchess. Perhaps he would never stray, and they would live happily and create a brood of bubbly children just like Pandy. Those thoughts were acid poured upon her soul.
“I’m sure it isn’t my place to think about such matters,” she forced out.
And yet, he refused to relent, holding her gaze, so still that he might have been a statue but for the sensual heat he radiated. “But it is, you see. I’ve asked the question of you.”
The soup course was cooling in their bowls. Her stomach—once eager for the delicious meal ahead—was mutinying. It wanted nothing of food, tied up in knots of envy she had no right to feel.
Lottie took another sip of wine, trying to calm her wildly vacillating emotions. Failing. She had somehow done the unthinkable. She had failed to heed her own rules for conducting herself with lovers. She wanted more from the Duke of Brandon than his body and the pleasure he could bring her.
“I think you are a rakehell with a reputation,” she answered. “I think you have never proven yourself faithful. I think that when you marry, you will continue to be sought-after and desired by many women, to whom it shan’t matter that you are someone else’s husband. That sort of temptation can be difficult to resist.”
At least, that was what Grenfell had claimed. He hadn’t wanted to betray her. It had simply been his nature. He was a virile man, made to spread his seed.
Her hand trembled as she settled her wine goblet back on the snowy table linen.
