But it wasn’t her reputation she was thinking of now, the slow, steady ache of anticipation beginning deep within her. Rather, it was the satisfaction of wearing the gold silk for theDuke of Brandon. For it was a gown that had been cleverly designed by one of the finest Paris houses to bring every man to his knees.
And Lottie had suddenly decided to use it for its intended purpose.
CHAPTER 14
The Countess of Grenfell was a goddess tonight. A Venus draped in diaphanous gold, her creamy breasts lifted high above a daring decolletage that left almost nothing to the imagination. Brandon took one look at her upon her arrival in the private salon of his house in St John’s Wood, and his cock went instantly hard.
A primitive sense of possession surged through him, and it required all the gentlemanly self-discipline he had to keep from throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her away to the bedroom so he could devour her at once.
Not now, old chap, he thought wryly.You’ll have to wait your turn.
Instead, he took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a reverent kiss as he drank her in fully. Her riotous cinnamon curls had been coaxed into Grecian plaits coiled thickly at her nape, with a spray of ringlets left free, along with a fringe of them on her high forehead. The gilded flecks of freckles adorned her nose, and her full, lush lips were the pink of a wild English rose. A sapphire necklace at her throat sparkled as a complement to the brilliant blue of her eyes.
Briefly, he wondered if Grenfell had gifted the necklace to her, and then he vowed that he would buy her a hundred necklaces with larger, costlier gems and drape them around her throat. He’d fuck her as she wore nothing else when she was well and truly his.
He cleared his throat, inhaling deeply of the rich scent of violet and rose and Lottie. “Good evening, o beloved sorceress of wayward children and ragtag mongrels.”
He straightened to his full height, and she smiled at him, and he thought he could happily spend the rest of the evening just admiring her thus as her pretty Cupid’s bow curved with amusement.
“Good evening, o silly duke of ridiculous imagined titles and insistence upon sending secret carriages to take me to my destination,” she returned.
She was still bristling about his sending his own conveyance to her. He had done so for a very good reason. Brandon hadn’t been certain if she would deign to join him here, for St John’s Wood was notorious. It was where most gentlemen either discreetly engaged in affairs or settled their mistresses. Where a married man could keep his secrets and have his bed warmed beyond the watchful eye of polite society and his wife.
That wasn’t why Brandon had brought her here. Rather, it was because he couldn’t justify another coupling whilst his daughter was beneath the same roof. Pandy would face struggles enough because of her illegitimacy. There was no need to cause further scandal where she was concerned. When he had taken Lottie in his study, he had been overwhelmed. Overcome by a temporary madness brought on by Lottie and her steadfast devotion to his daughter.
“Your John Coachman doesn’t know my address,” he told Lottie lightly.
She arched a cinnamon brow. “He would have known it had I told him.”
“Yes, but would you have come to me here in St John’s Wood?”
“That would have depended.”
He was still holding her hand in his, so he availed himself of her wrist, pressing his lips there, absorbing the steady thrum of her pulse. “Upon?”
She held his gaze, unsmiling. “Upon whether this is a home where you have previously installed your mistresses.”
“This house has never been used for a mistress,” he told her honestly. “Not by me, at least. My sire is another matter, but you can rest assured that I had all traces of him and whatever filthy deeds he performed here removed. Everything, from the paper hangings to the curtains and the Axminster, has been replaced.”
He kissed along her inner arm until he reached the place where her glove ended and glorious, soft skin met his seeking lips. The inner curve of her elbow. Brandon couldn’t help himself. He nipped her lightly there.
She shivered, then inhaled sharply, the action making her breasts rise in tempting swells, threatening to burst free of her bodice. “What have you used it for, then?”
“Various purposes,” he said lightly as he straightened, for prior to choosing Wingfield Hall as the home of the Wicked Dukes Society revelries, this house had been used. “Most recently, as a discreet meeting place for Sidmouth and his new wife.”
“This is the house Hyacinth spoke to me of, then,” Lottie said, unsurprised by his revelation.
“She told you about it?” That rather startled him to learn, for Lady Southwick—now Lady Sidmouth, he reminded himself—hardly seemed the sort to bandy her private affairs about.
“We are dear friends. Of course she did. But she needn’t have done so. I am already more than aware of your love nest. All London knows about it, I daresay.”
“Love nest,” he repeated, thinking maybe he had done his cause a disservice in bringing her here after all.
“Perhaps you have more than one,” she mused, “given that you’ve just told me you never used this house for a mistress.”
He shook his head. “I never know what manner of scandal broth is swirling about me, and I’m increasingly persuaded that is for the best. I can assure you that I don’t have a love nest. But enough of idle gossip for now, however. Let us eat the dinner my chef has prepared for us.”
It was a dinner designed to impress. Intentionally decadent. Brandon was many things, but a fool wasn’t one of them. He was wooing her in every way he could.
