Because Brandon was going to marry Lottie, damn it.
All he had to do was convince her to give him a chance first.
CHAPTER 17
By the fourth day of avoiding Brandon, Lottie was miserable.
She had dismissed every invitation he issued with a litany of excuses. She was too busy. She had calls to pay. She had stubbed her toe and couldn’t be imposed upon to dance at a ball. And last, the refusal that had made her stomach feel leaden with guilt—she was abed, too ill to leave her sickroom.
To make matters worse, Brandon had come to her upon hearing she was unwell.
She’d been forced to have her butler turn him away.
Now, seated in the small library of the town house that had been Grenfell’s gift to her in death—a home of her own instead of relying upon the alms of family or her widow’s portion—she was hopelessly listless. The book in her lap didn’t hold her interest. The crackling fire in the grate offered warmth but no comfort. And she’d eaten her last chocolate and been forced to ring for Jenkinson in the hopes that her lady’s maid could procure more.
The door to the library opened at her back, but Lottie didn’t bother to look over her shoulder. “Jenkinson dearest, I’ve eaten all the chocolates. Could you have one of the footmen run and fetch me some more?”
She had a feeling she was going to need them. Either chocolates or good French wine. But French wine would only make her think of Brandon, and thinking of Brandon made her miss him and his sinful lips and his verdant eyes that made her melt and his knowing hands and clever tongue… No, she didn’t dare have any wine at all. Chocolate it was.
“Too ill to venture from your sickroom, are you?”
The deep, masculine drawl thieved a gasp from her as she cast a wild look over her shoulder to find Brandon standing at the threshold instead of her lady’s maid. He was tall, handsome, and potently male. If she hadn’t been seated in the chair, she might have been tempted to launch herself at him like a stone loaded into a catapult and unceremoniously flung.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, and then instantly wondered if she had chocolate smeared in the corners of her lips.
Her tongue darted out to catch any lingering traces of the sweet she had been consuming in a fruitless attempt at diversion.
“I was worried about you,” he explained, striding deeper into the room, his emerald eyes burning into her, rendering her incapable of looking anywhere else. “When I was turned away and told how ill you were, I was determined to see you myself, regardless of what your damned butler said.”
Heat crept up her throat.
She’d been caught.
Lottie gripped the arms of her chair, refusing to relent. “Are you playing house cracksman now, Brandon?”
He stopped perilously near, towering over her, and it occurred to Lottie that he was still wearing his hat, gloves, and coat. The scent of rain melded with musk, citrus, and leather. She tried to quell the stinging surge of lust that arced through her at his proximity.
He cocked his head, looking down at her with an unreadable expression. “No, I’m playing concerned suitor. Why did you lie to me?”
“You’re not my suitor,” she hedged, snapping her book closed in her lap and wishing he hadn’t effectively trapped her in her chair.
He was so blasted tall, and she had to crane her neck to hold his gaze. As if he possessed all the time in the world, he removed his hat with a calm, efficient motion, depositing it on a nearby table. His hair was all mahogany waves beneath.
“What am I, then?” He planted his hands on the arms of her chair, leaning down. “Hmm, Lottie? What am I to you?”
“Youweremy lover,” she corrected airily. “Now, you are once more my acquaintance. A friend of a mutual friend.”
“Ah, is that the way of it, then? You have decided to cry off our agreement, and you are too much of a coward to tell me. I thought better of you, darling.”
Lottie resented being called a coward. However, shecouldinwardly acknowledge that her actions were hardly brave. She had been hiding from him, and there was no denying it. Because resisting the man was so deuced impossible. It was a form of self-preservation, really. If she never saw him again, she might have a hope of remaining impervious to his charms.
“We didn’t have an agreement,” she pointed out instead of saying aloud any of the wayward thoughts running through her head.
His dark brows both hiked upward. “What would you term spending almost every night in my bed for a fortnight, then?”
She wished that he weren’t so close. That he weren’t so handsome. That she weren’t so damned tempted to kiss him.
That she could resist this man. Her defenses were disintegrating by the second.
