The revelation piqued Lottie’s interest. The Duke of Camden, like the Duke of Brandon, was a rake with a certain reputation. He was also the elder brother of Rosamund’s former betrothed.
The Duke of Camden’s scapegrace younger brother, Lord Wesley Gilden, a second son with a need for Rosamund’s fortune, had broken her heart. He had committed the egregious sin of asking for Rosamund’s hand and pretending he loved her, all whilst carrying on with an actress in St John’s Wood. When Rosamund had inadvertently discovered his treachery—the actress had sent her a letter to inform her that she was expecting a child with Lord Wesley—she had been devastated, throwing Lord Wesley over.
“Why shouldyou wish to know if Camden is here?” Lottie asked, curious beyond measure.
Sheadoredgossip. It was one of her only vices. Well, that and fine Bordeaux. And handsome men.
“Because I need to speak to him,” Rosamund answered with a heavy sigh. “He has presented me with a proposition that I find…interesting, despite my better judgment.”
Lottie’s mouth fell open. “Oh?”
Something salacious, she was sure. The Duke of Camden was a bounder. An unapologetic cad. He would never make a proper offer to anyone, regardless of how desperate his circumstances had become, having had a father who had beggared not just himself, but all the estates in the entail as well. He was a rogue to the rotten core, scarcely any different from his brother.
“Don’t look at me so,” Rosamund chided. “It is notthatsort of proposition, if you must know.”
Lottie bit her lip. “What sort?”
“The indecent sort,” Rosamund elaborated, looking distinctly uncomfortable now. “Rather, it was quite proper. He offered me marriage.”
Lottie could have been knocked off her feet with nothing more than a feather, so great was her shock.
“He did?” she managed at last past her own incredulousness.
“In return for something I want very much,” Rosamund explained, taking care to keep her voice from traveling.
“What is that, my dear?”
Rosamund smiled. “Revenge.”
Brandon consultedhis pocket watch for the fifth time as he paced the Axminster in the emerald salon—so named for its abject fidelity to the color green—where he had arranged to meet with the Countess of Grenfell. She was late. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Ordinarily, Brandon was the sort of man who waited for no one. But this evening was different, and he was willing to exert his limited patience for one reason alone.
He needed a wife.
Needed one with as much haste as he could muster, and the very notion of courting made him want to stab his eyes out with a pair of dull pickle forks. Grandmother had made herself clear, however. If he didn’t marry within the nextthree bloody months, she had every intention of changing her will, leaving Wingfield Hall and the rest of her fortune to his dreadful cousin Horace.
The redheaded beauty who had been sending him take-me-to-bed glances for weeks seemed as good a choice as any, particularly after she had issued a brazen invitation to her bed. As a widow, she was experienced enough not to have the missish sensibilities of a virgin. She was friends with Lady Southwick, whom his good chum Sidmouth had recently been in lust with—small world, et cetera, et cetera. Her family was respected and well-known, and Grandmother could find no fault in it, even if Lady Grenfell’s own reputation was a trifle scandalous.
Brandon didn’t give a damn how many lovers she’d taken in the past. Hell, he didn’t care if she took lovers again after they were married. All hedidcare about was placating Grandmother and securing Wingfield Hall forever. Besides, he told himself as he stalked the length of the chamber once more, feeling like alion trapped in a cage, he would need someone to look after Pandora. Oh, he knew it wasn’t done to ask one’s wife to tend to a child born on the wrong side of the blanket. However, he wasn’t inclined to send his poppet away now that he had her.
One look at her heart-shaped face and dark ringlets, and he had been irrevocably changed. She had slipped her hand into his, the gesture so trusting and guileless that he had been left speechless. Until she had later upended his inkwell, allowed a bird into the house from the gardens which had promptly shat all over the carpets—but Duke, her name’s Emily, ’n we’re friends—and wetted herself whilst sitting on his lap. Then, Brandon had found words, along with the realization that he required assistance when it came to the little imp beyond the nursemaid he had hastily hired.
Yes, the timing would be excellent in all ways.
He knew what he had to do.
As if on cue, the door to the salon clicked open, and the Countess of Grenfell slipped over the threshold, closing it at her back. Their gazes met and held, and for a heartbeat, something coursed through him—a deep, elemental acknowledgment of her as a woman. She was astoundingly lovely, and it couldn’t be denied.
Lady Grenfell hesitated as he took a moment to admire her. She was lush of form, with a mouth any courtesan would covet, fiery tresses, and sea-blue eyes. Her skin was pale, dusted with a delightful smattering of freckles he wouldn’t mind exploring with his tongue. He wondered if her breasts were dusted with freckles as well. Tiny flecks of gold to contrast with ivory mounds and sweet pink nipples.
His cock went rigid at the thought of exploring her.
Not now, old chap. We have more important matters to attend to just now.
Matters such as marriage.
The reminder made his rampaging prick wilt enough to render forward locomotion less uncomfortable. His trousers were still deuced snug. He strode toward her anyway.
“Lady Grenfell.” Brandon bowed formally when he reached her, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips for a lingering kiss on the knuckles.
