She cradled his face in both hands, holding him to her, returning his kisses, accepting his tongue, giving him hers. Until finally, they were both breathless, her lips swollen, and he gently tipped her head back, severing the connection.
“Tell me that felt like we’re over to you,” he rasped.
She stared at him, struggling to gather a comprehension of the English language. She felt like a forest that had been burned to the ground, and now that the flames had died, she must find new life again.
“It doesn’t feel like we’re over,” she admitted quietly.
To him. But, perhaps, most importantly, to herself.
“Good.” He leaned into her, pressing his mouth to hers in a surprisingly chaste kiss before breaking away. “I’ll send my carriage for you tomorrow after luncheon. Come and spend the afternoon with me and Pandy.”
She gawped. This was not what she had expected him to say or do. An invitation to bed. A crude shag in the chair, yes. Chaste kisses followed by a request to share the day with him and his daughter? Decidedly not.
“I… Brandon…”
“Cat too,” he added, grinning and making her heart beat faster. “We cannot forget our favorite rotten-pig-trotter-loving mongrel.”
“Rotten pig trotter?”
She had been reduced to repeating his words. But she was lost. Confused. Adrift at sea, trying to find any piece of flotsam to which she might cling.
He chuckled, the sound low and pleasant as silk drawn over her bare skin. “A long story. One I will share with you. Tomorrow.”
With that, he rose, the two of them moving as one until he settled her gently on her feet. Her knees threatened to buckle, her legs like those of a newborn foal.
“Please, o beloved sorceress of wayward children and ragtag mongrels. Say you will join us.”
Lottie shook her head, amused by him. Entranced by him. Falling further for him despite herself.
What was wrong with her? How had her plan to avoid him gone so amiss?
“My coachman will deliver me,” she said, feeling as if she must at least retain some manner of control.
“You and your bloody coachman,” he grumbled.
“John Coachman knows my secrets.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “I never thought to see the day I’d be jealous of a coachman.”
Was this more of his dramatic flair? Surely he couldn’t be serious.
She searched his gaze. “Why should you be jealous of him?”
“Because I want to be the keeper of your secrets. I want to be the man you entrust yourself to, Lottie.”
The earnestness in his voice made her breath catch. Before she could form a response, he stepped away from her, retrieving his hat in one elegant motion and placing it atop his head.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated. “Bring your own carriage if you must.”
With a bow, he started for the door. She watched him, feeling oddly bereft.
“Brandon,” she called.
He stopped, cocking his head toward her.
“No need to use the servants’ entrance when you leave,” she said, feeling foolish because she hadn’t wanted him to go, and she had been grasping at any means she could think of to stay him.
He inclined his head. “Through the front door like a proper suitor, it is.”
