He had dispensed with his gloves, but she still wore hers, and the impediment was nettlesome. The pleasant scent of roses, tinged with a hint of violets, reached him. She must have dabbed some scent on her inner wrist during hertoilettethat evening.
“Your Grace.”
He suddenly wished to tug her glove away and know the softness of her bare skin. But that could come later. For now, he couldn’t afford to luxuriate in seduction. And damn it if that wasn’t a rarity for him.
He straightened but didn’t relinquish his hold on her hand. “Call me Brandon. Surely there is no need for formality between us.”
She inclined her head, still holding his gaze in that brazen way of hers he found so deliciously enticing. “As you wish. You may call me Lottie if it pleases you.”
Lottie.The name suited her. Bright and lovely, rather like a butterfly.
“Lottie,” he repeated, trying the name on his tongue and finding he liked the feel of it as well. “Come and have a seat, won’t you?”
Her brow furrowed, as if she found his request puzzling. “Of course.”
She believed he had invited her to the emerald salon for a tryst. Her befuddlement was understandable, and God knew he wished he had brought her here for that purpose instead. He offered her his arm, escorting her to the seating arranged beforethe hearth, a generously sizedLouis Quinzesettee and a pair of wingback chairs.
A sudden sense of indecision struck him.
He had never proposed marriage to a woman before. Brandon had made innumerable indecent and wicked proposals over the years. But never aproperone. Good God, what did one do? He ought to have prepared some manner of speech whilst he had been awaiting her. What should he say? Something flowery? Something pragmatic? A false declaration of love? An ode to her breasts?
Well, Christ. What a conundrum.
Brandon guided her to the settee and then settled himself at her side, her cream-and-crimson silk skirts brushing his trousers. It was bold of her, pairing her vibrant red hair with such a daring gown. But the effect was undeniable. At this proximity, she was even more exquisite. Her eyes were pale blue with a ring of gray circling the irises—quite unusual. He didn’t think he’d ever seen such a shade before.
Long, coppery lashes swept over the eyes he’d been admiring. “This room is…quite…green.”
Her polite, if somewhat grim, observation jolted him from his thoughts.
Brandon gave her a wry grin. “Hence the reason it is known as the emerald salon. Do you find fault with it? I must confess, I’ve never had an eye for such matters. The wall coverings, furniture, and even the pictures hanging are relics from Dukes and Duchesses of Brandon past.”
“I don’t find fault with it,” she assured him, a small smile flirting with the corners of her sultry lips as she discreetly tugged off her gloves and laid them in her lap. “I was merely surprised at the prodigious amount of the color. A Duke or Duchess of Brandon past must have been inordinately fond of the shade.”
“My paternal grandmother, I believe.”
“Oh dear.” She bit her lip, and that had his unruly cock awakened once more. “I do believe I’ve just insulted your grandmother. Quite unintentionally, of course. Forgive me.”
He shifted in an effort to lessen the effect her mouth and nearness were having on him. “I scarcely use this room. Think nothing of it.”
They stared at each other, the ormolu clock on the mantel—another relic from past dukes and duchesses—ticking into the silence, the muted strains of music and voices in the distance as its sole accompaniment. How the devil was he to proceed?
He knew everything about seduction.
But he knew absolutely nothing about proposals of marriage.
“Is this—” she began.
“Perhaps I—” he started in unison.
They both stopped. This was proceeding wretchedly. He was going to have to revert to what he knew best. On any other occasion, he would have already had her skirts around her waist. She would have been moaning his name by now.
Maybe that was the answer he was seeking. He could combine a seduction with a proposal.
Brandon reached for her, cupping her cheek, the smooth warmth of her skin sending searing awareness careening through him. Her gaze fastened on his. He stroked the lip she had been abusing with the pad of his thumb, and then he angled his head toward hers, hesitating for a moment, curiously entranced by the golden flecks dancing along the bridge of her nose.
A potent awareness blossomed between them. She was the first to break the moment, moving toward him swiftly, their mouths meeting. Lottie kissed him with unabashed ardor, her lips as silken as the rest of her, hot and damned drugging. They were soft, laced faintly with champagne. He thought he’d never tasted anything better.
He caught her waist with his one hand, pulling her more snugly against him as he slid the other to her nape, his fingers slipping into her cool, sleek chignon. He knew how to kiss without affecting a lady’s coiffure, but there was some elemental need within him, urging him to pluck pins away, to unravel her long, flaming hair so that he could revel in its glory as it cascaded down her back. Her lips parted, and he took advantage, delving inside with his tongue.
