Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners #3)(22)

He shuddered as he forced himself to pull her skirts down, covering the sweet flesh he craved. Westcliff was waiting nearby, and now was not the time or place to indulge himself further. Later there would be time to make love to Lottie at his leisure. Patience, he counseled himself, taking a few steadying breaths.

Lottie crawled from his arms and huddled at the opposite end of the settee. She was gorgeously tousled, her cheeks dewy and deeply flushed in the flickering light. Fumbling with her bodice, she covered her br**sts.

Their gazes met, hers bright with shame, his frankly calculating. And then Nick went in for the kill. "I do want you," he said. "In fact, I would probably stoop at nothing to get you. But I don't want you as a mistress. I want full, irrevocable ownership. Everything that you would have given to Radnor, or Westcliff."

Realizing what he meant, Lottie stared at him as if he were a lunatic. It took a full half-minute for her to recover enough to speak. "Do you mean marriage? What difference would there be between marrying you or Lord Radnor?"

"The difference is that I'm letting you choose."

"Why would you be willing to shackle yourself to me for a lifetime?"

The truth was something that Nick could never admit to her. "Because I want the convenience of a wife," he lied. "And you'll do as well as any other woman."

She sucked in a breath of outrage.

"Make your choice," Nick advised. "You can keep running, or you can become someone's wife. Mine or Radnor's."

She gave him another one of those long, searching stares that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Damn, he hated it when she did that. Once again he could not blink or look away, and she appeared to read his thoughts in spite of his will to conceal them.

"Yours," she said stiffly. "I'll be yours."

And he let out a slow, nearly imperceptible sigh of relief.

Lottie struggled from his lap and straightened her clothes. She went to pour herself some brandy from the crystal decanter at the mahogany sideboard. She was dizzy, and her knees felt like jelly, which were good indications that more spirits were the last thing she needed. Moreover, she was still technically Lord Westcliff's servant, and no one in such a position would ever think of helping herself to some of the master's liquor. On the other hand, such distinctions had become blurred after the stunning revelations of the evening. She was bemused by the realization that she had received two marriage proposals in one night from vastly different men.

And the things that Nick Gentry had just done to her-no, she would not think about that now, while her body still throbbed with the echoes of shameful pleasure. Filling the glass liberally, Lottie grimaced and gulped the fine vintage.

Gentry came to her, taking the glass after she had downed half its contents. "In a minute you're going to be as drunk as a wheelbarrow."

"Does it matter?" she asked hoarsely, watching as he finished the brandy for her.

"I suppose not." As she swayed before him, he set aside the empty snifter and caught her waist in his hands. A self-mocking smile touched his lips. "God knows any woman would need to fortify herself after agreeing to become my wife."

A demanding thump rattled the door, and Lord Westcliff entered the room. His sharp gaze settled on the two of them standing so close together, and one thick brow arched quizzically.

Gentry's hands tightened on Lottie's waist as she tried to step away from him. "You may be the first to congratulate us," he told the earl, in a nasty parody of a gentlemanly announcement. "Miss Howard has done me the honor of bestowing her hand on me."

Lord Westcliff's eyes narrowed as he glanced at Lottie. "That is the third option?"

"As it turns out," she said unsteadily, "yes."

Lottie knew that the earl did not understand why she would be willing to make a bargain with the devil. Returning his gaze, she begged him silently not to request an explanation, as she would be unable to account for her reasons. She was tired of hiding, worrying, and being afraid. Nick Gentry had offered her sanctuary. He was unprincipled, callous, and worldly-exactly the kind of man who could protect her from Radnor. But all of that would not have been sufficient to compel her to marry him. One other factor had made the difference-her awareness that Gentry felt something for her. He was not able to hide it despite his efforts to the contrary. And against all better judgment, she wanted him. Or at least, she wanted the man he had pretended to be...the one who had stared at her with such desperate intensity as they'd stood by the wishing well...the one who had kissed her in the forest and whispered that he needed her.

Frowning, the earl came forward and reached for her. "I want a word with you, Lottie."

She nodded obediently, out of long-standing habit. "Yes, sir." When Gentry did not release her, she shot him a challenging gaze. "I haven't married you yet," she said beneath her breath. "Let me go."

His hands slid from her waist. Lottie went to the earl, who took her elbow in a light grasp and drew her with him to the corner. His respectful touch was strikingly different from Gentry's rampant possessiveness.

Lord Westcliff looked down at her, a lock of dark hair tumbling over his broad forehead. "Lottie," he said quietly, "you can't make such a decision without understanding more about the man you're giving yourself to. Do not be deceived by the fact that Gentry is a Bow Street runner. No doubt you think his profession imparts a certain sense of honor, even heroism. In Nick Gentry's case, the opposite is true. He is, and always has been, a figure of public controversy."