He forced his ridiculous jealousy down, harnessing his ire instead. “Curse you, woman. Do you not have a civil tongue inside that stubborn head of yours?”
Her smile was beautiful, transforming her features even beneath that dreadful hat, and lighting a fire within him that made him briefly lightheaded. “Not for you, I don’t.”
There was no more maddening wench in all England, he was certain of it. And yet, there remained that ludicrous, all-consuming hunger for her he could not seem to quell, regardless of how much he tried with ration, calm, and the stern reminder of how socially inferior she was in every way that mattered.
And all the ways which didn’t.
Unfortunately, a certain portion of his anatomy did not give a damn about anything other than Penelope Sutton’s bewitching lips and swaying hips.
He cleared his throat, irritated more than he wished to admit by the sight of that oversized hat hiding her lustrous hair from view. Before he could garner control of himself, he reached out, plucking the offensive monstrosity from her head and tossing it to the floor, where it landed with an ignominious thump.
Her outrage was instant. “What do you think you are doing, throwing about my bleeding hat?”
Ah.
How interesting.
Apparently, when her ire was sufficiently piqued, Miss Sutton’s East End roots rose to the surface. Garrick ought to be appalled. Instead, he found himself intrigued. “It was distracting me. I cannot speak with you when half your face is cloaked in shadows.”
In truth, he could. But he did not wish to.
Her glorious hair had been restrained with what had to be handfuls of pins, trapped neatly to her head with a carefully coiled chignon pinned high with the obvious intention of being hidden within the accommodating height of the hat.
“Speak to me without it then,” she said with a resigned sigh. “You have wasted enough of my time this evening.”
Someone ought to remind the vexing woman she should address a viscount with at least a hint of respect. And he would have been the one to inform her, were it not for the undeniable burden of the news he was about to impart. Strangely, the notion of hurting this irritating, burdensome, beautiful woman cut into his heart with the precision of a freshly honed dagger.
“I spoke with one of Aidan’s friends at The Duke’s Bastard this evening,” he forced himself to say, attempting to remain stalwart. “I also managed to have a brief dialogue with Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, who is the owner of the establishment. The information they both shared suggests my brother was—is—involved intimately with another…woman.”
He had been about to say anotherlightskirt, but that word hardly seemed fitting in relation to Miss Sutton. Despite what he knew of her. Lady was not the proper term, either, but to suggest anything less seemed akin to paying the most grievous of insults to the hazel-eyed spitfire before him. Blast. What was this? He was considering Miss Sutton’s feelings?
Why?
How?
He was certain he ought not. She was hardly deserving of his consideration. After all, she had manipulated his idiotic sibling into this nonsensical betrothal, had she not?
“Another woman?” Miss Sutton repeated, her full lips pursing.
Begging to be kissed, that mouth.
Christ.
Why did she not seem as utterly crushed as she ought to at the news his brother had disappeared with another woman? But then, why had she responded to Garrick’s kisses in the manner she had? The woman was convoluted. Perplexing. Vexing.
His cock was painfully hard.
Bringing her here had been a mistake.
Concentrate on the matter at hand, you arse!
Garrick inhaled swiftly, which proved a dreadful misstep as it only brought the delightful scent of Miss Sutton’s Winter’s soap into his lungs to further tempt him and did nothing to calm his madly surging desires. “Another woman,” he said stupidly, watching her for a trace of sadness. For a reaction.
Any.
She remained stoic, nary a trace of sadness on her countenance. “That would hardly be surprising. Each time the wind blows, Aidan finds a new ladybird.”
Garrick frowned. “You are not distressed by this knowledge?”
Her lush lips curved upward. “Should I be?”
“As his betrothed, yes,” he bit out. “Surely you have some sense of pride, madam.”
“Aye, I’ve pride.” She inclined her head, studying him with that regard he continued to find distressingly attractive. “Lots of it. I’m a Sutton, Lord Lordly. We wear our pride on our coat sleeves.” Grinning, she offered him her forearm as example.
He examined the coat—a terrible piece of workmanship if he had ever seen one, fashioned from dreadful cloth, altogether too large for her form, the cut and color unbecoming…
What the devil was he thinking? Her coat hardly mattered.
“I should think you would be more concerned, considering your… betrothal to my brother,” he said stiffly, wishing his prick to the ethers.
His trousers had reached beyond the point of being uncomfortably snug. His self-loathing only slightly eclipsed his insufferable lust.
“He ain’t my betrothed.”
Her dulcet voice scarcely permeated his vacillating thoughts.
For a moment, Garrick was certain he must have misheard her.
But no. His ears had not deceived him. Her stubborn expression told him so.
“He is not your betrothed?” he repeated, mind racing in an effort to comprehend this sudden development.
When had they put an end to it? And when had she seen Aidan last? Most importantly of all, why the devil had she not said something sooner?
“No.” She shook her head, a hint of sheepishness entering her gaze before she blinked, those long lashes lowering to chase the emotion. “He ain’t. He never was.”
Now, he was convinced he was mistaken. “Forgive me, Miss Sutton. I must beg you to repeat what you just said.”
“You heard me correctly, Lord Lordly. I was never going to marry your brother. He didn’t even propose. He came to me with this nonsensical notion we ought to wed to spite your father. I told him to go to the devil, but apparently he misunderstood me, for he went to your family with the news we were betrothed instead.”
Garrick stared at her, his mind gradually drinking in this new knowledge. He ought to be experiencing a number of emotions, shock and outrage primary amongst them. However, as he beheld the woman who had been the object of his furious desires from the instant he had first seen her, all he felt was a searing, delirious, almost dizzying sense of relief.
Relief he had not been kissing his brother’s betrothed.
That he had not been lusting after her like a besotted fool, betraying Aidan.
That he would not have to explain to Father and Mother that he had been unsuccessful in his attempts at persuading Miss Sutton not to snap their youngest son in the parson’s mousetrap because he, as their eldest, had been thrusting his tongue down her throat at every opportunity.
And relief because if she was not betrothed to his brother, that meant Garrick could have her for himself.
Thank God.
“You are not marrying my brother,” he said slowly.
“You are a clever nob, aren’t you?”
Whether it was her biting sarcasm, the smirk curving her pretty lips, or the reassurance she was not Aidan’s betrothed that motivated him, he could not say. All he did know was that in the next moment, his body was moving, surrendering to his desires, taking control over his mind.
He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him, and then he claimed her mouth with his.
* * *