Page 70 of How to Wed a Courtesan

The butler indicated the settee, which he sat on despite his restless agitation.

His gaze wandered towards the iris and white tulip bouquet he’d purchased for Lottie following the night when he’d punched Devonington. Though it had only been a few days ago, it felt as if an age had passed since then.

He regarded the roses in his hand as the double doors opened and Lottie walked in. He swiftly got to his feet, roses offered in presentation.

She smiled and accepted the flowers. ‘You’ll run all of London out of hothouse flowers if you keep this pace.’ She leaned over the bunch of perfect roses, closed her eyes and breathed in. ‘They do smell lovely. Thank you.’

Her gown was a butter-yellow that made him think of those sunny summer days Lottie had described at the cottage. Though she was as lovely as ever, the effects of the emotional day before had left the delicate skin under her eyes slightly bruised. He wanted to hold her as he’d done the day before, to gently kiss her sweet lips and whisper words of undying affection in her ear.

The maid, Sarah, came in with a tea tray and took the flowers from Lottie to put them in a vase. Evander did not miss the way Sarah’s brows rose with enthusiasm as she passed Lottie.

‘Would you care for some tea?’ Lottie asked, when the door had closed and she’d taken a seat.

Evander shook his head and settled on the settee. ‘I wanted to see you today.’

She pursed her lips. ‘And you see me and have my attention.’

‘That’s the thing of it,’ he continued. ‘I want you always.’

‘Always?’

There was a sudden remoteness to her expression, making her entirely unreadable.

Damn it.

He’d come with purpose and he would not be swayed. Not when she was what he wanted. When she was all he’d ever wanted.

He drew the ring box out of his pocket. Not the original one, of course—he didn’t know where that might be. But a finer one, with a bed of black silk as glossy as Lottie’s luxurious hair.

‘Charlotte Rossington, I have loved you since the moment I met you at that dance in Bedfordshire, when you struck me with your beauty and won me over with your wit.’

The small muscles in her neck stood out, but still her face reflected not a hint of emotion.

‘I have never stopped loving you,’ he continued, as one was wont to do when one was proposing and unsure of how things were progressing with the opposite party. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that. ‘You will receive hothouse flowers for as long I’m living and I vow to be unwavering in my loyalty to you.’

His thoughts at her blank expression became like frenzied ants after their hill had been kicked. She looked as if she did not want him to be doing this, but did not wish to be so cruel as to tell him to stop.

‘I will always love you,’ he said.

And on that pathetically clichéd note he concluded what was perhaps the worst proposal of all time to the most important woman of his life.

He knelt before her and presented the box, with the little ring of their youth nestling beneath the lid. She looked down at it, not taking it.

‘I have wanted to do this since I returned to London,’ he said. ‘I never wanted you to feel I was forcing your hand. However, now that I know you feel the same way...’

Her brows pinched together.

‘Lottie, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

‘Evander.’

She said his name slowly and his stomach began the long, awful slide to his toes.

‘You’re an earl,’ she said softly.

He got to his feet. ‘And you’ll be my Countess.’

‘You know I will never be accepted among the ton.’ She swallowed. ‘Not after what I’ve done.’