If Love Were Enough by Suzanne Quill Page B

hair, every nerve. Her spine shivered, her face, neck and breasts flushed, she grew tight low in her belly, there was wetness between her thighs.
    She rubbed her hands over her breasts, down her thighs, imagining Brandon’s heated touch.
    What would happen if his heated skin pressed against hers?
    But her mind was growing tired. It had been a long day and much had happened. She'd learned many new things and had more questions than ever to find answers for.
    Not the least of these was Brandon. Dare she abandon her restraint to experience what had so long been denied her? Could she go through with seducing him to create the child she so desperately needed? That she wanted for so very long? To pursue her own plans? Time was quickly passing and her window of opportunity was limited in more than one way. Could she live with herself once she used Brandon, was used by Brandon, and then left behind?
    Would she become like Anne once she experienced mating? Would she want every man she saw? Accept any man who would have her? Chase after men who didn’t want her?
    How could she live with herself should she become like that?

Chapter 10
    Brandon entered the dining room with one immediate purpose. He wanted to see Priscilla and talk with her.
    He had been exhausted physically and emotionally, when he left her room early that morning.
    And, he had been confused.
    He had never met a woman like Priscilla. And he had met many women in his two and thirty years. Having spent a great deal of time in London, having title, means and appearance, he had never been left wanting for feminine companionship.
    Priscilla was not like any other female.
    True, she was attractive and well-spoken, but she had an inner strength he had seen in very few others, men or women.
    Why she made love to him last night, in such an unusual and restricted way, was a mystery to him.
    The dining room was not to be their meeting place. There were a number of guests present, but not Priscilla.
    Not having eaten since the prior evening, Brandon served himself from the chafing dishes then settled at the table. He counted himself fortunate that his host, Asher, and especially his hostess, Anne, were not in attendance.
    He had no idea how he would rid himself of Anne were she to come across him.
    Nor did he want to find out.
    Keeping to himself and avoiding the eyes and attentions of everyone in the room, he wished for solitude. He had no interest in polite conversation.
    His wish was denied.
    “Well, Brandon, old chap, what say you this fine morning?” Brandon’s fork paused over his plate. Of all people with which he could be cursed. Dimsford.
    Brandon watched while the lord loaded a plate with more food than he thought it humanly possible to consume. But then Dimsford had quite a girth to support. When the plate needed two hands to hold it steady, he trundled around the table to sit across from him.
    “Dimsford,” Brandon nodded then went back to his meal.
    “‘Tis a fine morning, is it not? And just where have you been keeping yourself? Holed up with Asher’s sister no doubt.” Food was stuffed into Dimsford’s mouth while he talked with little regard to how repugnant it might have looked.
    Brandon could not bear to watch the man eat and cared even less to engage him in conversation.
    “Yes, yes, I guess you are the lucky one to console the grieving widow. I would do it myself if she would let me.” He paused momentarily, burped, took the napkin tucked in at his neck protecting his protuberant belly and wiped his mouth. “They say widows are quite randy, you know. Once they’ve had it they can’t live without it, and all that. What say you? Have you had a hard time satisfying the wench?” The dolt had the audacity to chuckle.
    Disgusted, Brandon stood and threw his own napkin down upon his plate. With a stern eye at his companion he said, “Dimsford, Lady Rutherford is far from in heat. She is grieving in the truest sense of the word. She has no desire for