An Heiress for All Seasons (11 page)
Read An Heiress for All Seasons Online
Authors: Sophie Jordan
“Good evening,” she greeted him, her voice a fraction too squeaky.
“You cannot be here.” The butler looked her up and down with the faintest curl of his lip. “His Grace is not at home at the moment to receive—”
“I shall wait for him.” She lifted her chin, attempting to emulate Mrs. Heathstone’s haughtiness.
“That is not possible, Miss . . .”
“Hughes,” she supplied. “Rosalie Hughes.” At the butler’s blank stare, she elaborated. “The duke’s stepsister.”
Her announcement was met with a moment of stunned silence. Deciding not to give him too long to consider this revelation——and why the duke’s stepsister had been relatively absent for the last seven years——she brushed past him and moved toward what she hoped was the drawing room. Her memory could not recall.
She walked up the stairs, her gloved hand skimming the ornate stone balustrade as though she knew where she was going. “I’ll wait in the drawing room,” she called over her shoulder as she reached the second floor. Hoping she chose the correct room, she pushed open the double doors to the first room on her right. She breathed in relief. Her guess was accurate.
The butler followed her inside, hovering close but saying nothing even though he looked mightily tempted. It was a masculine room, full of rich colors and dark wood furniture. A fire crackled in the massive hearth, drawing her forward, her boots sinking deep into the plush Aubusson rug. Rosalie sank down on a blue oversized settee on the far side of the room that was angled toward the fireplace. She dropped her valise at her feet and held out her hands, greedy for the warmth.
She stared solemnly at the butler, hoping to convey an air of . . . belonging. “I’ll wait His Grace’s audience in here.” Somehow, miraculously, her words rang with confidence.
His shoulders slumped slightly and she knew, in that moment, he had capitulated.
“Very well. Can I fetch you any refreshments as you wait, Miss Hughes?”
Her stomach rumbled at the offer. She had not eaten since their last stop several hours ago. “Yes, that would be lovely.” She was grateful her voice did not quiver with her eagerness.
With a nod, he departed, slow to take his gaze off her, slow to turn and present her with his very ramrod back. As though he could not quite reconcile a female of her humble appearance in the duke’s vaunted drawing room. She could understand that. She could scarcely reconcile it herself.
As soon as the door clicked behind him, she relaxed and fell back on the settee. It felt as though she had just succeeded in some grand deception.
She winced and tried to remind herself that she had every right to call on the Duke of Banbury. Especially considering the unavailability of her own mother. What else was she to do? She was a gentlewoman. A lady. She nodded to herself as Mrs. Heathstone’s arguments played silently in her mind.
Her stepbrother would not turn her away. True, he had not responded to Mrs. Heathstone’s letter, but Mrs. Heathstone insisted he would do his duty. Rosalie hoped she was correct.
She bit into her bottom lip, gnawing it until she forced herself to stop. She didn’t need a bloodied lip when she came face-to-face with Declan. She blinked hard and long, reprimanding herself. He was no longer Declan to her. She must not think of him so informally. He was a duke now and as far removed from her as the moon. A man full grown. She must forget the boy she remembered with such fondness. Oh, very well. With such adoration. Natural, she supposed. So often relegated to the country together, he had accepted her. Five years her senior, he had not minded when she traipsed after him. He even rescued her from a tree a time or two. She was always climbing trees. And always managing to get herself stuck.
Come, Carrots
, he would beckon her with waving hands and wide, encouraging eyes.
Come down. I’ll catch you
.
A maid entered the room pushing a cart. She smiled at Rosalie shyly and bobbed a tiny curtsy.
“Thank you. I’ll serve myself.”
“Yes, miss.”
With another bob of her head, she left Rosalie alone.
She fell upon the tray, making short work of the tea and delicious frosted cakes and tiny sandwiches. She ate everything and then regretted it, eyeing the crumbs. She would appear a graceless sloth when they come to claim the cart.
She collapsed back on the settee, with little refinement one hand rubbing her full belly, the other idly stroking the elegant brocade pillow beside her. She blew out a repleted sigh and glanced around the well-appointed room. An enormous painting depicting Persephone’s abduction hung along a wall, taking nearly the entire space. It was riveting. Bold and dramatic. The dark Hades clasped the fair Persephone about the waist, one large hand splayed just below the swell of a breast that threatened to spill from her white tunic as he pulled her into the murky cavern of hell lined with demons and skeletons. Rosalie swallowed, her stare fixing on Hades’ feral expression, clearly intent on possession. Something curled in her belly at the idea of a man
wanting, needing
a woman that much.
The clock on the mantel ticked in the silence of the room. Only the occasional pop from the fire interrupted the still. She yawned widely into her hand. The journey had taken its toll. She had not left Harwich in ten years. No visits anywhere. She was unaccustomed to the rigors of travel.
Her head lolled against the back of the sofa, grateful that she was turned partially from the door, not in full sight of anyone upon first entering the room. She’d hear them before they spotted her. It would give her time to compose herself.
The warmth of the fire licked over her and her limbs grew boneless. This was the most comfortable she had felt since leaving Yorkshire.
Her eyes drifted shut. Just for a moment she would rest them. She snuggled drowsily into the sofa. No doubt the duke would arrive soon. She’d hear his approach. Better yet, she’d hear the approach of the maid when she returned to reclaim the cart.
For just a moment she would rest her eyes.
SOPHIE JORDAN grew up in the Texas hill country where she wove fantasies of dragons, warriors, and princesses. A former high school English teacher, she’s the
New York Times,
USA Today,
and international bestselling author of more than twenty novels. She now lives in Houston with her family. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on caffeine (lattes preferred), talking plotlines with anyone who will listen (including her kids), and cramming her DVR with anything that has a happily ever after. You can visit her online at www.sophiejordan.net.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.
A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin
How to Lose a Bride in One Night
Lessons from a Scandalous Bride
Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at five brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Impulse.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
VARIOUS STATES OF UNDRESS: VIRGINIA
By Laura Simcox
By Ellie Macdonald
By Lizbeth Selvig
A
B
ILLIONAIRES
AND
B
IKERS
N
OVELLA
By Cynthia Sax
A
L
OVE
AND
F
OOTBALL
N
OVEL
By Julie Brannagh
An Excerpt from
VARIOUS STATES OF UNDRESS: VIRGINIA
by Laura Simcox
If she had it her way, Virginia Fulton—daughter of the President of the United States—would spend more time dancing in Manhattan’s nightclubs than working in its skyscrapers. But when she finds herself in the arms of sexy, persuasive Dexter Cameron, who presents her with the opportunity of a lifetime, Virginia sees it as a sign . . . but can she take it without losing her heart?
V
irginia threw her hands in the air and walked over to face him. “Come on, Dex! Be realistic. You need a
team
to fix this store. An army.”
“So hire one.” He leaned toward her. “I need you. And you need me.”
“I don’t need you.” She narrowed her eyes. There was no way she was going to tell him about dumping Owlton. Not right now, anyway.
Dex slid off the desk and covered the few feet between them, frowning. “Yes, you do,” he said.
She stared at his mouth, her legs suddenly feeling wobbly. “No, I don’t.” She raised her hands to his shoulders to steady herself.
“You can choose to keep telling yourself that, or you can make a move.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Move forward.”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can.” The words came out raspy, and the look of irritation in Dex’s eyes changed into something much more focused. He hesitated for a moment and then leaned closer. “Make a leap of faith, trust your instincts, and take the job. You’ll have my full support.”
As she gazed up into his steady eyes, she was all too aware of her fear. Because of cowardice, she never acted as if she expected anyone to take her seriously—and so they didn’t. It pissed her off. She didn’t like being pissed, especially not at herself. Dex took her seriously, didn’t he? She closed her eyes. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
When she opened them, he smiled. “Great. Now . . . about moving forward?”
“Yeah?”
“Literally
moving forward would be fantastic. I never got to kiss you back, you know.”
“I . . . didn’t expect you to,” she said.
“That might be, but the more I thought about your kiss last night, the more necessary kissing you back became to me. And now? I can’t think about much else.”
She gripped his shoulders and gazed into his eyes. “To be honest, neither can I.”
“Please tell me we can try again. Kiss me and see what happens.” His voice was low and thick.
Virginia’s legs almost gave out from under her, and a shuddering breath left her body. She should be taking a step back, not contemplating kissing him again. Her body swayed forward, and she tightened her grip on his shoulders to steady herself. Just as she closed her eyes to think, his mouth descended, hot and sweet, angling over hers and stopping a hairsbreadth from her lips.
“Mmm,” he uttered, the sound coming from deep in his throat, and it was all she needed.
She pushed up onto her toes, her fingers laced behind his neck, and she kissed him. He tasted earthy—wild, almost—and that surprising discovery sent a shock wave through her brain. She kissed him again. “More,” she murmured, even though she knew she shouldn’t. His tongue invaded her mouth; he turned and, in one motion, lifted her onto the desk. Electricity sang through her body, and, as she twined her tongue with his, the idea of
shouldn’t
started to become hazy. Her hands threaded through his cropped hair and she leaned back—arching her breasts toward him—wanting Dex to press her down with his body.
Please
, she whispered in her mind,
Please, Dex.
His hands ran over her hips, but he didn’t move closer, so she deepened the kiss, letting her hands trail over his smooth jaw, the taut sides of his neck; then she slid her fingers around the lapels of his suit and tugged. With a groan, Dex pulled her against his chest again, his hands skimming up her back to gently tug on the blunt ends of her hair. She complied, letting her head fall back, and his hot, open mouth slid down her throat and nestled in the crook of her neck. He kissed her there, lingering.
“More,” she gasped out loud, clinging to his shoulders.
He kissed her throat again, his tongue branding a circle under her jaw. Then slowly, he pulled away. “We have to stop,” he said, looking into her eyes. “If we don’t . . .” He swallowed and she watched his throat work. She hadn’t gotten to kiss him there, yet. Dipping her chin, she leaned forward, but he pulled away. He gave her a sheepish smile. “I think we sealed the deal, don’t you?
An Excerpt from
by Ellie Macdonald
Louisa Brockhurst is on the run—from her friends, from her family, even from her dream of independence through the Governess Club. Handsome but menacing John Taylor is a prizefighter-turned-innkeeper who is trying to make his way in society. When Louisa shows up at his doorstep, he’s quick to accept her offer to help—at a price. Their attraction grows, but will headstrong, fiery Louisa ever trust the surprisingly kind John enough to tell him the dangerous secrets from her past that keep her running?
