Trapping a Duchess (17 page)

She slanted him an annoyed look and jabbed a finger towards the door. “Get out.”

“But who will help you out of that delicious gown?”

Her eyes flashed round as saucers before narrowing. “Get out now or I swear I will scream.”

“Again?” he asked as he started around the bed towards her.

She took a few steps backwards as she spoke, her words infused with the steel that pulled her posture straight. “My mother would never force me to marry you, and Simon—”

“Is off enjoying Lady Forrester's company, I'm certain. And you’re deluded if you think either one of them wouldn’t march you to the altar straightaway.” He continued prowling towards her as she continued backing away, watching her anger rise with every step. He felt like a predator about to feast on its prey and his pulse quickened as excitement raced through his veins. Then, without warning, she stopped moving. The look in her eyes caught him off guard. He hesitated for a moment, searching her face for signs of fear. Seeing indecision, and not alarm, he leaned against the bedpost. “Sophie—”

“Why did you come here?” she asked, sounding more plaintive than irate.

“I have answered that question already.”

She scoffed. “You could not call upon me at a decent hour? Through the front door, like a civilized gentleman?”

He grinned, folding his arms over his chest. “Where would the fun be in that?”

She looked ready to stomp her foot, but instead only rolled her eyes. “Say what you need to say and go, then.”

“Am I to understand by your behavior this evening that you will continue to accept Courtland's attentions?”

She looked at him with all the impatience of a hellcat trapped in church. “Is that why you’re here, for confirmation? I thought I made my intentions plain.”

“It never hurts to have ones suspicions confirmed,” he said, pushing off the post and walking towards her until they were less than an arm's length apart. Her jaw was set, her fists clenched by her side. Her eyes darted to the vase resting on the bed. He imagined she’d like nothing more than to brain him with it. “Sophie.”

Her breathing hitched and her tongue darted out over her lower lip. The closer he came, the more her body thawed. He hadn't even touched her and she was already melting. “You said you came to talk,” she said, voice quavering.

“Amongst other things. Think of it as an answer to your challenge.”

“Challenge?” she said, her voice growing stronger, louder. “There is no bloody challenge! You only said that to bait me, as I had done you. You didn’t. . .you did not mean it!”

He bit back a smile. When they were sparring, she was difficult to resist. “For all of your supposed knowledge of me, you know me very little. As I mentioned before, I know exactly what I want.” He kept his gaze trained on hers, on the discordance within. “I'm not the one wasting energy on bravado.”

She closed the distance, her gaze frosty. “And I am not the one who issued an ultimatum.” She poked him in his chest, hard. “You did that. Because you are a dictator and a bully, which makes you the very reason women like myself find marriage distasteful.”

Andrew did not touch her then, though his fingers itched to. He wanted to own every ounce of her passionate anger, wanted her to require him and only him for survival. If she was out of reach, then he couldn’t take her into his arms and make a mockery of her words, and he wanted to do so more than he wanted to breathe. “The only difference between you and me are the tactics we use to get what we want.”

“What you want, you mean.”

Without thinking, he reached out, his thumb drifting down her cheek to rub across her lower lip. Her lips parted and he dipped inside, trying not to openly gloat when desire chased away the anger in her eyes. In that instant, in the transition from bluebells to cobalt, he realized that while she would counter his every word with biting denials, they would hold no ground against the burden of physical proof. “What we both want.” She trembled, but made no effort to pull away, not that he expected anything different. For all her experience in verbal warfare, she had no knowledge of the physical battlefield. Andrew was practiced, armed and ready, and dying to unleash his expertise.

* * * *

Andrew’s hands left hers to move to her waist and turn her around, his nimble fingers going to work on her laces. “I wish you could see what I see,” he said, his breath puffing against her hair. She felt him move closer, but instead of annoyance, her pulse beat wild with anticipation. Torn between tearing herself away and wanting to see what he did next, she stilled. He trailed kisses along her neck, his fingers drifting past her collar bone to splay over her throat. Her body softened beneath his touch and a soft moan broke free from her lips.

“Shh,” he said as his hand slid down, taking her gown with it. Surrounded by the warmth of his body, she had forgotten the room wasn't heated. The chill of the air sent a shiver racing through her. His hands curved under her breasts and pushed them up. Her nipples felt painfully tight beneath his fingers, even as the rest of her body melted with pleasure. His teeth met her shoulder with a nibbling bite, and she drew in a sharp breath. With lips and tongue, he soothed the skin and her head fell back against his chest. Her sigh held more encouragement than aggravation, and something within her began to quicken. “So beautiful,” he said, rolling her nipples between his fingers. She gasped as pleasure arced through her, a delicious sensation which started an ache between her thighs. As if to trap the exquisite feeling, she clenched them together. As far as mistakes go, it was one of monumental proportions. The pressure only intensified, left her yearning for more.

The battle between flesh and will was sapping her strength, and she tried to rally memories of her father’s bullying to counter the effects. To her surprise, none came. Andrew pulled away, moving around to face her, his perfect lips twitching as if he knew her failure. She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed a finger against her lips.

“Don’t talk. Just feel.”

He bent down, flicked his tongue over one of her nipples and her breath caught on a broken inhale. She held it, focused on the expanding of her lungs in an effort to ignore the fire racing through her. Most of her skin felt feverish, and the parts that didn’t were tinder waiting for the spark of his touch.
Why aren't you pulling away
? His eyes met hers and the thought vanished. Kneading her flesh with experienced fingers, he covered one tight bud with his mouth and sucked, his teeth gently biting into her hardened nipple. Sensation speared through her and a low whimper escaped her throat. She wanted to touch him as she was being touch, but her arms were trapped by her sleeves.

He pinned her hands by her sides, lavishing her other breast with equal attention. Falling to his knees, he rained tender kisses along her stomach, and she felt his lips curve as she sucked in a ticklish breath. “Please,” she said, trying to free her arms.

But all he did was stand up and take her head in his hands, his lips finding hers without hesitation. His kiss was gentle yet dominating, coercive and demanding all at once. To her chagrin, she responded with fervor, grasping, pressing, molding her body against his. A single tug and they would tumble into her bed. His delicious body would cover hers. She could take and be taken. She pulled at him, but he did not budge. Instead, he eased their kiss back a notch, then another, and another, until their lips were barely brushing. She let out a low growl of frustration. He chuckled against her mouth, then with one last flick of his tongue, one final teasing nip to the corner of her mouth, released her.

“Why did you stop?” she asked, tugging up the straps of her gown, suddenly embarrassed. She’d behaved like a wanton.

“You know why, Sophie,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers. He planted a chaste kiss against her forehead and, with one last smile, started towards the door. “I will call on you tomorrow, through the front door like a proper gentleman.”

Anger burned her cheeks. She resented him for his control and for making her want him. And for making her forget, if only for a short time, all of the reasons she didn't want to be with him. He was just like her father, manipulative and bossy. “I will not receive you.”

“Yes, you will,” he said, giving her a triumphant smile, pulling the door closed before she could retort. Annoyed that she couldn't follow, she grabbed the closest thing she could find and threw it at the door. She never cared much for the vase before, but liked it even less when it did not shatter.

Chapter Ten

Andrew lined up his billiards cue and took his shot. The ball bounced off the side and into the right corner pocket as if commanded.

“Lucky bastard,” Simon said around his drink, drawing a chuckle from Andrew.

He enjoyed billiards, always had. It was a game that required precision and skill.
Not all that different from a seduction
, he thought with a smug smile as he took his next shot and the ball vaulted into its pocket. He would win that game as well. Sophie’s response to his touch was intoxicating and stopping where he had had taken a concerted effort. Every fiber of his being had wanted to stay and strip her of both gown and anger so he could show her what she would be giving up by not giving in. Lining up his cue once again, he remembered the sensual way she moved against him. The ball went sailing into the air, nearly clipping Simon in the head.

“Christ, Drew. That could have been ugly,” he said as he located the wayward ball and picked it up.

Andrew shook off the shot and returned to his brandy, pulling slightly at his cravat as memories of Sophie heated his skin.

“Do you still plan to attend Roxford’s house party?” Simon asked as he bent over the table to take his turn.

“Mm hm,” he said, distracted by images of Sophie’s upcoming surrender.

Simon paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Did you not hear she’s not attending?”

Before Andrew's mind had a chance to free itself from Sophie’s clutches, an annoyed question jumped to his lips. “What do you mean, she isn't attending?”

Simon straightened, leaning on his cue as his gaze narrowed. The moment of scrutiny snapped Andrew's wits into place. Naturally, Simon was referring to Lady Abigail. “Your sister was right, wasn’t she?” he asked, folding his arms, cue included, over his chest.

Andrew forced a disinterested tone. “Right about what?”

“When she said you love her.”

Had Andrew not realized which lady they were talking about, he would have paled right down to his boots. Since, thankfully, he did, he felt perfectly justified in pinning his friend with a determined look and stating “no” with equal resolution.

“If you say so,” Simon said before taking his shot.

Andrew had no idea why he had not revealed his plans to Simon. In a normal courtship, Andrew would gain the permission of her brother before he made advances upon her person.
And that is exactly why you have not mentioned it
, his inner voice accused. A normal courtship did not involve seduction. Wooing a lady of breeding involved flowers and long rides in the park and poorly written poetry declaring everlasting devotion. Sophie would suffer none of those from a man whose intentions were, to her mind, dishonorable. He wasn't sure where her misconceptions of him stemmed, but they were serious obstacles he would need to overcome.

“Courtland stopped by this morning with a message saying that he and his sister are heading to Bath. Apparently, one of his aunts has fallen ill.” Simon shook his head as his ball rolled towards the hole and stopped just at the edge.

Andrew feigned a curious look over the rim of his glass. “Is that so?” With Lady Abigail out of the picture, he would not have to concern himself with how to let her down.

“Yes. Oddly enough, though, Sophie would not see him. As long as I live, I will never understand the girl. Courtland spent the last week escorting her hither, thither and yon and do you know what she said when she found out he wouldn't be at the house party?”

“Enlighten me.”

“She said, and I quote,” he pitched his voice into a falsetto, “'I am sure Lady Abigail is more put out than I over the matter.' Can you believe that? She didn't mention Courtland at all.”

“Interesting.” Hiding his amusement was becoming more difficult with each passing moment.

“At any rate, mother wonders if she and Courtland had a falling out. The woman’s actions are simply beyond comprehension anymore.”

“What can you do?” he asked, shrugging as if the idea of Sophie's remark did not have him wanting to jump up on the billiards table and dance a victory jig.

“The only thing I intend on doing is finding a secluded spot and enjoying Lady Forrester's generous bounty.” He grinned.

Andrew laughed. “Sounds like you have it all planned out.”

Simon clapped him on the back. “I do. Which means you’ll have to entertain yourself without benefit of my company, or that of your scintillating bride-to-be.”

They finished their billiards game and headed to White’s. Andrew had been enjoying himself until he had heard of the newest wager on the books, a bet made by Lord Jackson on how long it would take for him to secure a certain blonde-haired, blue eyed minx as his bride. Simon merely laughed at what he termed “a fat chance from the bowels of hell,” but Andrew wanted to tear the man apart with his bare hands. He settled instead for silence, which left the topic of conversation up to Simon.