Trapping a Duchess (28 page)

“Absolutely not,” he said with a firm shake of his head. Other than his ill-fated picnic with Lady Abigail, he had managed to avoid the place almost the entire season. It was a small point of pride, but one with which he wasn’t willing to part.

“Then you can arrange your little meeting on your own.”

“Fine,” he ground out, eyes narrowing when she shot him a triumphant grin. He half expected her to stick out her tongue, the annoying chit.

“You are most gracious,” she said, reaching out to pat him on the arm before she seemed to think better of it.

He slowed his steps before they rounded the corner. “I will see you later.”

“Wait. . .where?”

He sighed. “Where what?”

“Where do I tell her to meet you?”

“The library, ten minutes,” he said then turned to walk away.

“Oh, and Andrew?” she called out before he had taken more than a step. His shoulders slumped. He thought he heard her chuckle, but when he faced her, she wore a determined smile.

She stepped close. “Have a care, dearest brother, for if you hurt her, there will be hell to pay.” Her sugary tone belied the threat of her words.

He gave her a single, curt nod, then melted into the shadows. He had less than ten minutes to find his hostess and charm her into ordering a scandalously delicious third waltz.

Chapter Sixteen

Sophie was losing her patience. The instant Andrew had stolen Alexandra from her side, Lord Jackson had approached to ask for a dance. With Lord Courtland otherwise engaged, she had been unable to refuse him. The dance itself seemed to take forever, and the constant movement of the quadrille made it impossible for her to keep an eye on Andrew's whereabouts. Worse, the set was almost finished and she still had not spotted Alex. And Lord Jackson's foul breath and ever-flapping jowls were turning her stomach.

“Ah, there you are,” Lord Courtland said, plucking her from her escort's side with a smile. “I've been searching for you.”

“Have you now?” she asked drolly.

He gave an enthusiastic nod. “Pardon the intrusion, Jackson, but I was asked to escort Lady Sophia to my aunt.” At the pudgy lord's grumble, Lord Courtland clapped him on the back.

“Actually, I can escort her,” Alexandra said, seeming to appear out of nowhere. With a gentle smile and a slip of the arm, Sophie was rescued. “Mind if we make a detour to the ladies retiring room?”

“Not at all.” As the two women made their way through the throng of guests, Sophie kept a discreet eye out for Andrew. He was nowhere to be found. They reached their destination without being further engaged.

“Thank you for that,” she said, grateful for a moment away from the crowd. She unpinned a section of hair that had come loose as Alex leaned against the door.

“When were you going to tell me what’s going on between you and my brother?”

Sophie glanced at her reflection, taking in the vaguely impatient look on her face along with the fingers tapping against her thigh. The woman never could keep still when something was bothering her, which meant that there would be no use in prevaricating. The question was, how much did she know?

“I don’t know,” Sophie said, turning to face her. “I wanted to talk to you a hundred times since his return, but the timing never seemed right.” As if she sensed it was a half-truth, Alex scoffed. “Well, that and I couldn't seem to drum up the courage.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. Are you angry?”

“Should I be angry?”

Sophie looked at her friend, really looked at her, to determine whether aggravation or honesty drove the question. She could discern nothing. Alexandra’s face was as unreadable as it always was when discussing a personal matter.

“His Grace and I—”

“Andrew and you.”

Sophie gave her an apologetic smile. “Andrew and I have simply been trying to work through our past. Putting our history behind us has not been as easy as we wished."

“Is that why he requested your presence in the library?”

Her face flushed and she wished she could turn around and splash cold water on her heated cheeks. “He did?”

Alex nodded. “Yes. In ten minutes. Well, more like six or so now. He would not give me a reason, but I assume you know what he wants?”

Sophie considered her response. She had no wish to lose Alexandra’s friendship, regardless of her feelings for the duke. “I am not entirely sure. Do you think I should go?”

Alex regarded her for a long moment, then let out a heavy sigh. “I think you should do what makes you happy, Sophie.”

“A typically vague response,” she said with a nervous chuckle.

Alex smiled. “I do not mean to be vague. What would you like me to say?”

“That you are not angry with me for not confiding in you sooner.” This time, she wasn't telling a half-truth. She would not know what to do if she lost Alex as a friend.

“I am not angry with you at all. However, you are the closest thing I have to a sister, so I will be frank.” The endearment brought a sense of dread. Sophie had no wish to have to choose between a years-long friendship and whatever lay between her and Andrew. Yet here she was, about to be warned away from him and forced into making a decision. “My brother can be overbearing, but his heart is in the right place. He has assured me his intentions are not malicious. And I have assured him that I will not tolerate either of you being hurt again.”

“I daresay we’ve both had enough to last a lifetime,” Sophie said with a rueful chuckle.

Alex nodded, but she didn't seem angry. “Proceed with caution, please. It would not be an easy decision for me to choose between the two of you should something go awry.”

Sophie pulled her into a tight embrace. “Thank you for that.”

Alex pulled away quickly, as always uncomfortable with the show of emotion. “Now, shoo! You have about, oh, forty-seven seconds left.”

Sophie left the retiring room in high spirits and made her way as quickly as possible down the hall. The Ridgley's home was not as large as some, so the library could not be far. Her mind drifted to the man awaiting her arrival as the opening strain of the waltz sounded. But it was the sudden chatter which caught her attention. The murmurs of the guests as they professed their disbelief were easy enough to imagine. She glanced over her shoulder towards the ballroom entrance, then connected, thigh to breast, with an all-too-familiar wall of steely warmth. She tilted her head back and found herself looking up into Andrew's roguish grin. A smell particular to him alone wrapped itself around her, eliciting an anticipatory shiver that buckled her knees.

His arms steadied her. “My dance, I believe?”

She shook her laggard wits into place with a regal nod. “Of course.”

He did not lead her far into the ballroom, instead choosing a spot nearer the entrance. After the first few measures had started, he tugged her along the perimeter, then swept her up into the dance.

“I cannot believe you did it,” she said as she twirled down the room in his arms.

“Never underestimate your opponent.”

Still chuckling, she met his gaze. His soulful stare penetrated, sending waves of longing throughout her body. She became agonizingly aware of every sound and move they made; the shushing sound of her gown as it brushed against his breeches, the graceful steps he took as he led them around the room. His thigh brushed hers as they rounded the corner, a touch too close for propriety’s sake, far and away too distant for Sophie’s.

Her body ached to be joined with his. The thought quickened her breath and she leaned a fraction closer, inhaling his scent. “I can think of a dozen ladies who are probably having an apoplexy as we speak.”

“One can only hope.” The look he gave her was beyond bold, it was predatory. A warm shiver snaked down her spine and into her soul, a lit match held just above the skin.

“You didn’t meet me in the library.”

“Nor did you plan for me to.” His wicked smirk had her itching to drag him off to find the library—or any empty room—that very instant. “Do you even know where the library is?”

“Mm hm.” His grin was devious. “Just. . .through. . .here,” he said as he guided them to darkened end of the ballroom and all but shoved her through a door.

Her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness as her senses reached out. Where ever they were lacked the smell of books. “I don't think this is the library.”

“You would be correct,” he said, his hand slipping into hers as he tugged her across the room. “But don't let that dismay you. Everything you need is right here.” He drew one of the curtains open and the diffuse light of night revealed a window seat. He patted the empty space on the cushion. “Let’s talk.” Talk? She wanted to tear off her gown and beg him to bury himself inside her and he wanted to talk? “I assume by your presence tonight that you received my note.”

“I did,” she said, working to ignore the sudden flutter of nerves which assailed her midsection.

“Good. Then, you can begin.”

Her lips formed a perfect moue. “Begin?”

“It is the usual way of things. To discuss and agree upon terms, so that both parties are satisfied.”

She shot him an embarrassed look. “Oh. Well, I, ah. . .why don't you start? I haven’t the foggiest idea of how such a thing works.”

He chuckled, clearly amused by her discomfort. “It’s simple, really. You tell me what you require and I’ll tell you what I require. If the terms are acceptable to both parties, then an agreement is made.”

She stared at him. “I hadn’t really considered that there would be requirements other than enjoying each others company.”

“Ah, but in return for security, a mistress is at her protector’s leisure.” She pulled a face. “For example,” he said, leaning against the wall next to the window. “One of my requirements would be your presence by my side at all ton functions.”

“Why in heaven's name would you want that?”

“A man never shares his bed mate.”

“Nor does he escort said bed mate to social functions,” she said with no small amount of skepticism.

“If the woman is not normally accepted at the aforementioned functions, then I would be inclined to agree. But that is not the situation here. And I am not in the habit of sharing my mistresses. Ever.” The heat in his gaze matched the intensity of his words.

Her skin flushed, and she wasn't sure whether it was the way he was looking at her or his use of the word
mistress
. “You wish for me to remain by your side the entire time I am at a social function?”

“Absolutely.”

She stood, paced a few steps away from him. “You know that isn’t possible, Andrew.”

“Why not?”

“Because the instant I step into a ballroom on your arm, all of London will assume a wedding is in the offing.”

“True,” he murmured, but he didn't sound as concerned as she thought he should.

“I suppose if you joined me for a short period of time, say an hour at most, it would not appear too suspicious. Alexandra would be there, after all. You might even bring Lord Winterley with you, just to even out the numbers.”

He appeared to consider the idea, then nodded. “Very well. Have you any other terms?”

She laughed. “Since you only just made me realize I’d named one, I’d say not. Have you any more?”

He hesitated, but only for a second. “Not at present.”

Sophie beamed at him. “Perfect. So, what happens now?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now,” she repeated, brows furrowing. She could not bring herself to ask for what she wanted. “I mean, what happens now that we have come to an agreement?”

Andrew held his hand out. “We shake.”

Disappointment thinned her lips. “Shake hands?”

“That is usually what is done when an arrangement has been made.”

She shook his hand, expecting him to lean down and kiss her. Instead, he adjusted his coat and took a few steps towards the door. “My lord?”

He stopped and faced her. “Yes?”

With a bracing breath, she rallied her courage. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” Before she took her next breath, he was before her, his body pressing hers against the wall, his perfect lips tasting hers. She molded her body to his as she slid her hands up under his coat. Beneath her fingers, his muscles twitched. The desire to devour, and be devoured by, him made the flesh between her thighs throb, leaving her wet, aching and needy. In the back of her mind, the muted last strains of the waltz registered.

“We should return,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Most definitely,” she agreed, stealing one last greedy kiss before releasing him. She smoothed down her hair and gown. “Do I look presentable?”

“Allow me,” he said as he turned her around and began re-pinning her hair with nimble fingers.

“All better?” she asked, turning to face him.

He laughed. “You look like an angel, love.”

She beamed, then linked her arm through his and tugged him towards the door.

* * * *

Later that evening, Andrew entered his opulent bedchamber, stripping off his coat and untying his cravat with a tired sigh. In his quest to make Sophie his wife, he was struggling to find solid ground. Their supposed arrangement had been a considerable first step, but it was a short-term solution. She appeared to believe he planned to keep her as his mistress, but to his mind, a mistress was a kept woman, an inamorata who relied on her protector for financial and physical support. The limited women he had taken in that capacity had depended on him for both, but emotion had never played a role. It simply was not done. Once emotions were involved, things had a tendency to spiral downwards.