The Reluctant Duchess (14 page)

“I've been receiving visitors with your mother. Lady Penelope and her mother are repeats.”

He raised a brow, thoroughly intrigued and thoroughly enjoying himself in the corner of the room, sitting in a chair normally reserved for chaperones. “Repeats?”

“They visit often, she and her mother. I've seen them twice, and every time Lady Penelope sits in your drawing room, she looks around with this glint in her eye that she thinks no one notices. She'll redecorate the moment she gets the chance.”

“She would need the opportunity to redecorate, and I'm not inclined to give her that.”

“You've not even met her yet.”

“It makes no difference.”

“Well, there is always Lady Charlotte Prentice.”

“Please don't tell me she has also set her sights on becoming my duchess.”

“I don't believe you realize how important your title is to these girls, Your Grace.”

“Ross.”

Sara grinned up at him, and it fair took his breath away. “Ross,” she said.

“I feel like a damned stallion,” he grumbled, looking away because staring at her grin was like looking into the sun. “Only good for breeding. Excuse my language.”

“That is the game one plays when one is a duke.”

“What about you?” He made a point to look around at the men in the room. “Surely there is an eligible bachelor suited for you.” The words tasted like paste in his mouth, but he desperately wanted to redirect the conversation away from him, however distasteful this new conversation was.

“I don't think so.” The smile and laughter left her voice, and she looked down to smooth her skirts.

“Oh, I'm certain of it.”

“Ross,” she warned.

He nodded toward a young buck laughing with a group of friends. “Him.”

“I think not.” She sniffed and looked away.

“You didn't even look at him.”

“I don't need to.”

“What's wrong with him? What has he done to you?”

“Nothing. I'm not in the market for a husband.”

“So it's all right for you to pick my wife, but I can't pick your suitor?” He felt mixed emotions at her comment. He was relieved that she was not in the market for a husband but also saddened. Sara needed to get away from a father who was stealing her youth and her freedom and a mother who didn't seem to care about her at all. Sara needed to find a man who put her needs before anyone else's and who loved her unconditionally.

“I wasn't picking your wife,” she said. “I was merely pointing out who would like to become your wife. I've never met the young man you pointed out.”

“And I've never met the ladies Penelope and Charlotte.”

He stood suddenly, forcing her to look up at him from her seated position. He was angry and speaking irrationally. He knew that, yet he couldn't stop himself. He was so tired of Sara always fading into the shadows. Didn't everyone else see what he saw? Didn't they know what a gem she truly was?

“Your problem, Lady Sara, is that you are hiding in the shadows. You need to get out of the shadows and come into the light.”

Her eyes widened and her face paled. “I'm perfectly fine where I am, thank you.”

He offered her his hand. “Dance with me.”

She stared at his proffered hand and licked her lips. He wanted to groan at the action. He knew the taste of those lips, the feel of that tongue on his, and damn him, but he wanted to experience that again.

“Pardon me?” she whispered.

“Dance with me,” he said softly. “You are far too beautiful to hide in the shadows.”

“Don't do this, Ross.” She looked at him with frightened eyes.

He was pushing her past where she was comfortable, but he wanted her to dance just one time. With him.

He wanted everyone to see how beautiful she was.

He wanted to hold her in his arms, and this was the only acceptable way to do that.

He arched a brow. “Ask you to dance or call you beautiful?”

She glared at him. “You should ask Lady Penelope to dance.”

“I'm asking you.”

She looked around. He was well aware that people were beginning to stare, her biggest fear, and he knew he was the worst sort of person because he was using her fear to his advantage. All so he could hold her in his arms.

She lifted her chin, shot him a venomous look, and put her hand in his to follow him out to the dance floor. All he could think about was the warmth of her hand and how it would feel if they weren't wearing gloves.

“You picked a waltz,” she hissed.

“And?” He turned and placed his arm around her waist. She put her hand in his and her other hand on his shoulder. Even though she was clearly uncomfortable and not relaxed, for Ross it all felt right.

“How did we go from watching the crowd to dancing?” she asked with a grimace.

“Smile, or people will think I'm pinching you.” She pasted on a smile and Ross chuckled. “Now they think you want to bite me.”

“You are not amusing.”

“You are stiff as a board.”

“People are watching.”

“Let them watch. Look up at me. Sara,” he said in a warning growl when she didn't look up. “Look at me.”

Her gaze met his, and suddenly there was only Sara and the music. Nothing but the feel of her hand on his shoulder. The sway of her hips beneath his hand. Even the brush of her skirts against his leg was arousing. If he wasn't careful, everyone in attendance would know his feelings for her. Soon the tension left her body and, as he'd suspected, she was a marvelous dancer—smooth and graceful.

“You dance well,” he murmured.

“Thank you.”

“What a waste to hide in the shadows.”

“It's where I'm comfortable.”

“Is it? I don't think so.”

“And you are now an expert on me?”

“I would like to be an expert of you,” Ross said quietly.

Sara's startled gaze flew to his, and for a moment she couldn't seem to speak.

“I surprised you,” he said.

“I can't deny that.” She sighed. “We're treading on dangerous ground here, Ross.”

“What's so wrong with dancing with you?”

“They will talk.” She tipped her head to the crowd surrounding the dance floor. “And you know that's not what I mean.”

“Let them talk. And what do you mean?”

“You care not for my reputation?” She raised a brow, and he was well aware that she didn't answer his other question. He knew what she meant, but he wanted her to say it.

“You said you won't marry and that you'll waste away in Hadley Fields.”

“Hadley Springs and I must take care of my father. I hardly call that wasting away.”

“I do. You need to be here, in London.”

With me.
But he would not voice that thought, because she was right. He was treading on dangerous ground. He should have walked away. He should have left her in the corner spinning stories about the people she observed. That's what he should have done. But he hadn't, and dammit, he was glad he was holding her, dancing with her, right here, right now.

Much to his regret, the music ended, forcing them to step away from each other. Ross felt keenly the loss of her presence. He bowed to her and she curtsied to him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“It's my pleasure.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother bearing down on them with Lady Penelope and her mother in tow. Sara must have seen them as well, for she took a step away from him, then another, until the crowd swallowed her up. He felt her loss sharply and had to force himself not to wade through the crowd after her. Because as much as he didn't say it, he did care for her reputation. Besides, he'd accomplished what he wanted. He'd pulled her out of the corner of the room, and already he found some young bucks looking at her differently. How strange was it that instead of making him feel better, their interest made him feel as if he wanted to put his fist in the face of each man who looked at her.However, he could not keep her in the shadows because he preferred to keep her to himself. That was not fair.

“Ross, I would like you to meet Lady Grafton and her daughter Lady Penelope.”

Both women curtsied, and Ross tried to hide his grimace. Lady Penelope was certainly beautiful—she had a becoming figure and a warm smile—but she didn't do a thing to stir his interest.

“Ladies,” he said with a polite smile. “Are you enjoying the ball?”

“Oh, yes, Your Grace,” gushed Lady Penelope. “The decorations are divine.”

Decorations? Ross looked around and discovered that there were indeed decorations. Hothouse flowers dotted the ballroom, and some sort of fabric hung from the ceilings. He supposed they were acceptable but far from divine, and that put him in mind of what Sara had said: that Lady Penelope was mentally redecorating his sitting room. The thought caused him to bite back a smile. It would do no good for Lady Penelope to think he was smiling at her.

Lady Penelope shot him an anxious look, and he realized he had not responded to her comment about the divine decorations. “Yes, quite divine,” he said.

Her mother looked at him expectantly. There was a gleam in her eye, a desperation that made him uncomfortable.

Against his better judgment, he looked over Lady Penelope's shoulder, searching in the direction of where Sara had disappeared. She was conversing with someone. A man. No, a young man. Younger than Ross. And she was smiling. She looked like she might even be enjoying herself. He was surprised by the twist of an ugly emotion inside of him. He was jealous of the lad, for he had Sara's beautiful brown eyes watching him.

Pretending that someone was attempting to attract his attention, Ross nodded, then looked at Lady Penelope, who was staring up at him with wide blue eyes. “If you'll excuse me, I see someone I must speak to on an urgent business matter. My apologies, ladies, and it was a pleasure meeting you.” He started away, knowing it was bad form and that he would catch hell from his mother for it.

“Ross.”

With a sigh, he stopped and turned back to the duchess, who had followed and was frowning at him.

“Whatever are you about? Lady Penelope is a wonderful girl.”

“You need to stop introducing me to all these potential brides, Mother.”

Elizabeth guided them to the same corner where he had found Sara hiding. She looked around to make certain no one was listening. Luckily, or unluckily for him, no one was about. “It was not my intention to introduce you to Lady Penelope, but her mother asked for an introduction and I could not say no.”

“Of course you couldn't. I apologize for snapping at you.”

“I know this is not an appropriate time or place, but you really must consider marrying.”

“I'm well aware of my duties.”

Her face softened and she touched his arm. “It's been two years, Gabriel.”

He looked away, chagrined to discover that his reluctance to wed had nothing to do with Meredith's death. At one time it had, but not anymore. He knew what the problem was, but he couldn't tell his mother. There was only one woman he would consider marrying, but he could never ask her, because he'd been responsible for her cousin's death.

Shimmering gold caught his eye and he found his gaze drawn to Sara. She was still with that upstart, who was not alone in his attentions. Sara was surrounded by several young bucks, all vying for her attention.

“What the bloody—” He cut off his words and pressed his lips into a fine line. He would have to go rescue her. She would hate being the center of so much attention. He could barely see her through the throng surrounding her. What if the letter writer were among them?

No, this simply would not do.

He started for her but was brought up short when his mother grabbed his elbow. “What are you doing?”

“Rescuing Sara from those…” He couldn't think of an appropriate word for those
lads
. At least nothing he could say in front of his mother.

“Leave her be, Gabriel.”

His mother didn't know about the letters. If so, she would understand why he couldn't leave Sara be. He needed to be beside her to protect her.

“She needs to be guarded,” he said more to himself.

“You don't know?”

He pulled his gaze from Sara, alerted by his mother's tone; she was looking at him oddly. “Know what?” he asked.

“Sara is an heiress, Gabriel. She's the only remaining child of the marquess and is set to inherit everything that is not entailed. A veritable fortune. Why do you think those gentlemen are paying her attention?”

An heiress? But of course she was. If he'd stopped to think, he would have realized that all of Meredith's considerable dowry was now heaped upon Sara's dowry, creating quite a large sum of money. Large enough to attract every eligible gentleman out there.

How positively greedy they were being. They saw her only for the money she would bring to them. They didn't see her quiet ways. They didn't see that she liked evenings in front of blazing fires, and that she liked to talk with her feet tucked up beneath her. Neither did they know that she would despise being hemmed in and that she didn't like being the center of attention.

“Leave her be,” his mother said. “Let her experience what it's like to be wooed and courted before she returns to Hadley Springs.”

Ross had to look away. His jaw muscles were clenched so tightly that he felt a sharp pain. His mother was right. He should let her go.

Sara's entire body ached during the ride home. She'd found that when she was in social situations, she held her body tightly, her muscles clenched in anxiety. She didn't even realize she was doing it until after the event and she began to relax. The result was always sore muscles that sometimes lasted a few days.

She was so glad that the entire ordeal was finished, and she was pleased that she'd made it through the night without having to leave the ballroom. Sometimes her fear was so bad that she couldn't breathe and had to leave. That was the worst, because it caused exactly what she wanted to avoid: people staring at her, talking about her.

She surreptitiously glanced at Ross, sitting across from her, only to find that he was looking at her, his eyes glittering in the lamplight that shone through the carriage window.

Quickly, she looked away, although her body heated at the memory of him holding her in his arms while they danced. She'd been mortified to be dancing and furious at him for forcing her to dance, but as soon as his arm went around her, it was as if the other people in the ballroom ceased to exist, and for the remainder of the dance it was just the two of them wrapped in each other's arms.

Oh, how delicious it had been. She could see why some people protested the waltz. It was scandalous and beautiful and exhilarating all at the same time.

She had felt wonderful, so alive, while dancing with him. She would take that memory back to Hadley Springs and pull it out in the dark of winter to remember that at one time in her life she had experienced a waltz with a duke. With
Ross
.

Upon entering Rossmoyne House, Elizabeth went up to her room. Ross climbed the stairs after muttering good night, and Sara stood in the entryway and watched him go. Her magical night was over, and she felt a little bereft at the thought. But what had she expected? That Ross would sweep her off her feet and demand that…What? What would he demand? That she become his duchess?

She snorted, startling the footman out of his doze. She mumbled an apology and made her way to her bedchamber.

She didn't want to become Ross's duchess. Just the thought of all the balls and soirees and teas and musicales and assorted other social events a duchess would have to attend made her stomach cramp. Besides that, she had her father to take care of, and Ross had no interest in her in that way.

She was here because she'd asked for his help, and he had graciously offered his home as a sanctuary.

Wrapped in her nightgown and robe after Jenny had fidgeted over the golden gown and hung it up and put away the shoes and petticoats and shift and everything else, Sara sat at her dresser and ran the brush through her hair and stared at her reflection. For a little bit of time she had been beautiful, but now she was back to being plain Sara. She put her brush down with force and stood up. She didn't want to return to being plain Sara just yet. She wanted to prolong the night. She wanted her nightly conversation with Ross.

Not caring that she should not be walking through the halls in the early-morning hours clothed in nothing but a nightgown and robe, she made her way to the study.

He was there, standing at the window with his shirt half open, sipping his Scottish whiskey.

He looked over at her when she entered, but no more than a cursory glance that cut her to the quick. The old Sara would have retreated, not wanting to interfere in whatever was going on in his mind. The old Sara would have been intimidated by his cold stare. Tonight she discovered that there was little of that old Sara in her.

“It's late,” he said to the window. “You should go to bed.”

“I don't want to go to bed.”

He took another sip. If it was his intention to ignore her, then he should have known it would not work.

“Why are you suddenly in such a foul mood?” she asked.

He continued to sip. She moved to the settee and sat down, folding her legs underneath her. He turned and leaned against the window sash to watch her. “I'm not in a foul mood.”

“You lie.”

He smirked. “Careful what you say, little one. You are far too familiar.”

That cut her to the quick. She'd thought they had moved passed that and into the realm of the familiar. After all, their nightly talks and kisses had been very familiar indeed. “Would you have me lie?”

“I would have you go back to your room.”

“I look forward to our evening talks.”

He looked down into his glass. “I should never have encouraged you to visit me in my study late at night.”

“I thought we were friends.” Try as she might, she couldn't keep the hurt from her voice.

He looked up at the ceiling, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “People like us cannot simply be friends.”

“And why not?”

He pierced her with a burning look that contradicted what he was saying. His words pushed her away, but his looks drew her in. “It's not done.”

“Hang what is done and what is not done. We are hurting no one. We enjoy our conversations. Or at least I thought you enjoyed our conversations.”

“I look forward to them from the time I awaken,” he said softly.

He stayed stubbornly on the other side of the room. She wanted him to sit next to her. She wanted to feel his warmth, to laugh and converse with him like they'd done the last several nights, but tonight it wasn't happening.

“So what's wrong?”

He pushed away from the window and sauntered the periphery of the room, not coming any closer, much to her frustration. “I learned tonight that you are an heiress.”

She was so shocked that she didn't know what to say. This wasn't at all what she'd expected from him. So she was an heiress. It wasn't as if she'd kept it a secret, and it wasn't as if he needed her money. Why was he mentioning it?

“I guess I should have realized that you're the only child of one of the richest marquisettes in the country, but it honestly never occurred to me.”

“I don't see what that has to do with anything.”

“It doesn't. Or at least it shouldn't.”

“You're making no sense. My father has money. It's not something people of quality speak about to each other, but there it is. Now can we move on?”

He took another sip and appeared thoughtful. He was half drunk, his mood contemplative and strange. She wasn't certain she liked this side of him.

“You don't like that I'm an heiress?”

“It makes no difference to me.”

“As it shouldn't. It's not as if you're beggared.”

“No.”

The silence stretched thin.

“But it matters to others,” he said softly.

“Others?”

He waved his hand in the air, the one holding the glass. Whiskey sloshed over the side. “The young bucks tonight.”

She searched her mind, trying to comprehend what he was saying. “Do you mean Lord Newport?”

“Was that the blond one who couldn't keep his eyes off you?”

She looked at him incredulously. “Are you jealous?”

He snorted. “I am not. You are entitled to socialize with whomever you wish.”

“Lord Newport is an old family friend. I haven't seen him in two years.”

“You owe me no explanation.”

She unfolded herself from the settee and walked up to him. He stared down at her impassively with hooded eyes a little too red-rimmed. “Do you fear fortune hunters?”

“I would not wish to see you taken in by them.”

“You care.” She tried to suppress her smile, but inside she was smiling wide. He cared.

“Of course I care. We were almost family. I feel duty-bound to watch out for you.”

She felt her smile slip. “Is that all I am? A duty? Simply because at one time we might have been family?”

“What else did you think this was?”

“So the way you kissed me last night? That was just duty?”

For a moment his eyes widened. “Damnation, Sara.”

“What? Is it bad form to mention our kiss? Should we not discuss it? Yet we can discuss my dowry?”

“That is enough.”

“No. It's not enough. I would like to kiss you again. I came here tonight in the hope that you would kiss me again.”

He held up his hand as if to stem the flow of her words, but there was no stopping her. She was furious and hurt and confused, and she refused to believe that he had kissed her out of a sense of duty.

Because she was furious, hurt, and confused, she did something she might not have normally done. She grabbed Ross by the front of his shirt and yanked him toward her. His eyes widened, and the glass he'd been holding dropped to the floor, splashing whiskey before it rolled away.

“What are you doing?” he asked in surprise.

“What I've wanted to do for too long.” She smashed her lips into his and pressed hard before she realized that was not the right way to go about this. She softened her lips and brushed them lightly against his. They were warm and tasted of Scottish whiskey. She licked the remainder of the whiskey off them until he groaned.

“You cannot tell me that this is out of a sense of duty,” she said. “If it were, you would be kissing everyone you owed a debt to.”

Her hands were fisted in his shirt, and she knew she was wrinkling the material but didn't care. She refused to let go, just like she refused to give up until she got the kiss she wanted.

“Kiss me back, dammit.” She spoke against his lips, refusing to break contact. She knew she would just die if she stopped now. Die of mortification and die of need.

Suddenly, his arms came around her, hard and brutal, crushing her to him, and he kissed her back, stroking her lips with his tongue until she opened her mouth and allowed him in. Good Lord. If he had not been holding her, she would have slithered to the ground.

His tongue swept into her mouth and toyed with hers, coaxing her to do the same. A low moan escaped her and she tried to pull him closer, but they were as close as they could get.

With his hand in her hair, he tilted her head back to allow for better penetration. Through her gown and robe, she could feel the rigid outline of his manhood pressing into her belly, and it excited her in ways she never thought possible.

This was no sense of duty.

“Ross,” she whispered, having no idea what to say after that. Words were beyond her. All she knew was that she never wanted any of this to stop.

He took a half a step back and she mewled in protest, but he hadn't moved to break the kiss; he slid his hand between them so he could cup her breast.
Oh my Lord
. She jumped at the unexpected contact and the tingles that raced through her body. She was so sensitive everywhere.

He took a step forward, forcing her to step back, until they were at the settee, where he gently lowered her until he was lying on top of her. His thighs pressed against hers. His chest against hers.

She ran her hands through his newly shorn hair. It was so soft that she couldn't keep her fingers out of it.

The spot between her legs throbbed. It hurt to not move, but she was pinned beneath him, unable to move. She moaned, needing something but unsure what.

He bent his head to trail kisses down her throat and she cried out, each touch so exquisite that she could barely think straight. His hand inched up her nightgown and robe, revealing her naked thighs to his tender touch. His hands were calloused from riding and whatever else he did, and his touch drove her wild. She wanted to beg for mercy, to plead for him to do something to ease the aching, but she could not speak.

His fingers grazed the juncture of her thighs and she jerked, surprised and a bit embarrassed. She stilled, her breath suspended, waiting for him to do something.

He looked down at her with such a tender expression. “Look at me,” he said hoarsely.

She kept her eyes trained on him, but her mind was focused on his fingers and what they were doing to her. He touched something inside her folds and she jumped, her breath catching.

“Easy,” he whispered. “Relax.”

She tried, but the sensations between her legs would not allow her to relax. He rubbed her and she made a surprised sound. She wasn't sure if she was more surprised by his fingers being there or by the way those fingers were making her feel. Her body worked on its own, moving up to meet his fingers. She bit her lip.

“Concentrate on what I'm doing to you,” he whispered into her ear. As if she could concentrate on anything else.

She gasped and moved against him, pushing herself into his palm, pressing against him, writhing and rubbing. Something was building inside of her, and she wasn't sure that when it broke she would be left breathing. But there was no way in heaven she could stop now.

“Let it go,” he said softly.

Their gazes locked and she moved her pelvis as his fingers moved over her, and whatever pinnacle she had been reaching for broke over her. She cried out, her body stiffening. The feeling washing over her was so exquisite and intense that she lost all thought.

“Breathe, little one.” They were the first words she heard when the sensation ebbed away. She dragged in a deep breath, not realizing she hadn't been breathing at all.

Ross pushed up on his elbows and smiled down upon her. “How do you feel?”

“Like I cannot move for fear I would slide onto the floor.”

He chuckled and kissed her, a quick peck that made her smile.

The door to the study opened and Sara froze, all the good feelings washing away in a torrent of panic. Ross cursed and rolled off her. The way the settee was situated, whoever had walked in could not see Sara, and neither could Sara see whoever was standing there. She desperately tried to push her nightgown and robe over her legs without being seen.

“Mother.” Ross quickly rounded the settee, and Sara thanked the Lord that he was still dressed.

“I thought I heard a sound in here,” Elizabeth said.

Sara closed her eyes in mortification and slowly sat up. There was no use in hiding. She would eventually be discovered, for Elizabeth was not stupid.