Trapping a Duchess (13 page)

“Difficult for you? With that. . .girl?” The impertinent question came with another derisive look. “Flattering her could hardly require more than a single compliment. Or can you not get a word in edgewise?”

His fingers gripped the arms of the chair. “I wasn't having any difficulty at all until you entered the picture, batting your eyelashes and handing out seductive smiles as if the marquis couldn’t breathe without them.” He had always thought himself in control of his emotions, but not when she was near. And, apparently, never when she was flirting with another man.

Her fingers clasped together until her knuckles turned white.

“I know we agreed to put the past behind us and move on and I am happy to see you doing so. However, it would be beneficial to both of us if your attentions were turned elsewhere.” At her dismissive laugh, he leaned forward menacingly. “We cannot pursue members of the same family. Surely even you can see the madness in that.”

Her brows rose. “Find another woman.”

“Not going to happen.”

She held his gaze with surprising directness. “I have no intention of rejecting Lord Courtland just because you fancy his sister.”

He muttered a curse. “Stubborn woman.”

“Pompous ass,” she shot back.

A thought struck him, solid and unmovable. Voicing it would be tantamount to a declaration of war, but desperation was a noise he would risk battle to silence. “Fine,” he said, forcing a defeated sounding sigh.

She looked ready to retort when his response registered. Her mouth snapped shut and her brows furrowed. “Fine?” she repeated after a moment.

“Yes, fine. I will cease my courtship of Lady Abigail.” He allowed a moment for his words to sink in. And hid a devilish grin.

“Oh,” she mumbled, clearly startled by his sudden capitulation. “Well, then. That settles. . .everything.” She rose, looking adorably confused.

He waited until she had taken a few steps before calling out. “Actually, it settles nothing as I am still left without a bride.” She whipped around to face him, cheeks flushing and eyes wide. He shrugged, feigning innocence.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, my dearest lady,” he said as he took a few steps towards her. “That I will need a suitable replacement. In this case, there is only one option.” He let the silence stretch until she looked ready to burst. “You.”

“What?” she sputtered, her voice pitched high enough he was surprised she hadn’t shattered glass. She walked backwards, shaking her head, her lips mouthing a silent denial. The instant her back hit the shelves, she found her voice. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I could not be more serious, Sophie,” he said, using her nickname as he reached up to run the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. She put her hand up to stop him, but he caught it and dragged it to his lips, taking her middle finger into his mouth. Her gaze fell, transfixed, to where he held her. He sucked gently, emboldened by her shiver.

“Andrew.” Her breathless voice was a siren's call.

“Yes, Sophie?” He lowered his mouth and she stiffened, but only for a moment. His lips brushed hers, first gentle, then more firmly as he coaxed her mouth open and ran the tip of his tongue inside. Her resistance melted away, the tension in her body replaced by something far more enticing. At her low, throaty moan, he was convinced he didn’t even know what control meant. He certainly wasn’t capable of summoning any. As his hands found her waist, he angled his head and deepened the kiss, fingers digging into her flesh as he tried to anchor himself. Throat dry, he swallowed. Then, she was kissing him back and he was lost in the feel of her sweet tongue sliding across his, the warmth of her mouth, the taste of red wine and dessert and
her
.

His hands slid down to caress the silk clad bottom he had admired at the start of the evening, molding the firmness with fingers and palms that itched to lift her skirts. He wanted to part her swollen flesh and lick and suck until she was begging. She arched into him, her breasts rubbing against his coat, and his control slipped. For all her innocence, she oozed sensuality. It seemed as natural to her as breathing. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged he was taking things too far. The ultimatum was only meant to get her back up. Instead, she was in danger of ending up
on
her back. Unable to stop, he took the kiss deeper, raising his hands to run fingers over her shoulders. He let them drift over the nape of her neck, let them enjoy the silken feel of her skin. Beneath his touch, her body was pliant, yet strong. Suddenly caressing her was not enough.

“We have to stop,” she said, pulling back. She was panting, breathless, her now cobalt eyes glazed heavy with desire. Ignoring her half-hearted protest, he drew her back into the kiss and sucked on her tongue. She wrenched her lips away from his. “Your Grace? Are you listening?”

Your Grace
. The formal address reminded him of who they were, where they were and, damn it all to hell, why they were there. Tearing away from her, he retreated a step. His wits were scattered, his body rock hard as he took in her swollen lips and flushed cheeks. Mesmerized, he watched her tongue flick out over her bottom lip. He wanted to toss her down on the rug and take her a thousand different ways. Her eyes flared wide, as if she knew what he was thinking. He was so bewitched by the sight that he did not see her fist until it nearly connected with his eye. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, grabbing her hand, but not before she made brief contact. Pain flickered through his cheek.

“That, Your Grace, is for taking advantage of me,” she hissed, her voice almost demonic in its rage. “And this,” she said, preparing to deal him another blow, “is for humil—”

Andrew grabbed her balled fist and whipped her around, yanking her roughly back against him. Soft flesh cradled his hard muscles, another taunt to test his mettle. He tamped down his basest response, but could not stop his aching cock from twitching against her arse. “Do not ever raise your hand to me again, Sophie,” he warned, his control pushed far beyond any limits he’d tried to set. “Do you understand me?” He whispered the menacing words against her ear.

“Let me go, you bastard,” she growled, her lovely chest heaving with frustrated breaths.

His fingers splayed tightly across her stomach. “Do you understand me, Sophie?” He tightened his grip as she struggled against him. “Answer me, damn you,” he commanded when she didn’t respond.

“No! No, I do not understand you. I don’t understand any of this,” she cried, wrestling out of his grip and rounding on him. “You don’t even. . .we don’t. . .” She stared at him, utterly bewitching in her loss for words. The satiny cloth of control slipped through his fingers, and he was powerless to stop it. His entire body went rigid.

“Leave. Now. I won't be responsible for my actions if you don't.” To his annoyance, she did not move. “Damn it, go,” he ordered roughly, hopeful for once that she would listen. He needed her as far away from him as possible. Another continent might work; then again, it hadn’t done so before, and that was when only his pride was engaged. The things she was doing to his body, even without touching him, made him want to explode. She stared at him a few seconds longer before fleeing the room.

Too shaken to follow, he remained, still and silent as he wrestled for control over his raging emotions. The idea that he would make her the focus of his attentions had not intimidated her in the least. Her reaction, or lack thereof, rankled. From what he had heard from Simon, and from her own lips, she was not interested in becoming the wife of a peer.
Yet Courtland was exactly that
. Except that he wasn’t, not in the same way as Andrew and Simon. The marquis may be the consummate diplomat, but Andrew doubted he really controlled anything.

Which meant Sophie wasn’t refusing Andrew on the basis of his station, as she had previously inferred, she was refusing him on the basis of
him
, or on some character flaw she deemed unconscionable. Perhaps she needed time for his threat to sink in. Once she realized it was not empty, she would retreat as expected. He took great solace in the thought. Still, moments passed before he righted himself and headed back towards the gallery.

Alex nearly mowed him over in the hall. “Oh, there you are.” She looked around him as if she expected someone to be there. “Where is Sophie? She has not shown up yet.”

“She did not wish to come,” he said in a low voice.

“You saw her then?” She stared at him for a long moment before her face twisted with anger. “What have you done?”

“Nothing. She just needs time alone. She has—”

“A headache,” Sophie said from behind him, her voice cool and even. “I had a headache. But it seems to have disappeared. I believe fresh air was all I needed.” The epitome of calmness, she took Alex’s arm and led her towards the other guests, who were beginning to fill the hall. Nothing in her countenance betrayed that she’d been panting in his arms five minutes earlier. Nothing about the way she moved or spoke indicated she’d tried to knock him senseless a moment later.

Gritting his teeth, he followed, certain he would not make it through the remainder of the evening. When Sophie strolled over to Lord Courtland and offered him a brilliant smile, picking up their flirtatious banter right where they’d left off, his suspicions were confirmed.

Chapter Eight

The next day passed in a blur and before Sophie had time to reconsider the happenings of the prior evening, she was entering the Lindford Ballroom on the arm of an elegantly clad Lord Courtland. His suit of deep green velvet emphasized the light color of his gaze. Yet for all his physical charms, it was his personality which continued to snare her attention. He had put her at ease in the carriage on the ride over, telling her stories about his youth with such enthusiastic mischievousness that she had laughed until tears had blurred her vision. Still her thoughts turned to Andrew if only to point out, in an interminable fashion as annoying as it was accurate, the differences between the two men. After their names were announced, they entered. “What a lovely room,” she said, taking in the streams of fabric and tinkering candles.

“Add a couple flutes of champagne and I daresay it will come to life.”

Laughing, she spotted Alexandra in the corner surrounded by a group of men. “Do you mind if we. . .” She gestured that direction.

“Of course not. I believe I remember a few of her admirers from Oxford.”

“Good evening, dear,” she said as she sidled up next to Alexandra.

“Oh, good, Sophie. You’re here. Lord Bottley and I were having a disagreement about the new flavor of ice at Gunter's. I thought you could put his opinion to rest. And you, of course, my lord,” she said, curtsying to Lord Courtland.

“I would be happy to,” he chuckled. “The mango ice was—”

“Delicious,” Alex put in.

“Wonderful,” Sophie added.

“I was going to say horrid, but I see my opinion would be overruled in this case.” He shrugged.

“Not by me,” Lord Bottley laughed as he extended his hand. “Good to see you again, Courtland.”

Lord Courtland smiled. “And you as well.”

“Does your sister attend tonight?” Alex asked him.

He nodded, looking around the room. “She does. In fact, I believe she arrived with my aunt before we did. I should find them, offer my greetings. It won’t do to get Aunt Lottie in a snit. I love her, but like most women in their sixth decade of life, she is as dangerous as they come.”

“Snits are an aunt’s duty,” Sophie chided playfully.

“Would you care to join me?” he asked, holding out his arm. “Or would you prefer to visit here for a bit?”

“I should like to stay, if that is acceptable to you.”

He nodded and offered a gentlemanly smile completely at odds with the roguish twinkle in his eyes. “I shall return in a trice.”

“Do,” she said, inwardly surprised by the sultriness of her voice. There was something about him which brought that timbre out more often than not. She couldn't quite figure it out, as nothing about him triggered the urges she had with a certain other, arrogant man.

“What was that all about?” Alex asked as they watched him make his way to the dowagers.

“I have no idea,” she said, heat warming her cheeks.

She leaned her head close to Sophie's. “Well, I think he's exceptional.”

Lord Bottley cleared his throat, politely reminding them of his presence. “Does your brother attend this evening, Lady Sophia?”

“I doubt it,” Sophie laughed as her gaze roamed the room. “He is likely to be found wandering the city in search of more interesting pursuits.”

“Ah. And what of yours?” he asked Alexandra.

“I have no idea,” she said, looking befuddled.

Lord Bottley nodded and it was clear to Sophie that he was working to hide his disappointment.

“Oh, rats. I'm being summoned,” Alex said as she saluted her aunt across the room. “You will come to my rescue, should the need arise, won't you?”

Sophie laughed. “Of course.”

Lord Bottley's gaze did not leave Alexandra until she reached the other side of the room.

“Perhaps while she mingles with the dowagers, you could escort me to the refreshment table? You seem as if you need to talk.” She genuinely liked Lord Bottley, even if he was a touch meek for her or Alexandra’s tastes.