Trapping a Duchess (2 page)

"I am not making excuses for her," Simon said, his voice tinged with irritation. "But for God's sake, Andrew, she is my sister. I should have realized something was amiss."

Andrew answered with a low growl, earning him almost a minute of blissful silence.

"What will you do now?"

"I don't know," Andrew said, taking another unenthusiastic sip of coffee. "Travel, perhaps."

Simon gave him a frank look. "I have never known you to run away."

"Are you calling me a coward?" he asked, his eyes narrowing in warning.

"Of course not. I'm just trying to understand why you would want to leave. Do you not wish for an explanation?"

"No."

"You do not wish to know—"

"She left me standing at the god damned altar. That," he slammed his fist down on the table, "is all the explanation I need."

The room quieted, and a few startled patrons looked their way.

Simon's composure did not falter. "You are a better man than I, then," he said, following the soft proclamation with a sneer. "I would be out for blood."

Andrew forced the last of his coffee down his throat. "The scandal alone will be punishment enough."

"Maybe it will be, maybe it won't," Simon said with a shrug. "My father won't let her off easy, regardless. He's threatened to banish her to the country, once she is located."

Andrew resisted the urge to ask where Simon thought she might be, told himself did not care. Besides, Sophie was only a girl of seventeen, and a pampered, superficial, willful one at that. With no resources of her own and no place to go, he suspected she would return home with her tail between her legs.

"If only I had a notion of what was going on in that empty head of hers."

"Let it go, man." He blew out a breath. "This late in the day, it is of no consequence."

Simon's expression turned condescending. "Even you don't believe that." He let the comment pass with a disinterested shrug. Simon made a humphing sound, but said nothing more.

With a weary sigh, Andrew raked his hand through his hair. It must look a mess, not that he cared. When all was said and done, the state of his coiffure would not be remembered. His behavior, on the other hand, would be.

Suddenly anxious for the solitude of his lodgings, he stood, and immediately wished he hadn't. His legs dangled from his torso like spaghetti from a fork. He braced his hands against the table, fighting gravity in an effort to remain upright. After a long moment, the feeling passed.

"Where are you off to now?" Simon asked, rising.

Was he to get no peace? "Home, Simon. I'm going home. I need to sleep off this damned nightmare."

Simon gave him an encouraging smile. "Sounds like a fine idea. We can work it all out in the morning."

Andrew shook his head. "I'm heading to Sussex before dawn." His ancestral estate in the country, away from London and its damnable, gossiping eyes, would be the perfect place to clear his head.

"For how long?"

"For as long as it takes," Andrew said then snapped his mouth shut. The day had been exhausting, the coffee had done little to ease his drunken state and his future loomed daunting as the grim reaper. "I haven't the steam left for conversation, Simon. And there isn't anything left to say, anyway. I just want to be alone."

Simon clapped him on the shoulder, then squeezed. "Go, then. The world will still be here when you return."

Andrew nodded his appreciation. He made his way to his carriage, his rage abated and his mind foggy. "I believe I'll walk, Sam," he said, confident the trusty coachman would follow to ensure his safe arrival.

Enjoying the cool night air, he ambled the distance home. Time and again, his thoughts turned to Sophie. He wished he never had to see her again, hoped the scandal saw her cast out from society. He didn't care where she went or what she did. He intended to forget she ever existed.

As if to test his resolve, Sinclair House appeared before him. His gaze darted automatically to Sophie's darkened window and he wondered if she had returned home. Realizing he'd made a mockery of his own resolution, he blew out a resigned breath. He would never be able to pretend she never existed, no matter how hard he tried. As he hurried past her home and around the corner to his own, it occurred to him that fate, in true honor to woman, was not only cruel, but fickle and tempestuous.

Not to mention a bit of a bitch.

Chapter One

London, seven years and some months later

Sophie Sinclair sat stock still in an uncomfortable leather armchair as she waited for her brother to continue his lecture. From his side of the large, mahogany desk, Simon, now five years into his position as Earl of Clement, stared at her through narrowed eyes. Steepled fingers covered drawn lips and tightened jaw, but could not mask his exhale of frustration. Any patience he'd had with their conversation was clearly at an end.

Good
, Sophie thought smartly, her inward smile at having worn him down threatening to curve her lips. He deserved to suffer greatly for pushing the issue of marriage down her throat until she felt she might choke to death. How many times must she tell him that she had no desire to wed before he finally accepted it?

"Am I to understand you have given no thought to my recommendations?" he asked in a controlled, level tone, his commanding gaze saying what his words did not.

She matched his cool expression with one of her own. They had traversed this conversational path more times than she could track. The end result was always the same; Simon would emerge frustrated, Sophie with her ego bruised, but unaltered in her course.

"I have." She did not elaborate. Brevity was the only way to ensure she kept control of the conversation, that her responses did not give away more than she intended. She would remain single until society offered her the shroud of spinsterhood. She would take the monicker, and the freedom with which it came, gladly. Especially if being labeled a spinster meant she never had to be bound to a dictatorial creature like the man before her; a man who, at this particular moment, resembled her father in a way that chilled her to her bones.

Ten seconds passed before Simon let out an impatient, "And?"

"And. . .Nothing. They are all unsuitable, as I presume you knew when you selected them," she said with quiet defiance. "It's almost as if you opened the household copy of Debrett's and selected their names at random."

Sophie had never had an issue standing up to her brother. She never really an issue standing up to anyone. For her five feet ten inches, lithe and womanly though they were, she held her ground as well as any man. On this particular topic, she was not budging an inch. Marriage, especially to one of the idiots Simon had recommended via his ridiculous list, was a foe she was willing to fend off by any means necessary. His eyes squeezed shut and Sophie braced herself in an effort not to be jolted when he raised his voice.

Since leaving London seven years ago and taking a mail coach to Scotland, a seventeen-year old runaway bride to be with only her courage to keep her company, her life had taken many dramatic turns. She lost the aunt who had welcomed her with open arms and championed her when her father's ire came banging at the door, mended fences with the mother and brother she felt sure she had lost, and reestablished herself once again in the good graces of the ton. Her scandal was now only a small, graying stain on the vibrant fabric of her life.

Jilting Andrew was supposed to have sealed her fate. She returned to London assuming that society had deemed her unsuitable for marriage. Her reentry, however, brought with it a change in attitude from every direction. All assumed, nay expected, that she had returned to find a husband. Still, she clung to the hope that she could remain unwed. That, at the age of four and twenty, she would not be subject to a husband's tyranny.

Having watched her father control every aspect of the family's life, she had no wish for a husband, least of all one with a title. With titles came responsibilities, and with responsibilities came overbearing structure. And overbearing structure left little breathing room for a woman with a mind and plans of her own. Dukes, viscounts and every peer in between commanded everything, and everyone, around them.

Her father had done so under the guise of familial obligation, dictating even the names of whom she could or could not befriend. He calculated everything with the express purpose of furthering the family's wealth and social standing. Their schedules included only those events hosted by the most sought-after members of society. He had determined every nuance of Sophie's life, right down to the man she would marry.

In Andrew, she saw her father's calculating mind, his desire for power and wealth. As heir to a duchy, he would undoubtedly want to further his family's aims and he would do so with an iron fist.
Just like father.
Just like Simon, who, though not quite as cruel as the late earl was, filled the man's shoes all too well. The transformation was the worst sort of travesty, for Simon had not always been such a brute. "What happened to you?" she asked, suddenly eager to learn the reason for his interference.

"What are you talking about?"

For the first few years after she returned, he had let her be. He had, it appeared, simply missed having his sister around. Sophie cried on his shoulder, apologized for her behavior and explained her fears at being destined to what she considered a stifling and unsatisfying life. He had been empathetic, even compassionate, during those first years.
But now. . .
"You have a life of your own to live, Simon. Why waste your time and energy on mine? For heaven's sake, you act as if my getting married is the most important thing in the world."

"Mother thinks—"

"I know what mother thinks. She tells me every single time I see her. I want to know why this is so important to you?"

Simon stared daggers at her while drumming his fingers against the wood, a sound designed to fray her nerves. Their father had used the same tactic and as was the case back then, the sound eventually got the better of her. She blew out a beleaguered breath. "Fine. Keep your reasons. But get on with your questions, so I can answer them and we can be finished."

His blue eyes were clear and piercing as he braced his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "You can finish this now by providing the answer that I seek."

She glared back at him, tapping her foot against the wood floor in the most impertinent manner she could. He lifted a brow, drummed his fingers harder, faster, jerking her to her feet. "Fine! Lord Waverly is too short, fat, bald, smelly, and a whole host of other derogatory adjectives," she said, ticking the points off on shaking fingers. "Lord Brimley is far too old, and the last thing I wish to be is a surrogate mother to his unruly brood." She shot him an admonishing look. "And Lord Kingsford. . .well, I can only assume you put his name on the list as a lark." A disgusted sound bubbled out of her mouth. "The man is half my height and three times my girth!"

Simon straightened, his eyes narrowing into slivers of blue ice. "What of Lord Jackson?"

"What of him?"

"You cannot have reason to reject him as well."

She leaned forward to meet his gaze, her own eyes a mirror of his. "He is a pudgy child, Simon, barely out of Oxford. He has years of oats to sow before he could be considered suitable for even the most docile of brides, which I am not. Surely, you would not have me wed to a fool whose priorities are gambling and debauchery. Not to mention—"

"What I would have, is for you to select a husband and move forward with your life so that I may do the same. I do not need to remind you of the promise I made to father."

"Yes, but it was your damnable promise! I wasn't even aware of it until six months ago, therefore I fail to see why fulfilling it falls to me."

"You are four and twenty, Sophie," he ground out. "It is past time for you to stop flitting about from ball to ball and choose a husband instead of another new gown. You have spent the last few years restoring your name. Now it is time for you to take your place."

She stood, slamming her palms against the desk and ignoring the stinging pain that shot through her hands. "Such a lecture from a hypocrite," she spat. "You who are one and thirty. As I said before, you need not wait for me to marry to do so yourself." She punctuated her declaration with an insolent roll of her eyes. The muscle in Simon's jaw twitched, as if he were biting back a scathing retort. She continued on, voice and posture mocking as she paced in front of the desk. "Honestly, you have been hiding behind my skirts for years, citing your need to see me settled as an excuse not to do so yourself. Just because you made a silly promise, without my permission, mind, does not mean I am required to change my mind about marriage."

He moved in a flash, storming around the desk to stand in front of her, six feet two inches of pure intimidation. Disgust was etched in every hard plane of his face. "Mind your smart mouth, Sophia Eleanor. I have not forced you into a union because I felt you needed time to reestablish yourself. Your behavior seven years ago brought scandal upon this family. Mother has threatened to isolate herself in the country, alone, although I feel certain she would be content to have you there as a permanent companion. It is I who convinced her you would be suffocated living such a life. I who argued on your behalf, confident that you would be appreciative enough for the time you've had and honor father's wishes!"