Trapping a Duchess (32 page)

“She isn't leading me any more than she is being led,” he shot back before giving Simon a pointed look. “There's something deeper involved, something which makes her think all men are controlling bastards. Any idea what that could be?”

Simon shrugged, but wasn't able to hide a flash of guilt from his face. “I'll give you two days.”

“That is not enough time and you know it.”

Simon took a step towards him. If looks could kill, Andrew would be six feet under dancing with the devil. “It took you less than that to bed her, so it should be plenty of time to gain her acceptance.” Andrew did not respond. What could he say? As usual, Simon was right. Until now, he had been content to ride the matter out, to give her time to reach the desired conclusion. “Two days,” Simon warned again. “After that, I will force both of you down the god damned aisle myself. By gunpoint, if need be.”

Andrew bit back a hot retort. Spewing his frustrations would only precipitate a physical response. And though the beast inside him clamored for release, a bout of fisticuffs with his future brother-in-law would be counterproductive. Simon continued to glare at him, clearly waiting for acknowledgment. “I will do everything in my power to win her hand, but first let me make something perfectly clear.” He moved forward until they were nose to nose. “If you ever threaten me, or my future wife, again, I will spend the rest of my days making you wish you were in hell.”

Without another word, Simon stomped off, the sounds of his footsteps ringing with determination against the cobbled ground. Forget Andrew's ultimatum, or her rejection. All bets, at this point, were off. Sophie's obstinacy had just met its match.

* * * *

Two days later, Andrew stood in a darkened alcove of the ballroom, watching from a discreet distance as Sophie waltzed around the dance floor. In Lord Courtland’s arms, laughter bubbled out of her lips and she appeared exceedingly happy. Her gown caught the glow of the nearby candles and sparkled. It was the last ball of the season. The ton was eager to spend one last glamorous night in splendor before the glimmer faded away and they were forced to retire to their washed out lives, to whatever wearisome place they called home.

Sophie had barely spoken a word to him since their conversation in her bedchamber. Hell, if he wanted to examine the matter, other than their uneventful meeting in Hyde Park, she had avoided him entirely. Some misguided sliver of Andrew's pride still held hope that she’d come to her senses and rush to him, eager to accept his proposal so they could begin their happily ever after. He recognized the sliver for what it was—arrogance. He knew, no matter how he wished otherwise, that she would never swallow her infuriating pride and relent, not after his ultimatum. But there was more at stake now. Simon’s deadline loomed with each passing second.

“It isn’t becoming to lurk in the shadows, Your Grace,” a sultry voice murmured from over his right shoulder. “And sneering is hardly appropriate, dark mood and drink notwithstanding.”

He recognized the voice instantly and smiled. “Didn’t you once refer to my dark moods as intriguing? You said something about how I should have no problem attracting a wife.”

Eliza nudged him playfully. “I believe the phrase I used was terrifying. And I remember saying you will never find a wife with an expression like that.”

He slanted a sardonic glance in her direction. “The only way you would notice me skulking in the shadows is if you were here yourself.” He glanced around her, searching. “Why are you here, anyway?”

She shrugged. “I needed a break from the constant chatter. I had somehow forgotten what a crush the end of the season is.”

Andrew masked his amusement, kept his tone casual and his gaze on Sophie as he tossed out his response. “Does this mean Clement is no longer at your side, scaring everyone off?”

She sounded chagrined. “Is it that obvious?”

He pinned her with a knowing look. “The pair of you have been inseparable for most of the season, Eliza.”

“We have not,” she countered with a derisive snort.

“If you say so.”

She swatted him with her fan. “You horrid man. I did not come over here so you could mock me.”

He laughed. “You came over because you were curious, and because deep down, you wanted to know if Simon had mentioned anything to me.”

“At least half of that is true. As a gentleman, it is you duty to appease my curiosity.” She waited for him to answer. He didn’t. “Well?” she asked impatiently.

“If he mentioned anything to me, it was with complete confidence in my discretion.” And had nothing at all to do with you, and everything to do with what a horrible friend I've been.

“You can be so very cruel.” He chuckled again, enjoying her torment. “Perhaps I'll just emit a feminine scream and pretend to have a fit of the vapors and you will be forced to explain why you are holed up in the shadows.”

Andrew regarded her skeptically. “You couldn't pull off faking a faint and I doubt you would scream if a ten pound rat ran across your foot.”

“Oh, my. That sounds distinctly like a dare.”

“I’m just watching the night unfold,” he said quickly.

“Watching Lady Sophia, you mean,” she said, answering his dark look with a cheeky grin. “Oh, bother, Your Grace, save your breath. You were never good at lying to me.”

“I never lied to you,” he said, affronted.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, I know how you feel about her.”

“Pardon?” he asked, something—sheer horror, perhaps—pitching his voice high as a choir boy's.

She leaned in close until he was forced to do the same. “I know you love her,” she whispered loudly in his ear.

“Shhh,” he said, looking around to ensure her declaration wasn't overheard.

“Shhh, yourself,” she said, pressing her finger over his lips.

“People will assume I'm in love with you, if you aren't careful,” he said, drawing her hand away. At her blush, he fought back a rakish grin.

“Well, Lady Sophia won't be one of them. Though, I must admit, she seemed baffled by the idea when we spoke at Roxford’s house party.”

“You spoke to her? About me?” Did the whole blasted world know of his madness for the woman?

“Calm down, my lord duke. It was naught but a momentary lapse in judgment on my part.”

“I would say so.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“The question now is, how will you win her?”

“Not by playing fairly,” he said as he searched the crowd and found her standing in her usual circle of friends.

“Perhaps she needs a reminder of why you are such a brilliant catch?” Eliza said suddenly. “I have heard Lady Braxford intends on having three waltzes this evening in an effort to mimic Lady Trumpley’s new trend. The woman is scandalous, if you ask me, but with only one waltz out of the way, that would still leave the last for the two of you. Besides, it might not hurt to dance with another, make your presence known rather than flit about in the shadows waiting for the opportune moment to come to you.”

Opportunity was not something for which he had time to wait. His intentions must come to fruition, whether or not chance gave over. “Actually, that sounds like a fine idea. Are you available for the next waltz?”

“I would be honored, sir,” she said with a devious smile, and he was suddenly quite glad to have her on his side.

* * * *

Sophie was beginning to worry. She had seen neither hide nor silky hair of Andrew in days and was beginning to wonder if he had washed his hands of her. Not that she was upended by the idea, or so she endeavored to convince herself. After all, it was she who had done the avoiding since their meeting in Hyde Park. Her heart felt twisted into an infuriating little knot, like one of those fancy-looking but impossible to untie cravats her brother’s valet was always whipping up. Tonight she planned to talk to him, to voice her confusion and ask for a little more time to make a decision.

With a subtle glance around the ballroom, she offered a vague opinion on whatever topic of conversation the group was discussing. All the while, her mind was wholly focused on finding the man who had ignited her blood and weakened her will with four words—
because I love you
. As the orchestra began tuning for the second waltz, she spotted him taking the floor, Lady Forrester on his arm. Jealousy hit her like a well-thrown punch, settling painfully in her stomach and nearly knocking the breath out of her in the process. Clenching her teeth together, she smothered a curse. Not only had he already arrived, but he had clearly been avoiding her.
How long had he been there
?

Sophie watched, swallowing her inner turmoil, as the pair readied themselves for the dance. His hand rested gently upon her waist, his trademark half-smile playing over his lips. She spoke and he leaned in closer to hear. His deep chuckle drifted over Sophie’s ears and she nearly ground her teeth to powder in an effort to control her wayward tongue. A moment later, the music began and they were gliding across the floor in the opposite direction from where Sophie stood. At least she was spared having to see them together. Adopting a bored mien, she nudged Alex’s attention away from the conversation she was having with Lord Courtland. “Excuse me for a moment, Lex. My mother is summoning me from the other side of the room.”

“Where?” Alex asked, squinting.

“She mouthed something about the ladies retiring room,” she lied. “I need to ensure she is well.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, no. I won't be gone long.” Sophie disappeared into the crowds and made a quick exit through the garden doors. The night air wafted over her, cooling her heated skin but not the rage inside. She stayed close enough to the door to be within the bounds of propriety but far enough away that she would not be spotted from within. Lost in her anger, and trying desperately to remember what she planned to say to Andrew, she focused on the cloudy sky. Minutes later, she heard the waltz's crescendo and was forced to return inside.

“How is your mother?” Alexandra asked.

“I never did find her,” she said, feigning annoyance. “Did I miss anything of interest?”

“Only Lady Araminda spilling punch on Lord Emerson,” Alex said with a laugh. Lord Courtland began telling the story, but Sophie wasn't listening. Her attention was focused on the duke making his way across the room. He was momentarily waylaid by Lord and Lady Garrett, but with a charming smile, soon inched away. His gaze clashed again with hers, but no matter how hard Sophie tried, she could not look away. His immaculately clad body was a study in seductive intent. The closer he came, the more nervous she got, but still she could not look away. Instinct screamed at her to flee, as fast and far away as her legs would take her. Instead, she remained rooted to her spot, transfixed by his leonine grace as he prowled his way over.

“Are you alright?” Alex asked suddenly and Sophie realized she not only reached out to her friend, but would probably leave bruises with the death grip she had taken on her arm.

“No,” she whispered, a second before Andrew was standing before her.

“I say, Your Grace,” someone muttered, for he had just blatantly interrupted their conversation. Without so much as a single word, he took her head in his hands and set his mouth to hers, claiming her with lips and tongue and body, right in the middle of a crowded ballroom. “Oh, my stars,” she heard Alex say.
My stars indeed
!

Sophie longed to pull away, to slap his face and recoil in horror as propriety demanded. But fate, tempestuous and irascible as the man himself, had her leaning into him, drawn forward by his kissable lips and the lure of his subtly stroking tongue. Memories of their stolen hour in her bedchamber flowed through her as a soft moan broke free of her throat. Her fingers flitted over his strong jaw to tangle in his hair.

She had no idea how long the embrace lasted, no concept of anything beyond the feel of him as he shifted his head and deepened the kiss. A nearly inaudible groan—his or hers, she was not sure which—passed between them and when her tongue slid against his teeth, the last of her thoughts flew out of her head, bubbles on a heavy breeze. Only the two of them existed in that moment, transcending time, space and everyone around them as his hands slid over her back.

Pleasure dazed and entranced by the feel of his touch, she barely heard the sharp intakes of breath from the scandalized onlookers; indeed did not see anything the slightest bit unusual about accepting his attentions, over and over again. Seconds, or perhaps minutes, later, he drew back, staring deep into her eyes. Disoriented from the intimacy of the contact, Sophie was slow to register the buzzing of whispers as the gossips absorbed and related the sight.

Once his proximity registered, she gasped, causing a wave of supposition to spread throughout the entire crowd. Then. . .absolutely nothing. A room packed to the gills with people had become eerily silent. “Oh, my god,” she whispered, though she may as well have shouted the blaspheme, since everyone else, including the musicians, appeared to be watching them with bated breath.

Gazing up at Andrew, she caught the start of an arrogant half-smile a second before she reached out to him, her legs suddenly unable to support her. “No, love. It’s just me,” he said, his strong arms reaching out, his face highlighted by flecks of white light which danced around his head like a halo. But it was most assuredly not a halo; the devil did not own a halo. He had horns and a pointed tail. And a large pitchfork.
And he was fallen, just as she. A fallen.
. .