The Duchess Hunt (14 page)

The way she looked through her eyelashes
up at him and the way her pink tongue swiped over her lips to capture every
drop of the ice… she was flirting with him, for certain. Georgina Stanley
always flirted with him, and he’d always been unflinchingly polite in return.

Simon glanced at the head of the table,
where his host presided over the festivities, watching everyone with a keen
eye. Stanley reminded Simon of a hawk, intelligent and calculating, always
aware of everything that occurred in his vicinity, and usually outside it.

He returned his attention to Georgina,
who’d taken another bite of the ice and had closed her eyes in ecstasy. There
was no doubt she was lovely.

Well-bred and innocent, too.

She isn’t Sarah.

His gaze traveled past Miss Stanley, past
Esme and her partner and down the long table until he saw Sarah, who’d been
partnered with a curate. The lowest on the social strata of those present,
they’d been the last to enter and had been seated far down at the other end of
the table.

She wasn’t paying any attention to the
curate, who seemed to be enjoying his ice as much as Miss Stanley was.

No, she was watching Simon.

He tore his gaze away, choosing not to try
to interpret the expression on her face.

“Do you like it?” Miss Stanley asked.

He looked down at his untouched ice.
“Perhaps I should try it first.”

She laughed prettily. “Perhaps so.”

He took up a spoonful, and cold spiked
with sugar and the unmistakable flavor of pineapple washed over his tongue.
Damn good. An excellent choice to combat the stifling air he inhaled with every
breath.

Not as good as tasting Sarah, though. He
flicked another glance down the table. Sarah had turned away and was talking to
the curate, gracing him with her wide, pretty smile.

His breath caught as jealousy swirled
through him. He wanted to stalk over to the curate and forcibly remove him from
Sarah’s vicinity. Trying to calm the sudden possessive – and ridiculous –
notion, Simon blinked hard, focusing on the dark strand of hair that curled
around her ear. He wanted to rub that strand between his fingers, feel its
sleek, silky texture.

God, how he wished things were different –
that she was the one sitting beside him, not Georgina Stanley.

He forced his attention back to Miss
Stanley and smiled at her as he took up another spoonful. “You’re right. It’s
heaven.”

But he lied. Heaven would be taking Sarah
Osborne into his arms and keeping her there. Heaven was impossible. But as he
sat here among these people he couldn’t count as true friends, with the one
person in the world he truly trusted sitting thirteen seats away from him, he
began to question that.

He pretended to savor the dessert in
silence for several moments. Then, Miss Stanley said quietly, “I am so glad you
are as fond of pineapple as I am, Your Grace.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” Her teeth ran over her lower lip.
“It is important… I mean, for people to enjoy similar things.” Blue eyes
blinked innocently up at him.

“I suppose it is,” he said.

They finished dessert, and the ladies then
retired to the drawing room for coffee and tea while the gentlemen remained in
the dining room and the port circulated clockwise around the table.

The men relaxed, a few of them drawing out
their snuff boxes, a few retiring behind a screen to make use of a chamber pot.
They talked about the recent earthquake in Caracas, the loss of life, the
implications to the British. They talked about the United States and how war –
again – had become inevitable. They talked about Bonaparte and the French.
Dunsberg, who had received a letter from Wellington last week, updated all of
them on the push through Spain.

Simon was glad the political topics had
outweighed the subject of his mother’s disappearance. He was tired of repeating
the story of what had happened and sick of telling everyone his theory –
growing less substantial as the days passed – that his mother had simply gone
off on a holiday without informing anyone. He’d repeated the story in
Parliament, at two other dinner parties, in the card room at a ball a few
nights ago, and in his club on more than one occasion. All the men here surely
knew it by now. And when they pressed for more information – which also
happened often – he could tell them in all honesty that he didn’t have any.

Eventually, Stanley turned to Simon. “You
are more involved in the Season this year, Trent. Not avoiding the social
events as you usually do.”

Simon stiffened. “I’d hardly say I avoid
them.”

Lord Granger, a younger man who’d recently
inherited his title, chuckled. “Can’t say I’d blame you if you did, Trent.
Damned tedious, the lot of them.”

“The ladies seem to find them quite
enjoyable,” Dunsberg pointed out.

“Ah, but we are forgetting the point of
the Season’s events.” Stanley gestured, rolling a finger to indicate the house
around them. “This one included.”

“Which is?”

Simon slanted a glance at Granger. The man
could be more than passing dense sometimes.

“Why, to find matches for those of us who
are as yet unmarried,” Stanley said.

Simon felt more than one set of eyes on
him, but he took another swallow of port and ignored them.

“The marriage market,” Dunsberg said in a
bemused voice.

“Exactly,” Stanley said. “But you, Trent,
I’d wager you do know the purpose of the Season. Ever since that year – What
was it? Six, seven years ago? – you had that horde of matchmaking mamas
prepared to battle to the death over which daughter would dance with you next,
you’ve avoided it.”

Simon made a noncommittal response. That
year had been hell. He’d been green, hadn’t yet understood the competitive
natures of the ladies and their mothers. They’d ever so politely cornered him,
called upon him, made subtle attempts to entrap him. They’d plagued him until
he couldn’t walk down the street without being accosted. Town gossip centered
upon who would be the lucky lady he would select for his bride. He received
piles of letters from secret admirers daily. Young ladies had burst into tears
upon seeing him from across a street or a shop. One high-strung girl had even
swooned when he’d greeted her one day.

He’d had to completely remove himself from
the public eye. He’d temporarily moved into his half-brother Sam’s lodgings,
stayed indoors whenever possible, and went about his duties in unmarked
carriages until the furor died down. It had taken many months, and in the years
after that, he had dipped his toes into social life cautiously and with his
eyes open, keeping strict control of who he spoke to and how, careful not to
elicit unrealistic expectations.

If his plan for this Season came to
fruition, all that angling would end soon. One thing about marriage he’d
welcome with open arms.

“Oh, I remember that!” Sir Thomas Seton,
another unmarried buck, announced. “Thought the ladies would never bother
glancing at another one of us again.”

Simon cocked an eyebrow at Sir Thomas. “Is
that so? If I recall, you were still at Eton back then. I can’t imagine how you
could have heard about all that nonsense.”

“Oh, everyone heard about it, Trent.
Everyone
.”

“I remember, too,” the curate who’d been
Sarah’s dinner partner said. “I heard about it while I was at the seminary. All
of London was watching on tenterhooks, Your Grace, waiting to see who you’d
choose for your duchess.”

“Every word you spoke in public that year
was printed, pored over by matchmaking mamas searching for the one element that
would give their daughters the edge,” Dunsberg said with a chuckle. Dunsberg
had experienced a similar situation years earlier and had commiserated with
Simon on more than one occasion. Dunsberg had never married, though. It seemed
the older man valued his bachelorhood more than most.

“The odd thing is” – Stanley’s hawk-like
gaze focused on Simon – “after all these years, you have finally returned to
society in full force. Attended every event you’ve been invited to this Season,
haven’t you, Trent?”

“Thought he’d never come back after that.”
Granger shook his head as he poured himself more port. “I wouldn’t’ve.”

“You’d have been married thrice over if
it’d happened to you,” Sir Thomas told Granger, smirking.

“What are you driving at, Stanley?” Simon
inquired politely of his host.

“I think you’re on the hunt.”

Simon fingered the rim of his glass with
his thumb. “Before one hunts, one must assess the game and the potential for
success.”

“We all know hunting season is in its
prime in the weeks after Easter, so you’ve had over a month to assess the
game,” Stanley pointed out.

“Indeed,” Simon said.

Stanley smiled, showing the
tobacco-stained whites of his teeth. “I think you’ve come to your conclusion.
There is game in abundance but you shall bide your time until you decide upon a
target.”

“Surely the good duke will choose the
plumpest, healthiest, most delectable bird to dress his table,” Sir Thomas
said, his smirk still firmly intact.

“Ah, you mean the
London
Season!” Granger proclaimed,
the double entendre suddenly making sense to him. His eyes went wide as he
turned to Simon. “Can it be true, old chap? You’re finally looking to be
leg-shackled?”

“Daresay it’s about time,” Sir Thomas
said. “What are you now, Trent? Thirty? Go get yourself married, Your Grace, so
the ladies of London will begin to pay attention to the rest of us.”

“Twenty-nine,” Simon corrected. “And
perhaps I
will
endeavor to shackle myself to some willing lady before the end of
the Season. But only for the sake of my peers and their
amour-propre
.”

Everyone laughed, and conversation
wandered to other topics. But Lord Stanley remained quiet, his fingers templed
under his chin, gazing at Simon.

Assessing.

Chapter
Eight

“Your Grace! Your Grace!”

Simon sat up, instantly alert. Swinging
his legs over the edge of the bed, he called out, “What is it?”

“It’s your brother, sir. Come quick!”

“Which one?”

But Simon knew. He always knew.
Luke.

As the man outside his door said, “It’s
Lord Lukas,” Simon had already slung his robe over his shoulders and was
striding toward the door. He opened it to find one of the footmen on his
threshold.

“What time is it, Tremaine?”

“A little after four, Your Grace.”

Simon sighed. They’d returned home from
the Stanleys’ just before two. “Where is he?”

Tremaine hurried down the corridor and led
him toward the stairs. “Robert Johnston found him unconscious between the
service door and the stable, and he informed me straightaway. I came directly
to you.”

Robert Johnston, the coachman. Simon
frowned. He didn’t like the way that man looked at Sarah.

A few moments later, Simon emerged outside
and saw his brother curled on his side chin-to-knees against the iron handrail.
Robert Johnston pushed himself off from the handrail when Simon approached.
“Hasn’t moved an inch since I first saw him, Your Grace.”

Simon sighed. “Help me bring him inside,
will you?”

The three men carried Luke inside. Not an
entirely simple task, because Luke was as tall as Simon and deeply unconscious,
a dead weight, awkward and flopping as they maneuvered him through the door and
to the closest room with something comfortable for him to lie on – the drawing
room. They laid him on the royal-blue silk sofa and stepped back, sweating,
gazing down at him.

He hadn’t budged, but his chest was rising
and falling in a steady rhythm.

Simon passed a weary hand over his eyes.
He had no idea if this was a drunken stupor or something worse, but he needed
to find out.

“Have someone wake Miss Osborne,” he told
Tremaine. Out of all the people in his London household, Sarah had worked most
closely with Mrs. Hope and therefore possessed the most medical knowledge.

“Yes, sir.” The footman left, and Simon
dismissed Robert Johnston, eliminating the possibility of the man seeing Sarah
in any state of dishabille.

When both men were gone, Simon stared down
at his brother.

“Damn it, Luke,” he muttered. He lowered
himself onto the foot of the sofa and rested his head in his hands, waiting for
Sarah to arrive or for Luke to awaken.

Not surprisingly, Sarah came first. She
hurried in, looking deliciously rumpled, her cheeks flushed as she fumbled with
the tie on her robe. She took one look at Luke and her shoulders sagged.

“Oh.” Her voice was flat as she came to a
halt beside the sofa. She looked from Luke’s peaceful face to Simon’s no-doubt
ragged one. “Are you all right?” she asked him softly.

“No. Yes. I just…” Hell, he already felt a
thousand times better since she’d walked through the door five seconds ago. He
made a helpless gesture toward his brother.

“How did he get here?”

“Robert Johnston found him by the back
door.”

She knelt beside Luke to check his
heartbeat and his pupils, then laid the backs of her hands on his cheeks.

“Can you tell what’s wrong with him? Is he
drunk?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Fool,” Simon growled.

“He’s cold. There’s no telling how long he
was out there. We must warm him.”

They set Tremaine and the pair of maids
who had awakened Sarah to work warming Luke with hot bricks and warm towels.
After his pulse settled and his skin returned to a more normal temperature,
Sarah turned assessing eyes on Simon. “You must be exhausted, Your Grace. You
should go to bed.”

“So should you,” he countered.

The edge of her lips quirked up as she
rose. “Very well, but only if you promise to get some rest as well.”

He nodded and told one of the maids to
fetch him as soon as his brother woke. Side by side, he and Sarah trudged
upstairs.

Sarah watched Simon closely. He looked –
defeated. As if the appearance of his drunken brother had brought the weight of
the world crashing down on his shoulders.

They came to Simon’s bedchamber door first
– her room was at the end of the corridor. She’d never walked with him upstairs
before, and when Simon grasped the door handle, they both hesitated.

She looked up into Simon’s face, into his
haunted green eyes, and awareness flushed through her. Awareness… and a complex
need that had everything inside her clenching tight.

“May I come inside?” she whispered.
“There’s something I wish to say.”

His lips pressed together. His eyes
scanned the dim corridor. It wasn’t yet five o’clock, and most of the household
was still abed. Finding no one, he gave a tight nod and opened the door.

She slipped inside the room. He followed,
closing the door and locking it before turning to her.

She hadn’t ever been inside this
bedchamber. It was a far larger space than hers, with a marble hearth opposite
the bed flanked by two doors, one perhaps leading to a dressing room and the
other to a bedchamber meant for the duke’s wife. A bedchamber, if the rumors
were true, that would soon be occupied by the woman Simon chose to marry. The
bed, still rumpled from him sleeping in it earlier, was simple, covered by a
dark silk counterpane and matching covered pillows.

She tore her gaze away from the bed and
turned to Simon.

Longing. Envy. Jealousy. Those were the
emotions that had run rampant through her during the Stanleys’ dinner party
last night. She’d watched Simon and Georgina Stanley conversing and laughing,
and from her position way down at the end of the table with the lowliest of the
guests, her heart had panged, heavy and sore in her chest. Every time Simon so
much as smiled at the young lady, it was a painful reminder to Sarah of those
deep, thick lines that society had drawn to keep them apart.

It hurt. She wanted so badly to be the
object of his public smiles. She wanted to be the one partnered with him at
formal dinners. She wanted to be the one he proudly led to the dance floor
before hundreds of onlookers.

Society believed she was undeserving of
all that, but she didn’t agree. She
did
deserve it – as much as anyone fortunate enough to be born into
the position.

This dangerous, brazen part of her had
taken on a life of its own… It was running rampant, and she didn’t know how to
control it.

She squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her
arms around herself.

Last night, when the men had remained in
the dining room to drink their port, the women had gone into the drawing room.
The main topic of conversation had been the rumor that Simon was at last
intending to give up his bachelorhood. That this Season, he was finally on the
hunt for the lucky young lady who would become his duchess.

Afterward, while she was lying in bed in
the earliest morning hours, Sarah had come to a realization. Once Simon chose
his intended bride, there would be nothing left for her. He’d never, ever betray
the woman he intended to marry. And she wouldn’t want him to.

She knew she and Simon could never
permanently breach the lines that divided them, but from the years of meeting
him on the bench at Ironwood Park, from the three kisses they had shared, Sarah
thought they might be able to
temporarily
breach them.

Their time was limited. If she didn’t take
control now, he’d marry, and she’d lose him before she even had a chance.

Now, she looked up into his face and spoke
quietly. “Let me soothe you, Your Grace.”

He was very still. Then, slowly, he shook
his head. But his eyes flashed, sparking to life again after they’d been so
dull and hopeless as he’d gazed at his unconscious brother. “You don’t know
what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.” She
glanced down, then back up to meet his eyes, her resolve hardening. She untied
her robe and let it slip from her shoulders. “I offer you care and comfort and
love, to use in whatever way you see fit.”

“No, Sarah,” he said thickly, but his eyes
raked up and down her nightgown-clad body, and the heat in them stroked over
her. “That is too great a gift.”

“It is one I wish to give you.”

“You deserve better than what I can offer
you.”

She sighed. “What if you were to stop
worrying and just listen to your heart? What if you were to just consider what
you want at this very moment? What if I were to promise you that, no matter
what happens, I won’t have any regrets?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.

“I hear it always hurts, the first time,”
she told him in a near whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you that way.” He
stepped forward, reaching out to her. His hand moved to cover her heart, and he
pressed down gently, his gaze moving to study her face. “But I don’t want to
hurt you here, either.”

She covered his hand with her own. “I
know.”

He gave a helpless shake of his head. “How
can I prevent it?”

“Whatever you choose to give, I will take
it gladly and hold it close. I have no expectations, Your Grace. I promise. I
just want to live for today. Enjoy today. Let’s, for once, worry about tomorrow
when it comes.”

“I don’t want you to have any regrets,” he
said. “We have been friends for so long. This will change everything.”

She thought back to all those times they’d
met on the bench at Ironwood Park, of their late-night discussions about
Napoleon and France and the United States and Spain. About the challenges he
faced in Parliament. About their fears for Sam, who’d spent so much time on the
Continent, for England, and for the world.

He was right. This would change
everything.

“Listen to your heart, Your Grace,” she
repeated. She reached up her free hand to cup his cheek. “I am willing to take
that risk. Are you?”

He hesitated a moment. Then the word
emerged, gruff and low but absolutely clear: “Yes.”

She began to untie the strings of her
nightgown. His gaze riveted to her chest, where the edges of the fabric gaped,
revealing the curve of one of her breasts.

“No regrets, Your Grace. I offer you this
with my eyes wide open. I know” – she took a deep breath – “our time together
will be limited. But it can be for now. Just for now, we can offer each other
comfort.”

He was quiet.

“Please,” she whispered. And then she did
the bravest thing she’d ever done. She wrapped her arms around the Duke of
Trent and pressed her lips to his.

Despite his “yes,” his expression had
still been infused with uncertainty. He was still waging that war within
himself.

She half expected him to push her away.
But he didn’t.

Instead, as surely as if she’d thrown a
bucket of water over it, her kiss seemed to douse the part of him that had been
struggling against touching her.

With a small groan, he took her in his
arms and pulled her tight against him. His mouth coaxed hers open, then his
tongue flicked inside, licking at the inner flesh of her lips. One of his hands
moved to her sleeve, yanking it downward and off her shoulder, and cool air
whispered over her bare breast before it was engulfed by his hand.

She gasped, tightening her arms around him
as his taut back muscles flexed beneath her palms. His lips moved to her ear.
“Sarah, tell me you want this. Tell me this is what you want.”

She arched her back, pressing closer,
tighter against him, feeling the increased pressure on her breast and trembling
at the flash of pleasure that rushed through her. “Yes. Yes, Simon. I want” –
she punctuated her words with little kisses to the rough side of his cheek and
his earlobe – “this. This is all I want.”

His robe puddled on the floor, and
suddenly, his lips traveled down the slope of her neck, over her collar bones,
and then his tongue stroked over her breast in scorching swipes.