The Duchess Hunt (19 page)

Simon’s lip curled. “That makes no sense.
Why would my mother ever allow proof of her infidelity, not to mention an
illegitimate child, to exist?”

Stanley gave a sly smile. “I plan ahead,
Trent. I was prepared to reveal my link to the child then, but her position
with the duke was precarious. He found out about our liaison and had threatened
her with divorce. She convinced him otherwise, but she knew if I brought her
dalliance to society’s attention, he’d go through with it. So I demanded that
we create this document, knowing that at some point in the future I might be
able to use my paternity of Lukas to my advantage.”

Simon’s head was spinning. Luke couldn’t
know – if he did, he would have let the truth out during one of his many
drunken rages in which he’d railed at Simon over the years.

If this was the truth, it would eviscerate
him. Luke was already on the verge of complete failure. This news would push
him over the edge.

“Don’t you see me in him?” Stanley asked,
and there was a dark shadow of humor in his voice. “I do. He takes after me,
that is for certain.” He gestured to his own face. “It’s in the eyes.”

Simon stared at Stanley’s eyes. The
resemblance, now that Stanley pointed it out, was absolutely undeniable. Luke’s
eyes were exact replicas of Stanley’s, from their shape down to their shade.
But it was more than that. The construction of their faces was nearly
identical. Even their hair held the same blond shade.

“You look horrified, Trent.” Stanley had
relaxed again. The bastard had begun to enjoy himself, took pleasure from
seeing Simon in distress. “But my story is only in its infancy. There’s much
more.”

Simon’s gut had twisted into a knot. “What
do you mean? How can there be more?” Surely this was enough life-altering news
for one day.

Stanley gave him a grim smile. “Regarding
the agreement I made with your parents, know that I have no desire to claim
Lukas as my own. I’ve no need of a bastard son, especially not one as depraved
as that boy.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

Stanley didn’t answer. He simply
continued. “A few years passed, and your mother traveled to the Continent and
was absent for quite a long time. Perhaps you remember – as I recall she left
you and your two half brothers with your governess at Ironwood Park. Our affair
had long since ended. When she returned, she was in possession of yet another
‘legitimate’ infant son.”

“Mark,” Simon said.

“Yes. Markus. And then, two years later,
Theodore appeared.”

Simon looked at him, waiting.

“Both of them are illegitimate as well.”

“No,” Simon said, his tone confident.
“That is impossible.”

“They’re not of your mother’s blood, mind.
They are the product of your father and his mistress, Fiona Atwood. Your mother
sent Fiona to France, then she paid dear for Fiona to hand over Markus the
moment he was born. After Theodore, your mother had had enough. She gave Fiona
a great deal of money to disappear and never show her face in London – or to
the duke – again.”

“You cannot know this.”

“Oh, but I can.” Stanley gave him a thin
smile. “You see, lovely Fiona wasn’t exclusively the Duke of Trent’s mistress.
When he wasn’t busy with her, you see, he shared her with me.”

“Oh, God,” Simon muttered. Was there no
limit to the lascivious, dangerous games his parents’ generation had played?

Stanley still held on to that smile that
was more of a grimace. “I comforted that woman as her belly increased from
another man’s seed, and I held her after her sons were taken from her. I know
where to find her. If you really wanted proof, I can tell you where she is.”

Theo and Mark’s mother. No, it simply
didn’t connect properly in Simon’s head. Their mother was his mother – the
woman who’d been missing for over a month. The woman who’d raised them all.

Simon gave Stanley an unbelieving sneer.
“Don’t tell me Esme is illegitimate, too.”

“Oh, I do believe she is. She has none of
your father’s features and looks nothing like you, after all. Not to mention
the fact that your father was already deathly ill when she was conceived. It
would have taken some grand heroics on your mother’s part to encourage the duke
to rise to the occasion, as it were.” Stanley gave a dry chuckle. “That is only
conjecture, however. I have no proof of your sister’s illegitimacy. However, I
do hold proof that all three of your ‘legitimate’ brothers are, in fact,
bastards.” He paused, that small smile curling his lips again. “How does that
information sit with you, Trent?”

“Not well.” Simon felt dizzy – as though
the world had somehow tilted off its axis, and he was trying desperately to
right it.

“I thought not.”

Again, Simon gripped the carved wooden
armrests of his chair. “So. What compels you to tell me all these” –
lies, they must be lies
– “things, Stanley?”

“It would be tragic to the Hawkins family
if the truth came out, wouldn’t it?” Stanley said softly. “Devastating to your
three brothers, who have enjoyed the status of lordship since their births.
Especially my own offspring, Lord Lukas. He would lose his position as your
heir” – he snapped his fingers – “in the blink of an eye. And the scandal —”
Stanley shook his head, giving out a low whistle from between his teeth.

Simon stared at him.

“Therefore, Trent, I do believe it would
be in your best interests to propose to my daughter. It is the only way to
protect your family name. To keep Lukas as your heir. To maintain Theodore’s
and Markus’s positions in society and to assure their – very bright, I’m told –
futures as respected members of the aristocracy.”

“Because if I do not marry Miss Stanley,”
Simon said, his voice so low even he could barely hear it, “you will inform the
world that my brothers are by-blows.”

Stanley’s smile showed a row of
tobacco-and-tea-stained teeth. “Indeed. I’ll include my suspicions about your
sister for good measure. Everyone will believe, for everyone still remembers
your parents’ – how shall I put it? –
vigorous
tastes. However, if they do not, I am in possession of my proof.
There’s no doubt your three brothers will be ruined, and your sister will be
eyed with suspicion for the remainder of her days.”

“I should like to see that proof you claim
to possess.”

“And so you shall,” Stanley told him
graciously. He rose from his chair. “I do realize you are likely reeling from
all that I have said, Trent. Therefore, I shall give you some time to absorb
the truth. Think carefully on all I have told you. I shall come to this house
next week at the same time, and then I shall expect my answer. I do heartily
encourage you to choose marrying my beautiful, innocent, and worthy daughter
over a lifetime of scandal and debasement for your brothers and sister.” He
strode to the door. “Good day.”

And without another word, Stanley exited
from the room, leaving a stunned Simon staring after him.

It was creeping onto midnight when he came
to her that night. Rain pelted against the window, and the chill in the air had
seeped through the spaces in the window frame. In her warm flannel nightgown,
Sarah sat in her chair reading a novel, but she could hardly focus on the words
laid out on the open page in front of her.

She was worried he wouldn’t come – she
hadn’t seen him all afternoon – and so when she heard the door handle creak,
she breathed out a long breath of relief even as her body tensed in
anticipation of his touch.

“I missed you today.” She set her book
aside and rose to greet him as he entered and closed the door behind him,
intending to wrap her arms around his solid body in greeting and to simply
breathe him in.

But she stopped short when she looked at
the thunderously dark expression on his face.

“What is it? Has there been some new
information about the duchess?” Two days after they’d recovered Binnie’s body,
Simon had hired an investigator. Almost a week had gone by, and so far, the man
had found nothing.

Simon stood in the center of her room, his
arms limp at his sides. He bent his head, closing his eyes. “No. Still no
word.”

“What, then?” she breathed.

He looked up at her then, his expression
stark, his green eyes shining. “Come here,” he said gruffly.

She did, and he drew her tight against him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he
murmured into her hair. “I just want to be with you.”

She reached up to trail her fingers
through the silky strands of hair at his nape. “All right.” She knew he’d tell
her what was bothering him eventually.

His body shuddered against hers, and she
gripped him more tightly. “It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me.”

“Sarah,” he whispered. He pressed his lips
to hers, grinding against her mouth, a complete possession that would have
ruined her for any other man, had she not already been ruined. She wanted all
of it, accepted all of it until every nerve in her body sang with his
possession.

With fumbling fingers, he worked the
buttons of her nightgown, but she slipped out of his grip, stepped back, and
pulled up the nightgown over her head and tossed it away.

She wore nothing underneath. Her breath
caught as she raised her chin to look at him, his eyes devouring her with feral
hunger. “Damn. You’re so beautiful.”

She blinked at the curse – Simon rarely
ever cursed – and the strange juxtaposition of the word with the compliment.
But otherwise, she didn’t move or speak.

Holding her gaze, he removed his own
clothes, starting with his shirt, baring his pale, muscled torso, and then
working the buttons on the falls of his breeches before sitting on the edge of
her bed to pull them completely off.

Sarah’s breaths shortened, quickened. He
was completely, utterly bare.

Her gaze slowly traveled down from his
eyes, caressing his face, grazing his powerful shoulders, sliding over the
tight, small, masculine nipples that made him shudder when she touched them.
Past his rippling abdomen, over his trim, narrow hips.

Male beauty personified.

And there was his organ, jutting out from
between his legs, its skin darker than the rest of him. Long and thick. He
shifted under her perusal of it, and her gaze snapped back up to his face. A
smile tilted one side of his lips, and she bit down on her lower lip as heat
burned in her cheeks.

“I’ve never seen… Well, besides the
Laocoön,” she stammered out. “And yours… it’s bigger. Longer. And darker.”

“Laocoön is fighting for his life,”
Simon said softly. “I’d wager the sculptor decided he probably wouldn’t be
aroused at that moment.”

“Right. Yes. Of course not.”

His smile grew, deepening that dimple in his
chin. “Come here.”

She sat next to him on the edge of the
bed. He wrapped a hand around her neck, drawing her in for another kiss, this
one soft and seductive, caressing and stroking her with his lips and tongue
until she sighed with pleasure into his mouth. His hand traveled from her neck
down her shoulder and arm until he took hold of her hand and moved it over his
member.

The heat of him made her draw in a quick
intake of breath. He pressed his hand over her fingers so she curled them
around him, then he moved up and down so that she was stroking him.

Steely hardness wrapped in velvet heat.

“Simon,” she whispered.

He drew away from her lips and let her
hand still over him. “What is it, love?”

Her breath caught, as it always did when
he called her “love.” She looked up at him. “I want to be yours,” she
whispered. “In every way. Tonight. Please.”

She’d asked him before. He’d come to her
whenever he could – three times in the past week. They’d kissed, they’d
caressed. He’d worked her like an instrument, plucking the strings until her
body hummed and pulsed, until her nerves sang and finally she reached pinnacles
she’d never known were possible. They had been the happiest nights of her life,
and that happiness had overflowed into her daytime activities so much that Esme
had commented on her “glow.”

But he hadn’t taken this final step, and
she didn’t understand why. He hadn’t allowed her to give him the same pleasure.
She wanted to. She’d wanted to that first night, and her desire had increased
every night since.

He leaned forward until his forehead
touched hers. He cupped her face in his hands. “Sarah —” His voice broke as his
breath whispered over her lips. “What if I told you that tonight was the last
night I could come to you? The last night we could be together? Would you still
offer me this gift?”

She hesitated, giving serious
consideration to his words.

That day would come, she knew. The day
this happiness – this perfection – would end. The day he could no longer be her
lover. Even her friend. The day she’d be reduced to a simple servant in his
eyes.

She couldn’t harbor illusions of forever.
She was soaking up this time with him into her skin, and she would make it
sustain her when she was lonely later on. There was no other choice.