The Duchess Hunt (8 page)

Then he disappeared into the silence of
his room where he undressed to his shirtsleeves and crawled between the cold
sheets to stare up at the dark ceiling.

Simon was twenty-nine years old – old
enough to know better. A relationship between him and Sarah was impossible for
a variety of reasons that would be too exhausting to explore. He was a member
of the English aristocracy, which at times was prone to vice and debauchery,
and he knew what happened when men like himself formed liaisons with women like
Sarah. Nothing good could come of bringing her into his bed.

Yet, the more he was near her, the more he
wanted to bring her there. That taste of her on the landing had not been enough
to allay his thirst. It had only heightened his craving for her.

He was expected to marry; to produce an
heir and a spare, hopefully a full bevy of children to fill his household. He’d
always fully intended to meet those expectations, but he’d put it off for years
– other issues had taken precedence over the task of hunting for a suitable
duchess. For a year after he’d kissed Sarah the first time, he hadn’t even been
able to look at another woman.

But he
was
twenty-nine now, and his practical,
responsible nature turned again and again to his duty to his title.

A few months ago, he’d decided that this
was to be the year. This Season, he planned to attend the myriad balls,
parties, soirees, musicales, and dinners to which he’d invariably be invited.
And somewhere in the marriage mart that was the London Season, he’d find a
woman suitable to be his bride.

The devil in him whispered to him,
promised he could have it all: explore the lust with Sarah and continue the
hunt for a proper duchess.

His stomach twisted from those thoughts,
recognizing the wrongness inherent in them.

Still, that devil wouldn’t stop its
seductive crooning, and the only way Simon could shut it up was to fall into an
uncomfortable, restless sleep.

Sarah’s lips tingled, and it was a most
pleasant sensation.

Vaguely, she wondered how long it would be
possible to keep that feeling upon them. If she licked them, or if water passed
over them, would it vanish? Or would it simply disappear over time?

She didn’t want the sensation to go away.
She wanted to hold onto it forever.

Half in a daze, she watched as Simon went
into his room, closing the door firmly behind him. When she dragged her gaze
from his door, she saw that Amy and Ned had disappeared into their respective
rooms. Robert Johnston, however, was standing close by, watching her.

She drew her friendliest demeanor about
her like a cloak. “Good evening, Robert. I trust your dinner was acceptable.”

He inclined his head at her. “More than
acceptable, thanks. May I walk you to your room?”

She glanced toward the door of her room,
not ten feet away. “Of course.”

He held out his arm, and after a slight
hesitation, she took it. They walked the short distance in silence. He stopped
before her door, and she disengaged her arm. “Thank you.”

“Good night, Sarah.”

“Robert?”

“Yes?” He turned back to her, his brows
raised expectantly.

“I haven’t checked in on you as often as I
should.” One of the tasks Mrs. Hope had given her was to keep track of the
staff and to make sure everyone was content. “I do hope you have been happy at
Ironwood Park.”

“Quite happy,” he said.

“You have visited London before, I
gather.”

He nodded. “I spent some time there with
my previous employer.”

“Do you like London?”

His smile was warm. He was quite a
handsome man when he smiled – it made his brown eyes twinkle. He was dark and
broad-shouldered – strong from working with horses. “I do like London,” he
said. “But it’s a mite crowded. Think I prefer the open spaces of Ironwood
Park.”

“I can understand that,” she said.

Her lips tingled, reminding her of Simon…
the kiss he’d bestowed upon her not five minutes ago. She raised her fingers to
her mouth as a light heat suffused her cheeks.

“Well, goodnight, then, Robert. Sweet
dreams.”

“You, too, Sarah.”

She slipped inside the little room and
closed the door gently, then leaned against it, letting a wistful sigh escape.

Simon had kissed her…
again
.

London was quite as dirty and busy and
smelly as Sarah had been warned. But she didn’t care. Her nose had been glued
to the window as they’d traveled across Town and finally arrived at Simon’s
house in St. James.

Yesterday, they’d gone to church, and
afterward, carrying their bibles, Esme and Sarah had gone for a long walk in
Hyde Park, Esme awkwardly greeting a few acquaintances as they’d strolled along
and taken in the spring air. Today was their second full day in the city, and
when sunlight cracked through her curtains in golden rays, Sarah woke in the
little bedroom that had been assigned to her.

She rose, made her bed – which was covered
with the loveliest counterpane of yellow silk – washed, and quickly braided her
hair before tucking it up into her cap. She secured herself in her stays and
chose one of her serviceable muslins to wear, then drew the heavy curtains and
peeked out the window that looked over the mews, grinning. Already the alley
below was busy with servants and horses preparing for their daily duties.

Eager to see what her day held in store,
she hurried downstairs for breakfast.

Simon was seated in the dining room, a
newspaper spread open before him. He rose quickly, his chair scraping over the
floor, as she entered.

She waved a hand at him, but she couldn’t
ignore the tremor of awareness that passed through her in his presence. “Please
sit down, Your Grace. There’s no need for such formality.”

His frown bordered on a scowl. “Yes, there
is.”

He stubbornly continued to stand as she
went to the sideboard and selected some toast and kippers and a fried egg.

He only sat after she’d lowered herself
into the chair across the table from him. She took a bite of egg. Simon had
obviously ensured the food would be hot and fresh. Not knowing when she and
Esme would come down, he probably had tasked a footman with changing out the
dishes every ten minutes.

He gazed at her with a small smile on his
face. “What do you think of Trent House, Miss Osborne?”

Her lips quirked at the “Miss Osborne”
designation. She’d probably never get used to him calling her that.

“It is lovely.” From what she’d seen of it
so far, Trent House seemed to be a smaller but no less opulent version of
Ironwood Park. “It has the Hawkins mark upon it.”

“True,” Simon said. “Both houses were
built by my grandfather, you know.”

She did know but didn’t answer because at
that moment Esme came in, yawning as she crossed the threshold. “Oh,” she
murmured, her hand covering her mouth. “Please excuse me.”

“I hadn’t expected you up so early, my
lady,” Sarah said. Indeed, it wasn’t uncommon for Esme to sleep until noon.

“I know.” Esme glanced at Simon, who’d risen
from his seat once again. She didn’t take any food but sat at the table, taking
the coffeepot and pouring herself a generous cup.

“That would be my fault.” Simon pushed his
newspaper aside. “I asked your maid to wake you because it’s going to be a busy
day. News has spread of our arrival in London. We have received an invitation
to a ball on Wednesday.”

Sarah and Esme stared at him. Wednesday
was the day after tomorrow.

“I have already accepted the invitation,”
Simon continued. “I have attended every ball I’ve been invited to so far this
year, and I don’t want to raise suspicions by declining this one. For as long
as possible, I wish to maintain a façade of normalcy in Town. When the
truth about Mother’s disappearance is revealed, that may change, but for now,
I’d like to keep up appearances.”

Sarah and Esme didn’t say a word. So that
was how it was to be – they were going to be thrown directly into the heat of
London society with no time whatsoever to acclimate.

“Therefore,” he continued, “you’ll be visiting
the dressmaker’s, Sarah, because you’re going to require a ball gown in two
days. No doubt the dressmaker will have something on hand she can alter and
have ready by Wednesday.”

Sarah glanced down at her plain white
muslin – its only decoration the big ruffles at the neckline and hem. A similar
style to the other two dresses she’d brought – the only two other dresses she
owned.

She should have considered the fact that
she’d need proper clothing if she was expected to attend social gatherings with
Esme. But so much had happened she hadn’t given it a thought.

Simon leveled his gaze on his sister. “You
will require new dresses as well, Esme. Whatever you might have is from last
year and out of fashion by now.”

“Yes, Trent.” Not meeting his eyes, Esme
took a deep swallow of coffee as if to fortify herself.

Simon kept his gaze on his sister.
“Neither of you are to spare any expense. After the immediate necessity of the
ball gown, I want you to help Sarah acquire a proper wardrobe. And you must
purchase anything new that you require as well. The Duke of Trent’s sister and
her companion will not be seen scampering about London in rags.”

Sarah scowled – her clothes were old and
somewhat worn, but they were clean and serviceable. Certainly to call them rags
was a gross exaggeration. She would have told him so right then if a footman
hadn’t walked in to refresh the dishes on the sideboard.

Instead she shot Simon a glare that, if
they had been seated on their bench at Ironwood Park, would have had him
apologizing for his rudeness immediately. But he didn’t apologize, just gave
her a cool look in return and didn’t say a word.

Something tightened in her chest. So, he
saw her as some slattern wearing rags. Very well, then.

She dug into her kippers, stewing in her thoughts.
Simon knew she didn’t have the funds to purchase fancy dresses from haughty
London dressmakers, which meant that he expected to pay for them himself.

A lady was not supposed to accept gifts
from a gentleman. Miss Farnshaw had drilled that into her head as surely as she
had drilled her in the steps of the quadrille.

Yet, Sarah wasn’t a lady. And Simon wasn’t
giving her a choice. Furthermore, she wouldn’t deliberately embarrass Esme or
Simon by wearing inappropriate clothing in the presence of their peers.

Sarah recalled the specific reason why
ladies were not supposed to accept gifts from gentlemen. It was because
gentlemen usually offered them expecting something more – something
wicked
– in return.

She glanced at Simon, who had taken up his
newspaper once more. He didn’t offer to buy her ball gowns because he wanted
something more from her. If he did want something more, he fought against that
desire. He hadn’t said anything to her about the kiss at the Angel Inn, but
ever since then, she’d felt the skin-prickling heat of his gaze whenever they
were in the same room together.

Sarah had never spent much time
considering her reputation. Sheltered as she was in Ironwood Park, it had never
been of primary concern, although Miss Farnshaw had told her that it should be.
Without a reputation, one could not expect to find a worthy husband. Without a
reputation, a woman was scorned and belittled.

Sarah never expected to find a worthy
husband. In her mind, there was no man in the world who could measure up to the
Duke of Trent, and she wouldn’t marry some poor fellow and make him miserable
by constantly comparing him to Simon.

Furthermore, at Ironwood Park, no one had
ever scorned or belittled Sarah. The family wouldn’t have tolerated it. Now in
London, however, she knew they couldn’t protect her so easily.

So Sarah would do what Simon told her.
She’d shed her “rags” and shop for proper garments so that she could stand
proudly beside Esme as her companion.

And as for the “gift” from the Duke of
Trent – well, she would accept it. He’d never demand recompense for the
dresses, especially not of a carnal sort. Honor, integrity, decency, propriety
– those were all pieces of what made Simon who he was.

Melancholy welled in thick, dark bubbles
inside her.

What an improper response. She should feel
relieved. Happy. Safe. Pure. All emotions that a true lady would feel.

There was a certain quality of purity
she’d never had that Miss Farnshaw had told them a true lady possessed
innately. This feeling, this tingling, yearning desire that she felt for Simon
– had felt for three long years – she knew very well what it was.

Lust.

More proof, then, that this was all a
farce. She might speak like a lady. She might know how to pretend to be one.
But deep inside, she was anything but.