Trapping a Duchess

by Michele Bekemeyer

  Contents

  Unknown

  TRAPPING A DUCHESS

  

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  

  Where was Lord Winterley, anyway?

  Read More

  TRAPPING A DUCHESS

  by Michele Bekemeyer

  Other titles by Michele Bekemeyer:

  At Journey’s End

  DEDICATION

  For Angelina Cedeño, co-worker, first reader and more importantly, friend, whose enthusiasm continues to inspire.

  For my daughters Molly and Elise, who put up with endless hours of “Just five more minutes.”

  For my mom, who taught me early on that nothing worth having ever comes easy, even though she made it look so.

  For Michael, a better friend than I deserve.

  And for John, love of my life and the man against which all my heroes are measured.

  Without you, this book would never have come into existence.

  This book is published by Burning Book Press

  (c) 2012 Michele Bekemeyer

  Available in Adobe PDF, MobiPocket and ePUB

  ISBN: 9781939175083

  Cover Art: Starla Huchton, Designed by Starla

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright conventions.

  No part of this e-book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including emailing, printing, photocopying, or faxing without prior written permission from Burning Book Press.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dear, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  Prologue

  London, 1818

  "A refill, my lord?"

  The hesitation with which the waiter posed the question was telling, but wasn't enough to make Lord Andrew Rupert Wolter, future Duke of Tolland, reconsider his demeanor. "Indeed. And you could save us both a ton of time by leaving the damned decanter on the table." His irascibility was easily explained. He was, after all, alone at a gentleman's club wearing wedding attire.

  "Yes, my lord." He set the brandy down as instructed. "If you need anything else—" At Andrew's dismissive flick of the wrist, the man bolted like a frightened mare.

  "Anything else will be the bloody death of me," Andrew mumbled blackly as he poured himself another drink. He let out a low curse; he'd spilled as much on the table as he got in the glass. He was not, as the curious onlookers might presume, nursing a broken heart. He was soaking his wounded pride. The brandy was meant to hasten the process.

  A drop of amber liquid slid down the rim of his glass. He traced it away, as if doing so would erase the events of the morning. For nearly two hours, he had waited at the front of the church for his bride to make her walk down the aisle. He kept his composure as the ceremony's start time passed and the guests grew restless. He hid his irritation behind a vaguely impatient smile when their excited smiles melted into piteous frowns. But the barely concealed whispers whipped his anger into something dangerous. By the time he left the chapel, fury had overcome grace. Hellfire in his eyes, he had stormed out, his murderous expression a warning to any who thought to follow. None had been brave, or foolish, enough. "God damn it," he grumbled as the last of the liquid slid down his throat, landing in his stomach with a thump nearly as audible as his glass hitting the table. And God damn her.

  He was betrothed to Lady Sophie Sinclair before they were in leading strings, the result of a decades old friendship between her parents and his own. Despite society's thoughts on arranged marriages—barbaric!—Andrew had not contested the match. A preselected bride meant he wouldn't have to venture into the ton's ballrooms and wade through a jungle of overreaching mothers and simpering debutantes to find one. He could have done worse than Sophie.

  She wasn't an incomparable beauty, but she was far from unattractive. She was, in his opinion, simply awkward. Her doe-shaped eyes and full lips were out of proportion with the rest of her features, and the pale-as-porcelain skin covering her spindly frame gave her an appearance of ill health. Despite those flaws, she had never lacked for confidence. Being daughter to the highly regarded Earl of Clement with a brother who was a darling of society had offered an acceptance which might not otherwise have existed. Like Andrew's, hers was a family envied and emulated by society. Yet for all her legendary charm, Sophie was one of two females of Andrew's acquaintance with a stubborn streak equal to his own. The other was Andrew's sister, Alexandra. What, Andrew wondered with a sneer, would she make of the situation? Of her best friend reneging on her promise and leaving those she supposedly cared about to deal with the scandal as she fled into the morning?

  He scoffed, shaking his head as his lips pressed into a thin line. Flighty, fickle females, his wounded pride complained. Even in hindsight, he could recall no behavior to signify her actions. Though he had never considered her as emotionally engaged as he, she had never been standoffish. Had he taken their long acquaintance for granted and somehow missed a pertinent detail? He shook his head. No, he felt confident that he knew everything about her.

  Well, obviously not everything, his pride interjected. He had no idea she was so bent on not marrying him that she would choose a life of ruin over becoming his wife. He gripped his glass until it was seconds away from shattering. He glanced again at the clock on the mantle, as he had done every five minutes or so since his arrival. Four-thirty. Had only three hours passed since he abandoned his post in front of the crowded church? He pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. What he wanted to do was put his fist through the wall, a need so intense he struggled to control it. A fresh wave of anger rolled through him. His fingers clenched tight, until his already white knuckles looked fit to burst from his skin.

  "Damn it," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut against the fury thrumming through him at sickening intervals. He was not a man prone to violence, usually content to release his frustrations with a hard ride until the physical need in him was spent. When that did not work, Gentleman Jackson's offered an outlet, provided he could find a willing opponent. A fierce gleam in his eye meant there would be hell to pay, which more than one adversary had learned the hard way. Tonight, however, the intensity of his feelings reached dangerous heights. His fingers, deprived of movement, began to twitch. Flexing them, he breathed deeply. After a long moment, his muscles eased. He leaned back, tilting his head towards the ceiling as his eyes drifted closed.

  "I thought I might find you here," said a solemn, familiar voice.

  Andrew looked up into his friend Simon's face. Both of them. Christ. He was going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow. "Why are you here?" he asked, his words more than a little slurred. His tongue felt thick, his mouth dry. He blinked twice and swallowed hard, but the motion only settled his frustration deeper in his throat.
<
br />   He kept a wary eye on Simon as he settled into the seat opposite him. Despite years of friendship, it would take little more than a poorly phrased sentence to have Andrew lashing out like a wounded animal. While a round of fisticuffs might satisfy the need for physical release, it would accomplish little else. Only more drastic measures would ease him completely.

  Like finding Sophie and wringing her dainty, duplicitous neck.

  "I went to your lodgings to see if you wanted to grab a drink. Apparently, you had already decided to do so. I must have missed the invitation," Simon said, indicating the nearly empty decanter with a flick of his wrist.

  Andrew drew an unsteady breath in a concerted effort to keep his voice level. "Go home, Simon." Simon leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. "I have no wish to rehash the morning, least of all with you."

  "And I have no intention of leaving you here alone," he said, signaling for a waiter. "So, I'm afraid you'll have to make do with my company."

  "How may I be of service, my lord?" the wiry man asked, stopping two feet away from the table and leaning in to hear Simon's request.

  "We need coffee. Strongest you have."

  "Right away, my lord," he said, bowing quickly before scurrying away.

  Andrew rubbed his weary eyes. "I don't want coffee, and I don't want company, so bugger off, Simon."

  "As you are completely pissed, what you want is irrelevant. Take a look around you. Every man here is watching, eager to spread word of your reaction."

  Andrew scowled, but couldn't stop a surreptitious glance at his surroundings. To his dismay, Simon was right. The patrons of White's might be feigning disinterest, but there was no doubt in his mind that they were watching his every move, noting every frown, every grumbled swear.

  The waiter returned with two cups of steaming coffee and set them down on the table. Simon dismissed him with a nod. Andrew stared at the cup with disdain.

  "Drink," Simon said, pushing it closer.

  Eschewing his normal routine of adding extra sugar and milk, Andrew took a reluctant sip. His lip curled in distaste, even as the pungent flavor provided a physical connection with the bitterness inside him. For the space of several heartbeats, he felt a sense of calm. Then Simon spoke.

  "I would have stopped her, had I known. Whatever reason she had for—"

  Andrew's anger returned with a vengeance. "Don't you dare make excuses for her."

  "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.