Trapping a Duchess

by Michele Bekemeyer

  Having watched her father control every aspect of the family's life, she had no wish for a husband, least of all one with a title. With titles came responsibilities, and with responsibilities came overbearing structure. And overbearing structure left little breathing room for a woman with a mind and plans of her own. Dukes, viscounts and every peer in between commanded everything, and everyone, around them.

  Her father had done so under the guise of familial obligation, dictating even the names of whom she could or could not befriend. He calculated everything with the express purpose of furthering the family's wealth and social standing. Their schedules included only those events hosted by the most sought-after members of society. He had determined every nuance of Sophie's life, right down to the man she would marry.

  In Andrew, she saw her father's calculating mind, his desire for power and wealth. As heir to a duchy, he would undoubtedly want to further his family's aims and he would do so with an iron fist. Just like father. Just like Simon, who, though not quite as cruel as the late earl was, filled the man's shoes all too well. The transformation was the worst sort of travesty, for Simon had not always been such a brute. "What happened to you?" she asked, suddenly eager to learn the reason for his interference.

  "What are you talking about?"

  For the first few years after she returned, he had let her be. He had, it appeared, simply missed having his sister around. Sophie cried on his shoulder, apologized for her behavior and explained her fears at being destined to what she considered a stifling and unsatisfying life. He had been empathetic, even compassionate, during those first years. But now. . . "You have a life of your own to live, Simon. Why waste your time and energy on mine? For heaven's sake, you act as if my getting married is the most important thing in the world."

  "Mother thinks—"

  "I know what mother thinks. She tells me every single time I see her. I want to know why this is so important to you?"

  Simon stared daggers at her while drumming his fingers against the wood, a sound designed to fray her nerves. Their father had used the same tactic and as was the case back then, the sound eventually got the better of her. She blew out a beleaguered breath. "Fine. Keep your reasons. But get on with your questions, so I can answer them and we can be finished."

  His blue eyes were clear and piercing as he braced his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "You can finish this now by providing the answer that I seek."

  She glared back at him, tapping her foot against the wood floor in the most impertinent manner she could. He lifted a brow, drummed his fingers harder, faster, jerking her to her feet. "Fine! Lord Waverly is too short, fat, bald, smelly, and a whole host of other derogatory adjectives," she said, ticking the points off on shaking fingers. "Lord Brimley is far too old, and the last thing I wish to be is a surrogate mother to his unruly brood." She shot him an admonishing look. "And Lord Kingsford. . .well, I can only assume you put his name on the list as a lark." A disgusted sound bubbled out of her mouth. "The man is half my height and three times my girth!"

  Simon straightened, his eyes narrowing into slivers of blue ice. "What of Lord Jackson?"

  "What of him?"

  "You cannot have reason to reject him as well."

  She leaned forward to meet his gaze, her own eyes a mirror of his. "He is a pudgy child, Simon, barely out of Oxford. He has years of oats to sow before he could be considered suitable for even the most docile of brides, which I am not. Surely, you would not have me wed to a fool whose priorities are gambling and debauchery. Not to mention—"

  "What I would have, is for you to select a husband and move forward with your life so that I may do the same. I do not need to remind you of the promise I made to father."

  "Yes, but it was your damnable promise! I wasn't even aware of it until six months ago, therefore I fail to see why fulfilling it falls to me."

  "You are four and twenty, Sophie," he ground out. "It is past time for you to stop flitting about from ball to ball and choose a husband instead of another new gown. You have spent the last few years restoring your name. Now it is time for you to take your place."

  She stood, slamming her palms against the desk and ignoring the stinging pain that shot through her hands. "Such a lecture from a hypocrite," she spat. "You who are one and thirty. As I said before, you need not wait for me to marry to do so yourself." She punctuated her declaration with an insolent roll of her eyes. The muscle in Simon's jaw twitched, as if he were biting back a scathing retort. She continued on, voice and posture mocking as she paced in front of the desk. "Honestly, you have been hiding behind my skirts for years, citing your need to see me settled as an excuse not to do so yourself. Just because you made a silly promise, without my permission, mind, does not mean I am required to change my mind about marriage."

  He moved in a flash, storming around the desk to stand in front of her, six feet two inches of pure intimidation. Disgust was etched in every hard plane of his face. "Mind your smart mouth, Sophia Eleanor. I have not forced you into a union because I felt you needed time to reestablish yourself. Your behavior seven years ago brought scandal upon this family. Mother has threatened to isolate herself in the country, alone, although I feel certain she would be content to have you there as a permanent companion. It is I who convinced her you would be suffocated living such a life. I who argued on your behalf, confident that you would be appreciative enough for the time you've had and honor father's wishes!"

  She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Yelling back at him wouldn't get her anywhere. "I have my reasons for not wanting to marry, Simon," she said, gaze turning out the window. "And they are just that. My reasons." Noticing a conveyance parked outside, she moved in closer for a better look. A spike of irritation crumbled her legs from underneath her. She gripped the window sill for support. If Lord Jackson's carriage was parked in her drive, then it must mean the man himself was inside her home. Bile stung the back of her throat. "Why is he here?"

  "Because I have a matter to discuss with him."

  "Which matter?" she asked, gaze widening as suspicion washed through her.

  "You know precisely which." His icy tone chilled her blood.

  If she would not choose a husband of her own, her arrogant arse of a brother would choose one for her. "You wouldn't."

  "Indeed, I would, Sophie. However, I haven't. Yet. So, I ask you one last time. Have you considered the list?"

  For a moment, anger held her tongue captive. Her teeth milled together until she was certain they would crack into pieces and fall out onto the floor, just like all of the dreams he was shattering. "Simon," she said, her voice so low, so shaky, she wouldn't be surprised if he understood her at all. "I will not marry that. . .that blackguard! I would rather rot in the country than do so!" She moved towards him, her fingers curled into fists.

  Despite her ferocious approach, Simon didn't even flinch. "Then the country it is. I shall inform mother of your intentions immediately."

  His frighteningly resolute tone sent her temper spiraling out of control. "You will do no such thing, Simon! I will not stand for it!"

  The impassivity in his voice belied the fact that he was pressing her into a little corner of hell. "Make your choice, then, Sophie. A husband or the life of a country spinster?" She watched in horror, unable to do more than sputter as he strode to the door and unlocked it. "Those are the options available to you," he said, turning the knob.

  "Wait a moment!" she said, finding her voice in a rush of air and angry tears. "Please!" She tugged him to the center of the room, brushing her tears away. "When I returned to London, I was uncertain of my reception." Through shaky breaths, she forged on. "I. . .I never expected that I would be received in any manner other than that of a ruined woman. I had no intentions of ever marrying. Ever." She met his gaze, hoping he would see the conviction there.

  "Change your intentions."

  "I can't," she said and, at his sharp look of disbelief, added, "not overnight."

  "T
his change was not wrought overnight, Sophie," he said in an only slightly softer voice. "You have been given an opportunity for redemption."

  "I did not ask to be redeemed."

  He continued on as if she had not spoken. "There will be no second chance. The ton expects to see you wed. They forgave your past once, but will not do so twice. Deny them again and the consequences will be permanent." He stared at her, his expression hard with resolution. "You are not the only one with something to lose." His words hit their mark, stirring her heart and spooning out the guilt she had worked so hard to ignore. She felt the weight of his gaze for a long moment, then he turned away and moved to the door. "This is your last season, which leaves you six weeks remaining. I suggest you make the most of them."

  He faced her again and she realized that he wouldn't give her a minute more. She needed a plan, needed to speak to Alexandra, whose level head had kept her from making rash decisions for years. Except for one, Sophie thought with a pang of regret. Despite her wish to rewrite history, she could not change the fact that it was Alexandra's brother she left standing at the altar.

  She gave a single, curt nod. "Thank you." She barreled past him, head down so he wouldn't catch sight of the defiance in her eyes. It was imperative she reach her room fast. She needed to send a note to Alexandra. She needed. . . "Euf," she gasped as she collided with a wall of sweaty, pudgy flesh. Chubby hands gripped her arms as the smell of day-old tobacco and cheap liquor assaulted her nose. She coughed. Lord Jackson. "Apologies," she said as she darted around the tubby man, etiquette the last thing on her mind as she hurried down the hall and up the staircase to her bedchamber.

  Once inside, she went to her escritoire and penned a shaky note to Alexandra. Please be available. She squeezed her eyes closed as she folded the note. "Gracie?" she called. Her maid appeared directly.

  "Yes, my lady?"

  "Would you please," she said before her voice started shaking, "ensure that this is delivered posthaste to Lady Alexandra?" With an understanding nod, Gracie took the letter and left.

  Sophie followed her to the door, closed and locked it, then flung herself onto her bed in a mass of frustration. This time, she did not hold back, allowing a full five-minute temper tantrum before she attempted to pull herself together.

  Alexandra would know what to do. She always knew what to do. As the youngest of three with two older brothers, she was well versed in dealing with bullish males. Plus, Alex was Simon's friend. If nothing else, maybe she could talk some sense into him. Sophie felt fortunate Alex had forgiven her all those years ago. She had been a literal bundle of nerves coming to London, but Alexandra had let her off easy, listening to her explanations with typical, quiet consideration. The two resumed their friendship without missing a single beat and time healed the wound to the rest of Alexandra's family as well. Even Alexandra's father had embraced Sophie the Christmas before he died, telling her that he considered her as much a part of the family as his own children. Touched and moved by his display, she assisted Alexandra in taking care of him during the late stages of his illness, leaving only once she heard Andrew was returning from America.

  Sophie chose not to attend the funeral, had, in fact, removed herself to the country the entire time Andrew was home. Asking for Alexandra's opinion on the matter had provided little comfort. "My brother is not one to hold grudges. Not for seven years, anyway," Alex said with a laugh, pointing out that Sophie should consider herself fortunate she had not ditched Gabriel, Alex's other brother. Given Gabriel's work with Whitehall, Sophie was inclined to agree. When it came to Andrew, however, Sophie remained unconvinced. While she may not have shattered his heart, she knew she had wounded his pride.

  Errand complete, Gracie returned to help her dress for dinner. Sophie played with her brush as the woman pulled her hair in a braided top-knot. Thus far, avoiding Andrew had been easy. He only returned to London briefly before heading to their ducal seat in West Sussex to oversee the transfer of estate. After that, he traveled back to America to finalize his affairs before making the journey back to England. As expected, he planned to take up permanent residence at Tolland Place, the family's London address.

  Alexandra kept Sophie apprised of Andrew's movements, aware of the trepidation about his return. When Sophie jilted him, he was a young marquess. Now he was a duke, and head of one of the most powerful families in the ton. A slight from him would damage her reputation, but a cut direct would see her ostracized for good. While she wished to remain unmarried, she did not wish to do so outside the circle of polite society. As Gracie put the finishing touches on her hair, Sophie took a long look at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were still slightly puffy, but the redness in her nose was beginning to fade. "You look lovely, my lady."

  "That is kind of you to say, Gracie," she said with a disbelieving chuckle. Not yet ready to face Simon or his horrid guest, she paced around her bedchamber. With nothing to do but wait, her mind wandered. With the ton's determination and Simon's decree, avoiding marriage was now impossible. Any resistance she put up would have to be subtle, as her reputation would not survive a second scandal. The ton may forgive, but they never forgot. And they definitely did not tolerate being denied. At least in choosing a husband on her own, she would be able to satisfy her own requirements. Though the pool of eligible bachelors was shallow, there had to be someone who could meet her needs. A man who would not stifle her independence, who would be content to live his life while she lived hers.

  But where was such a paragon to be found?

  Chapter Two

  "Andrew!" Alexandra tossed down her knitting and rushed across the room. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tight. "I wasn't expecting you home for another week."

  He laughed as he enfolded her in a tight hug. "I was able to conclude my business early."

  His sister, who usually employed more emotional restraint than she was presently showing, pulled back and looked him over from head to toe before giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "I cannot tell you how much I missed you."

  "And I you," he said honestly. He had always enjoyed his sister's company. With a quick wit and a wicked sense of humor, she was more entertaining than most men he knew. He took in the ball of thread and needle she had tossed down. "Were you knitting?" he asked with disbelief. Alexandra viewed domestic pursuits with the same wariness as most women viewed hunting.

  She swatted his arm. "Indeed I was. Not that it should matter to you. Or have you some issue with knitting of which I am unaware?" she asked, hands on her hips and a haughty look on her face.

  "Not at all. It just seems so out of character for you. I thought for certain to find you holed up in the library, slave to your bluestocking tendencies, secret though you like to keep them." The look she shot him brought a chuckle to his lips. Alex was a book lover at heart. Not seeing her with a book in her hand was a rare occasion, at least around their home. The persona she showed society was different from the one she shared with her family. He smiled, giving her a playful shove. "No more emotional outbursts, if you please. The journey home has been long I am exhausted and hungry."

  She wandered over to the chaise, pointing a delicate finger at a half-eaten plate of biscuits on the table. "We have these, of course. And tea," she said with a cheeky grin. "But I can tell by the gleam in your eyes that what you really crave is one of Maddie's famous luncheon spreads." She flicked her wrist dismissively. "Off you go. We can catch up later."

  On a wink, he left the room. As he wandered down the hall, he breathed deeply, taking in the scent of polished wood and other elusive smells that were singular to Tolland Place. He missed those scents during his time abroad. His visits home had felt far too brief, but he did not regret the time away. As he entered the kitchen, he heard the knocker on the front door sound. Assured that Weston, their butler, would answer at once, he leaned against the kitchen door frame and watched as Maddie, their beloved cook, put a loaf of bread in the oven.

  Plump, round, sweet tempered Mad
die. She had been with his family since he was a boy and had always been kind to him. Despite his childhood pranks and even during his first years of ducal training, before he learned that power did not just mean bossing people around, Maddie had been a gem. She was one of the few people who had stood up to his father when his temper got out of control. Not in a direct manner, of course, but in the subtlest way she could without losing her post—denying his favorite meals, over-salting his dishes. She had been a silent champion for Andrew and for that, he positively adored her. The fact she made the best biscuits this side of the Atlantic was a bonus.

  "I hope you made those for me," he said, rushing forward to steady her after startling her.

  "Your Grace!" She put a hand over her heart. "You should be ashamed of yourself, creeping up on an old lady like that."

  He laughed and dropped a kiss on her cheek. "Old my a—"

  "Don't you dare say it," she said, wagging a finger. He pressed his lips together comically. "Whatever are you doing in my kitchen anyway?"

  "Your kitchen?" he repeated with mock pompousness. "How very surprising, since last time I checked, this home was entailed to me."

  "The home, p'rhaps, but not the kitchen, m'dear. So just scoot on out of here and let me take care of you. You'll be wantin' a luncheon tray, I reckon'?" she asked with a knowing smile.

  He grinned in return, feeling more like a boy of ten than a duke of thirty-two. "And some of those biscuits Alexandra had earlier as well, if you please. She nearly ate the whole plate of them."

  Maddie's eyes darted heavenward. "Thank goodness she has the figure for it. That girl eats more than a growing boy."

  Andrew headed towards the door, tossing his next words over his shoulder. "I'll be certain not to mention you said that," he said, then stopped in the doorway and shot her his most devastating smile.