Her nervousness gave way to irritation.
Lord Courtland offered his arm. “You and me, then?”
She nodded graciously, resting her hand on his coat as they waited for the duke to lead them out of the door. The tenor of his voice slid over her, and even though she could not make out what he was saying, she couldn't resist listening. Anger began to coil inside her and she wondered how she would ever make it through the evening without lashing out.
“Do you ever feel like bleating?” Lord Courtland asked suddenly.
“Pardon?” she asked, giving him a curious sideways glance.
“Bleating. You know, as sheep do.” He opened and closed his mouth, silently mimicking the baa of the animals.
“Er. . .no. Why would I?”
“The parade to dinner always reminds me of sheep being herded.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Or perhaps the latest fashion brings to mind a muster of peacocks. Either way, only the leader ends up with any respectable position, while the rest of us waddle along behind him.”
“Do peacocks waddle?” she asked, grateful for the distraction.
“Does it matter?” he countered through a wicked grin.
She pitched her voice low. “I suppose it doesn't, for our host would never allow such ostentation at his dinner table.” Despite him being the biggest peacock of all. Lord Courtland's laughter brought a dazzling smile to her face, and by the time they entered the dining room, she was actually enjoying herself.
Sophie had dined at Tolland Place many times when she was helping Alex tend to her ailing father, but had never grown used to the opulence of the formal dining room. The long mahogany table was covered by ivory linen with gold threaded into the bottom. The gold weaved in and out of itself to form an intricate and elegant pattern which culminated in a flowery circle in the center. The high-backed chairs were also covered in an ivory linen, though it lacked the gold trim of the table cloth. Crystal goblets and expensive place settings bespoke of generations of wealth, and yet the addition of fresh flowers lent the imperial room a relaxing air.
“Looks like we missed our pick of seats,” Lord Courtland said, bringing her attention to the chairs before them. Only two remained—one to the immediate left of the duke, the other a seat down, next to Lady Sprucely. The reality of the arrangement hit Sophie full force; she had to clamp her jaw together to keep her mouth from falling open. Short of making a scene or sitting on the floor, she was stuck.
“I'm quite pleased you decided to join us this evening, Lady Sophia,” Andrew said, the smug grin on his face telling all. He had planned and planned well and was enjoying her discomfort. Her teeth milled together, but she forced her lips to curve. Words were beyond her.
As if he sensed her want for rescue, Lord Courtland leaned in. “Smells delicious, doesn't it?”
She seized the opportunity to redirect her focus and made her response an intimate affair. “The peacocks will be envious, for sure.”
Lord Courtland let out a deep belly laugh. “You are an absolute gem, my lady.” She acknowledged his words with a beaming smile, catching, out of the corner of her eye, a familiar tension in Andrew’s hands. If he squeezed the stem of his wine glass any tighter, it would shatter. Taking her seat, she turned her attention to Lord Courtland. Her glass would not suffer the same fate. With a charming marquis by her side, ignoring the duke would be easy.
Wouldn't it?
* * * *
Andrew tried to hide his scowl as dessert was served. He should have known Sophie would not take her seating placement lying down, so to speak. During the first course, he made the colossal mistake of glancing at her while Lady Abigail discussed an inane topic and found her engrossed in her partner's conversation. Throughout the second course, he was too busy trying to listen to Sophie’s conversation to offer Lady Abigail more than occasional observations. By the time the last course rolled around, his mind was wholly occupied with ways to make Sophie pay. Lady Abigail had been forced to maintain both ends of the conversation.
Gone was the flirtation which came so easily in the early days of their acquaintance. Courting was the last thing on his mind as he set his fork down and took a sip of his wine. He just wanted the damn dinner finished and fast. His irritated gaze collided with Sophie’s. She blinked once, but only once, before her lips kicked up at the ends. If she could laugh in his face, he knew she would. Easy to be bold with Courtland next to her, grinning like a love-sick fool. Andrew wanted nothing more in that moment than to throw both of them out on their arses.
As he ate his dessert, he endeavored to ignore the sultry sound of her chuckles. He pretended not to see the playful way she swatted at Courtland’s arm. He tried not to notice the creamy skin of her neck as she leaned towards the marquis in commiseration. Tried—and failed—in the most spectacular manner possible.
By the time he took his last bite of treacle pudding, his temper was close to boiling over. He moved his hands to his lap in the hope that his frustration would go unnoticed. Then, he watched and he waited. The three minutes remaining until his reprieve felt like the longest of his life. Finally, he stood and the room grew silent. “Thank you all for joining us this evening. My sister and I have thoroughly enjoyed your company. Alexandra?”
Taking his cue, she rose. “Come, ladies. Let us move to the sitting room for tea and leave the men to enjoy their port.” As she led them through the door, Andrew waited for Lady Abigail to glance back. Surely, she would look for a sign of encouragement. Instead, his gaze stuck on Sophie, who paid him no attention at all, but bestowed an enticing smile at Courtland. A seduction on its own, it promised things Andrew had never, before now, considered. In that moment, he hated them both.
“My sister mentioned you offered to rent us a booth at Vauxhall, Your Grace,” Courtland said as he moved into the seat next to him.
Andrew's smile took great effort. “I did.”
“Well, it is much appreciated by both of us. The place is far more enjoyable without having to worry over whether Abby will get lost in the crowd.”
“You cannot rely on safety in numbers,” he said, speaking from experience.
Courtland's expression grew thoughtful. “I am sure between Lady Sophia and your sister, Alexandra, my fears are entirely unwarranted.” He grinned over a sip of port. “I must confess, though, I was hoping to use the time to get better acquainted with the former.”
Andrew bit back a scathing retort. The marquis’ admission was commonplace, and not the sort of thing a host strangled a guest over. Even if he really, really wanted to. “Indeed.” Thankfully, Simon joined them, and the conversation shifted to parliament. Andrew distracted his infuriated mind by diving into a political discussion. Once his temper calmed, he led the group back into the salon, where the women were waiting. An inconspicuous scan of the room provided no sign of Sophie. He glanced at Alex, let her see the question in his eyes.
"Fresh air,” she mouthed, tossing her head toward the garden.
“Alexandra, would you give our guests a tour of the gallery?” He felt no guilt over abandoning them as it was clear that further conversation with Sophie was necessary. He owned enough art to keep his guests entertained for at least an hour, plenty of time to find Sophie and set matters straight.
As the group headed out the door, Alex paused. “We will see you shortly then?”
“Just keep them occupied. I will have Weston inform Lady Sophia of your whereabouts.”
“Good idea,” she said, a not-so-subtle warning in her tone.
Andrew nodded. “Go,” he instructed, ignoring the voice inside him, which insisted he spend the time with Lady Abigail. Instead of chasing down the woman you do not want but cannot seem to get out of your head.
Weston was standing by the door. “May I help, Your Grace?”
“Has Lady Sophia returned?”
“I believe she is in the library,” he said with a nod.
“Thank you.” He breathed deeply in and out as he headed in that d
irection. With a gentle push, he opened the library door. Sophie meandered along the perimeter, slender fingers tracing along the spines of the books on the shelves. Irritation was still evident, even through the nostalgic smile on her face. In one quick movement, he pulled the door closed and snicked the lock. The loud click shattered the silence of the room, eliciting a startled gasp from her.
“What do you think you are doing? Unlock that door immediately,” she hissed, her hands coming to rest on her hips. Good lord. Was there no limit to her beauty? She looked like a wrathful goddess. Her lithe body was drawn tight, full lips pressed thin, brows sharp with fury.
He gestured towards the armchairs in the center of the room as he made his way towards her. “If you will,” he said, forcing a casual note to his voice.
“I will not. I am leaving.” She marched past him, or tried to. He was at her side in two long strides.
Muttering a strangled curse, he took her arm in an uncompromising grip. Fighting to maintain some semblance of civility, he led back to the chair. “If you will,” he repeated, his patience beginning to slip. Steely determination reached him as her irate glance darted to where his fingers held her.
“Unhand me.”
He released her and walked around the table to the opposite chair, bracing his arms against its back. “Sophie, we need to talk.” Use of her nickname produced the desired effect. The ice in her eyes gave way to fiery anger, and her glare turned into a glower. Instead of yelling, though, she surprised him with a beleaguered sigh. At once, the tension in her face relaxed into an impressive mask of aloofness.
“Speak, then, Your Grace,” she said in a voice which gave credence to her apathy.
“I cannot talk to you when you’re like this.” His fingers tapped a staccato against the chair's wood finish. The rhythmic drumming soothed his nerves; he did it without thinking.
She rolled her eyes. “That will work, then, Your Grace, as there is nothing to say. If you will excuse me, I have somewhere to be,” she said firmly, moving once again to the door.
His patience snapped. “God damn it! Sit down!” he roared, blocking her exit. With a thunderous look, he dared her to defy him. She sat with alacrity, but her demeanor switched back to icy, even as the heat of anger radiated off of her. “Now,” he began as he took a seat across from her, his voice once again controlled. “First off, I want to apologize for upsetting you earlier. Despite what you think, it was not my intent.”
She scoffed. “That is exactly what you intended when you forced me to sit next to you.”
“Not at all. It was simply another—”
“Typically high-handed maneuver which happened to backfire?” she interrupted with venomous sweetness. “Seems to be a common occurrence with you these days.”
He glared at her. “It was a poor, but well intentioned, decision. I had hoped that we might be able to converse.”
“Why would you want to do that? Haven't we said all that needs to be said?” she asked, regarding him as if he were a recent escapee from Bedlam.
“We still have plenty to discuss, beginning with the fact that our paths seem to be intertwining far too often.”
Her eyes narrowed into shards of blue ice. “If you are referring to Lord Courtland and his sister—”
“Yes.”
“Then I have recommend you pursue someone else. There are a hundred Lady Abigails in London. More even, if you look beyond her innocence.”
“And there are just as many Courtlands,” he countered through his teeth. “But that is neither here nor there.”
“Your inability to woo the lady is not my concern,” she said, wrinkling her nose as if the concept, both foreign and unbelievable, disgusted.
“How am I to woo anyone when you make it so bloody difficult?” He didn't bother to rein in his anger. If nothing else, perhaps the depth of it would incite comprehension.
“Difficult for you? With that. . .girl?” The impertinent question came with another derisive look. “Flattering her could hardly require more than a single compliment. Or can you not get a word in edgewise?”
His fingers gripped the arms of the chair. “I wasn't having any difficulty at all until you entered the picture, batting your eyelashes and handing out seductive smiles as if the marquis couldn’t breathe without them.” He had always thought himself in control of his emotions, but not when she was near. And, apparently, never when she was flirting with another man.
Her fingers clasped together until her knuckles turned white.
“I know we agreed to put the past behind us and move on and I am happy to see you doing so. However, it would be beneficial to both of us if your attentions were turned elsewhere.” At her dismissive laugh, he leaned forward menacingly. “We cannot pursue members of the same family. Surely even you can see the madness in that.”
Her brows rose. “Find another woman.”
“Not going to happen.”
She held his gaze with surprising directness. “I have no intention of rejecting Lord Courtland just because you fancy his sister.”
He muttered a curse. “Stubborn woman.”
“Pompous ass,” she shot back.
A thought struck him, solid and unmovable. Voicing it would be tantamount to a declaration of war, but desperation was a noise he would risk battle to silence. “Fine,” he said, forcing a defeated sounding sigh.
She looked ready to retort when his response registered. Her mouth snapped shut and her brows furrowed. “Fine?” she repeated after a moment.
“Yes, fine. I will cease my courtship of Lady Abigail.” He allowed a moment for his words to sink in. And hid a devilish grin.
“Oh,” she mumbled, clearly startled by his sudden capitulation. “Well, then. That settles. . .everything.” She rose, looking adorably confused.
He waited until she had taken a few steps before calling out. “Actually, it settles nothing as I am still left without a bride.” She whipped around to face him, cheeks flushing and eyes wide. He shrugged, feigning innocence.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, my dearest lady,” he said as he took a few steps towards her. “That I will need a suitable replacement. In this case, there is only one option.” He let the silence stretch until she looked ready to burst. “You.”
“What?” she sputtered, her voice pitched high enough he was surprised she hadn’t shattered glass. She walked backwards, shaking her head, her lips mouthing a silent denial. The instant her back hit the shelves, she found her voice. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I could not be more serious, Sophie,” he said, using her nickname as he reached up to run the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. She put her hand up to stop him, but he caught it and dragged it to his lips, taking her middle finger into his mouth. Her gaze fell, transfixed, to where he held her. He sucked gently, emboldened by her shiver.
“Andrew.” Her breathless voice was a siren's call.
“Yes, Sophie?” He lowered his mouth and she stiffened, but only for a moment. His lips brushed hers, first gentle, then more firmly as he coaxed her mouth open and ran the tip of his tongue inside. Her resistance melted away, the tension in her body replaced by something far more enticing. At her low, throaty moan, he was convinced he didn’t even know what control meant. He certainly wasn’t capable of summoning any. As his hands found her waist, he angled his head and deepened the kiss, fingers digging into her flesh as he tried to anchor himself. Throat dry, he swallowed. Then, she was kissing him back and he was lost in the feel of her sweet tongue sliding across his, the warmth of her mouth, the taste of red wine and dessert and her.
His hands slid down to caress the silk clad bottom he had admired at the start of the evening, molding the firmness with fingers and palms that itched to lift her skirts. He wanted to part her swollen flesh and lick and suck until she was begging. She arched into him, her breasts rubbing against his coat, and his control slipped. For all her innocence, she oozed sensuality. It seemed as na
tural to her as breathing. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged he was taking things too far. The ultimatum was only meant to get her back up. Instead, she was in danger of ending up on her back. Unable to stop, he took the kiss deeper, raising his hands to run fingers over her shoulders. He let them drift over the nape of her neck, let them enjoy the silken feel of her skin. Beneath his touch, her body was pliant, yet strong. Suddenly caressing her was not enough.
“We have to stop,” she said, pulling back. She was panting, breathless, her now cobalt eyes glazed heavy with desire. Ignoring her half-hearted protest, he drew her back into the kiss and sucked on her tongue. She wrenched her lips away from his. “Your Grace? Are you listening?”
Your Grace. The formal address reminded him of who they were, where they were and, damn it all to hell, why they were there. Tearing away from her, he retreated a step. His wits were scattered, his body rock hard as he took in her swollen lips and flushed cheeks. Mesmerized, he watched her tongue flick out over her bottom lip. He wanted to toss her down on the rug and take her a thousand different ways. Her eyes flared wide, as if she knew what he was thinking. He was so bewitched by the sight that he did not see her fist until it nearly connected with his eye. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, grabbing her hand, but not before she made brief contact. Pain flickered through his cheek.
“That, Your Grace, is for taking advantage of me,” she hissed, her voice almost demonic in its rage. “And this,” she said, preparing to deal him another blow, “is for humil—”
Andrew grabbed her balled fist and whipped her around, yanking her roughly back against him. Soft flesh cradled his hard muscles, another taunt to test his mettle. He tamped down his basest response, but could not stop his aching cock from twitching against her arse. “Do not ever raise your hand to me again, Sophie,” he warned, his control pushed far beyond any limits he’d tried to set. “Do you understand me?” He whispered the menacing words against her ear.
“Let me go, you bastard,” she growled, her lovely chest heaving with frustrated breaths.
Trapping a Duchess Page 9