Trapping a Duchess

by Michele Bekemeyer

  His fingers splayed tightly across her stomach. “Do you understand me, Sophie?” He tightened his grip as she struggled against him. “Answer me, damn you,” he commanded when she didn’t respond.

  “No! No, I do not understand you. I don’t understand any of this,” she cried, wrestling out of his grip and rounding on him. “You don’t even. . .we don’t. . .” She stared at him, utterly bewitching in her loss for words. The satiny cloth of control slipped through his fingers, and he was powerless to stop it. His entire body went rigid.

  “Leave. Now. I won't be responsible for my actions if you don't.” To his annoyance, she did not move. “Damn it, go,” he ordered roughly, hopeful for once that she would listen. He needed her as far away from him as possible. Another continent might work; then again, it hadn’t done so before, and that was when only his pride was engaged. The things she was doing to his body, even without touching him, made him want to explode. She stared at him a few seconds longer before fleeing the room.

  Too shaken to follow, he remained, still and silent as he wrestled for control over his raging emotions. The idea that he would make her the focus of his attentions had not intimidated her in the least. Her reaction, or lack thereof, rankled. From what he had heard from Simon, and from her own lips, she was not interested in becoming the wife of a peer. Yet Courtland was exactly that. Except that he wasn’t, not in the same way as Andrew and Simon. The marquis may be the consummate diplomat, but Andrew doubted he really controlled anything.

  Which meant Sophie wasn’t refusing Andrew on the basis of his station, as she had previously inferred, she was refusing him on the basis of him, or on some character flaw she deemed unconscionable. Perhaps she needed time for his threat to sink in. Once she realized it was not empty, she would retreat as expected. He took great solace in the thought. Still, moments passed before he righted himself and headed back towards the gallery.

  Alex nearly mowed him over in the hall. “Oh, there you are.” She looked around him as if she expected someone to be there. “Where is Sophie? She has not shown up yet.”

  “She did not wish to come,” he said in a low voice.

  “You saw her then?” She stared at him for a long moment before her face twisted with anger. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing. She just needs time alone. She has—”

  “A headache,” Sophie said from behind him, her voice cool and even. “I had a headache. But it seems to have disappeared. I believe fresh air was all I needed.” The epitome of calmness, she took Alex’s arm and led her towards the other guests, who were beginning to fill the hall. Nothing in her countenance betrayed that she’d been panting in his arms five minutes earlier. Nothing about the way she moved or spoke indicated she’d tried to knock him senseless a moment later.

  Gritting his teeth, he followed, certain he would not make it through the remainder of the evening. When Sophie strolled over to Lord Courtland and offered him a brilliant smile, picking up their flirtatious banter right where they’d left off, his suspicions were confirmed.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day passed in a blur and before Sophie had time to reconsider the happenings of the prior evening, she was entering the Lindford Ballroom on the arm of an elegantly clad Lord Courtland. His suit of deep green velvet emphasized the light color of his gaze. Yet for all his physical charms, it was his personality which continued to snare her attention. He had put her at ease in the carriage on the ride over, telling her stories about his youth with such enthusiastic mischievousness that she had laughed until tears had blurred her vision. Still her thoughts turned to Andrew if only to point out, in an interminable fashion as annoying as it was accurate, the differences between the two men. After their names were announced, they entered. “What a lovely room,” she said, taking in the streams of fabric and tinkering candles.

  “Add a couple flutes of champagne and I daresay it will come to life.”

  Laughing, she spotted Alexandra in the corner surrounded by a group of men. “Do you mind if we. . .” She gestured that direction.

  “Of course not. I believe I remember a few of her admirers from Oxford.”

  “Good evening, dear,” she said as she sidled up next to Alexandra.

  “Oh, good, Sophie. You’re here. Lord Bottley and I were having a disagreement about the new flavor of ice at Gunter's. I thought you could put his opinion to rest. And you, of course, my lord,” she said, curtsying to Lord Courtland.

  “I would be happy to,” he chuckled. “The mango ice was—”

  “Delicious,” Alex put in.

  “Wonderful,” Sophie added.

  “I was going to say horrid, but I see my opinion would be overruled in this case.” He shrugged.

  “Not by me,” Lord Bottley laughed as he extended his hand. “Good to see you again, Courtland.”

  Lord Courtland smiled. “And you as well.”

  “Does your sister attend tonight?” Alex asked him.

  He nodded, looking around the room. “She does. In fact, I believe she arrived with my aunt before we did. I should find them, offer my greetings. It won’t do to get Aunt Lottie in a snit. I love her, but like most women in their sixth decade of life, she is as dangerous as they come.”

  “Snits are an aunt’s duty,” Sophie chided playfully.

  “Would you care to join me?” he asked, holding out his arm. “Or would you prefer to visit here for a bit?”

  “I should like to stay, if that is acceptable to you.”

  He nodded and offered a gentlemanly smile completely at odds with the roguish twinkle in his eyes. “I shall return in a trice.”

  “Do,” she said, inwardly surprised by the sultriness of her voice. There was something about him which brought that timbre out more often than not. She couldn't quite figure it out, as nothing about him triggered the urges she had with a certain other, arrogant man.

  “What was that all about?” Alex asked as they watched him make his way to the dowagers.

  “I have no idea,” she said, heat warming her cheeks.

  She leaned her head close to Sophie's. “Well, I think he's exceptional.”

  Lord Bottley cleared his throat, politely reminding them of his presence. “Does your brother attend this evening, Lady Sophia?”

  “I doubt it,” Sophie laughed as her gaze roamed the room. “He is likely to be found wandering the city in search of more interesting pursuits.”

  “Ah. And what of yours?” he asked Alexandra.

  “I have no idea,” she said, looking befuddled.

  Lord Bottley nodded and it was clear to Sophie that he was working to hide his disappointment.

  “Oh, rats. I'm being summoned,” Alex said as she saluted her aunt across the room. “You will come to my rescue, should the need arise, won't you?”

  Sophie laughed. “Of course.”

  Lord Bottley's gaze did not leave Alexandra until she reached the other side of the room.

  “Perhaps while she mingles with the dowagers, you could escort me to the refreshment table? You seem as if you need to talk.” She genuinely liked Lord Bottley, even if he was a touch meek for her or Alexandra’s tastes.

  He beamed and offered his arm. “You are an angel, my lady. I would be honored.”

  As they made their way through the sea of guests, Sophie answered a series of questions about Alexandra. Lord Bottley was such a kind sort that in the end she did not have the heart to tell him he and Alex would never suit. Vaguely, she wondered if what Andrew said about Alex was true—that she, too, had decided not to marry.

  Sophie was so distracted by her thoughts that she did not notice Andrew standing near the refreshment table. She looked up as Lord Bottley handed her a glass of lemonade, then nearly dropped it when her gaze clashed with the duke’s. Lady Abigail's arm was linked possessively through his, but she removed it as they approached.

  “Good evening, Lady Sophia.”

  His challenging stare, along with the teasing memory of his kiss, fl
ashed through her mind. She locked her knees and curled her toes in her slippers in an effort to ground herself. But there was more to her discomfort than that, for she seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

  * * * *

  Andrew had leaned down to respond to a question Lady Abigail posed and missed Sophie’s approach until it was too late. He steeled himself against the reaction which always came when she was close. Insides clenching and muscles rigid, he straightened, casting an acknowledging, if not overly welcoming, nod in their direction. “Good evening, Lady Sophia.”

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” she said, her smile tight. She turned her attention to Lady Abigail. “How do you do this evening, Lady Abigail?”

  Andrew stifled his annoyance. In the time it took for her focus to shift from him to the woman on his arm, her demeanor changed.

  Lady Abigail beamed in response. “Excellent, thank you. I love your gown.”

  “And I yours. Are you acquainted with Lord Bottley?” Sophie asked, gesturing towards her escort.

  Andrew watched as the young baron took Lady Abigail’s hand and bowed, immediately engaging her in a conversation about her home. They hailed from neighboring counties and were, to his dismay, not only acquaintances, but old friends. Fantastic. Disinclined to become engaged in reminiscing, he angled his body away. And found himself face to face with Sophie. He had not cared much for Lord Bottley before, but now his opinion of the man was decidedly worse.

  “You look like you're chewing rocks,” she said, punctuating the sentence with an impudent smile. “Is something wrong?”

  Every ounce of her impertinence was matched by his desire to master her. She provoked the devil inside him and that devil wanted his due. “Only because I find it frustrating that I can't wrap my hands around that delicate little neck of yours.”

  She let out a tinkering laugh. “I suppose I should be frightened and run away.”

  “You tried that once already, didn’t you? Yet, surprisingly, here we are.”

  “And you're still the same arrogant blackguard you were back then.”

  He shot her a warning look.

  “Perhaps the best thing to do is remain silent,” she sighed, shifting from foot to foot as she turned her gaze out over the crowd.

  As a footman passed, Andrew took another flute of champagne. He did not offer one to her. If she was bold enough to bait him, she was bloody well brazen enough to get her own drink. He watched her over the rim of his glass. How could those lips, with their harsh words and bitter phrases, taste so damned sweet? Her gaze darted to his and to his dismay, he realized he had cursed under his breath. If her annoyance shone like fire before, it burned like molten lava now. Still, he refused to apologize. Before she arrived, he was enjoying his evening.

  “Ah, there you are!” Lord Courtland said as he approached. “Apologies, my lady, but escape is not always easy to accomplish.”

  Alexandra linked her arm through Sophie's. “We feared we’d lost you in the crush.”

  “We sought refreshment,” Sophie replied blandly with a nod in Bottley's direction.

  “And found my sister? And His Grace, I see,” Courtland said, giving the duke a respectful bow. Lady Abigail noticed their arrival and waved her brother over. “Pardon me for a moment,” he said as he moved to her side.

  “Zachary, do you remember the time you and the baron went riding?” she asked, beginning the reminiscing all over again.

  “Don't you find it odd that they never noticed one another before?” Alex asked, watching as the three of them chattered on. “Lord Bottley has been here the whole of the season.”

  Andrew glanced at Sophie, whose gaze remained firmly fixed on the floor.

  “I wish they had done,” she muttered.

  “I'll bet you do,” he said in an undertone. Sophie’s stare was incredulous. Andrew returned it with a lift of his brows, dragging his gaze away from hers slowly, and then only once the orchestra began tuning for the waltz.

  Lord Courtland excused himself, finally, and came to Sophie’s side. At least the man had a modicum of common sense. “My dance, my lady?” he asked, offering his arm. She took it eagerly, clearly happy to be divesting herself of Andrew’s company.

  He watched through narrowed eyes as the pair strolled away, then took a commanding step towards Lady Abigail. “May I, my lady?” he asked, forcing a charming smile to his face.

  Lady Abigail's girlish giggle annoyed Andrew. “Of course, Your Grace. Please excuse me, my lord,” she said, offering Bottley a blushing smile.

  Andrew guided her to the floor and took a position to Sophie and Courtland's right. He found amusement in the way her posture stiffened as he laid his hand at Lady Abigail’s waist, then was stunned by his own irritation when Lord Courtland did the same to Sophie. Shaking off the feeling, he concentrated on the lady in his arms. “Lord Bottley hails from a neighboring county?” he asked with an interest he did not feel.

  Her face lit up. “He does, Your Grace. It was such a shock to see him in London. I never thought him the type to venture this far away from the country. He always seemed to love it there. He and my brother were fast friends in their youth.”

  The waltz began. “And they are not so now?” he asked distractedly, glancing over her shoulder as Sophie and Courtland passed behind them.

  She shook her head. “I believe they grew apart once Zachary left for the war.”

  “Ah. I had forgotten your brother served. How long was he gone?”

  “Three years. The very worst of my life. I worried over his welfare day and night. Not that I needed to. He is quite the hero,” she said with a proud smile. “Of course, he would never admit to being one. He’d say he was doing his part for his country. No more, no less.”

  Andrew watched as Courtland and Sophie glided across the ballroom floor, their laughter light and genuine.

  “She suits him admirably,” Lady Abigail noted quietly, gaze fixed on the pair waltzing nearby.

  His lids grew shuttered. “Indeed they do.”

  “I must admit, I was concerned when he first expressed an interest in her,” she continued as they made their way down the ballroom, “but seeing how much he has enjoyed her company has changed my mind. Well, that and getting to know her. She would make a wonderful sister.” She met Andrew’s gaze, her face an amiable picture of innocence.

  To him, however, it felt like a test. One he did not appreciate. “Lady Sophia is a fine woman,” he said, distracted once again by the lilt of Sophie’s laughter. What the devil was so amusing over there? And why the hell was he defending her, a woman whose very presence was a torment?

  “She would make an excellent marchioness, then, would she not?” Lady Abigail asked, sounding serious.

  He stared back at her, unable to discern whether naivete or impertinence drove her question. Something like jealousy flashed across her face. For God’s sake, he thought, that's the last thing I need right now. Pushing suspicion aside, he changed the subject. “Tell me about the rest of your family.”

  * * * *

  Sophie watched as Andrew continued his somber conversation with Lady Abigail. They looked as if they were discussing a heavy matter. She tried to focus on the story Lord Courtland was telling but couldn’t, other than to offer encouraging smiles and the occasional laugh in the hopes he would not suspect her thoughts were elsewhere. Namely on the blasted man dancing only a few feet away. Clenching her jaw, she smothered her frustrated sigh. Arrogant, pompous, ass. . .

  “. . .ume you haven’t forgotten about Vauxhall on Saturday?” Lord Courtland asked, giving her hand a little shake.

  “Pardon?” she asked, snapping her eyes to his.

  “I was reminding you of Vauxhall. On Saturday night? You do still plan to go, don't you?” His gaze searched hers.

  “Of course, my lord. Forgive me. I was in a brown study.” She offered an apologetic smile.

  “Anything I can help with?” he asked, and the genuine concern in his voice made her feel awf
ul for worrying him. He didn’t deserve to play second string, especially not to a man like Andrew.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you sure? Abby will attest that I am the best of listeners. Or, if you prefer a female ear, I'm sure she would be willing. My sister thinks the world of you and Lady Alexandra, and would do anything, I'm sure, to see you happy.”

  Her gaze drifted to Lady Abigail and she felt a pang of regret for judging her so quickly. The girl had never been anything but sweet and kind. Sophie had dismissed her offer of friendship out of hand, all because Andrew had shown an interest. She frowned. “My head aches a bit.”

  “Perhaps you could rest in the sitting room? I am certain Gerty would be happy to loan you the use of it.” A question formed on Sophie's lips.

  Before she could give it voice, he chuckled. “My aunt and Lady Lindford, Gertrude, are close. We spent many of our summers here as children,” he explained with a sentimental smile. “I know this house as well as my own. She keeps a spare room available for times when the ballroom becomes overwhelming.”

  “Oh. That sounds lovely,” Sophie said gratefully. “A bit of solitude might be just the thing in setting my head to rights.” The waltz ended and Lord Courtland led her over to his aunt, introducing her as a friend of his sister's before requesting her permission to use the sitting room. The elderly woman agreed and Sophie thanked her graciously.

  “I would show you myself, my dear, but I do not wish to abandon my guests,” Lady Lindford said with a tender pat to Sophie’s hand.

  “It is no bother. I appreciate your lending me the space, ma’am.”

  “Is there anything I can get for you before you go?” Lord Courtland asked as he guided her towards the doorway.

  “No, thank you. I need only just rest for a bit.” She offered a small smile as they stopped at the hallway’s arched entrance.

  He squeezed her hand. “I shall await your return.”

  She started down the well-lit hallway, noting the family portraits and extravagant porcelain vases. The dark wood tables were lined with figurines of ballerinas. She reached the second to last door and pushed it open, surprised by the room's airy feeling. The pale purple paint was complimented by the floral pattern in the furniture and the smell of lavender filled the air.