Sophie closed her eyes and breathed deeply, her mind turning to seven years ago, when she arrived on the doorstep of her aunt’s house. With a tight hug, her aunt had removed Sophie's worry and assured her that everything would be okay. The lavish suite of rooms she had offered were decorated in the same restful shade of purple as the one in which she was standing. She could almost hear her aunt's reassuring words whisper through her mind. You rest, and leave the worrying to me. Settling into the comfortable settee, she draped her hand over her eyes and lay silent, listening to the muted sounds of the orchestra and trying not to think of a certain annoying duke.
“A bit of dramatic posture to ease your troubled mind?” Andrew's voice came softly.
Startled, she jerked to her feet. Except, her right foot tangled in the hem of her gown and she landed in an ungraceful heap on the floor.
He was at her side in an instant. “Are you injured?”
Mortification turned to anger when she caught the mirth in his eyes. “I was fine until you arrived,” she said, standing on her own and smoothing out her gown. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Lord Courtland said you were feeling upended,” he said, shrugging as if that should be reason enough.
“So you felt the need to come up here and make me feel worse?”
He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I thought perhaps you might require something.”
“You should have sent Lord Courtland then,” she snapped.
He muttered a curse as he stepped away from her and looked out the window. “He knows nothing of your needs.” When he whipped back around to face her, a fierce scowl furrowing his brows. His lips were drawn tight. “I—”
Sophie lifted a hand. “I did not ask, nor do I wish for, your help, Your Grace.”
“Is that so?” he asked quietly.
“Indeed it is.” She stared down her nose at him, despite being several inches shorter. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and shoved them behind his back, the movement pulling his spine ramrod straight. She matched his stance, raising his arrogant posture with defiant taps of her foot.
“You would do well remember—”
“Spare me the discourse, Duke, for I am sick to death of hearing it,” she said, her gaze darting heavenward before landing, disgustedly, on his. “Just as I am sick to death of you.”
Whether surprised by the interruption, or shocked by the frankness of her words; for whichever reason, he recoiled. Before his quiescence had a chance to take roots, however, he recovered. And she was no longer face to face with an annoyed man, but a furious peer of the realm whose presence filled the room.
Sophie was no stranger to anger. She had witnessed—and even been the cause of it—on multiple occasions with Simon. But where she knew all the telltale signs of having pushed Simon too far, she had no such experience with Andrew. Until now. His eyes glinted. His muscles tensed. He looked like a serpent about to strike. “What did you say?” he asked, and the absolute steel in his voice gave her pause.
She should be afraid, she knew she should. And in some ways, she supposed she was. But she was also finished playing games, and refused to let fear dictate her actions. “I am tired of your bullying and threats, and of you treating me like a child. And don't you dare say I am acting like one. You are the only one between us being ridiculous and immature.” The more she spoke, the better she felt, as if ringing a peal over his head was an elixir. “You claim to want to move on with your life, yet you're incapable of leaving me alone long enough to do so. You want to know what stands between you and your future? It isn't me. It's never been me. It is your mulish and over-inflated self-importance.”
He took a deep breath and the fingers that were balled into fists by his side flicked and stretched. “Your intractability is the reason I am forced to this, to abandoning my courtship of Lady Abigail.”
“My intractability?” she asked, feeling downright waspish.
“You heard me.”
“What I hear is a man who isn’t getting his way and so he's looking for someone to blame. Well, I am not interested in the responsibility, Your Grace, so leave me alone.” She punctuated each word with a hard pause and harder look.
“You owe me this, at the very least, after what you’ve done.”
Her jaw clenched as anger rolled through her. How dare he bring up the past? “You are a miserable bastard, do you know that?”
“Mind your tongue, my lady,” he said, his low tone full of menace. “Do not think that the history between us will stop me making your life hell if you push me too far.”
The absurdity of the threat brought a biting disbelief to her lips. “You've been making my life hell for years.” And yet, she had barely been able to rattle his composure. Last night was the first time she’d seen him struggle. The thought made her bold. Holding his deep brown gaze, she sauntered up to him. “And what will you do if I refuse?” she asked, reveling in the instant desire that flickered in his gaze. His inability to hide it emboldened her even further. She was a woman on a mission, willing to suffer for her cause. The flames of unwanted longing licked at her, as they did every time he was close.
She ran her fingers along his arms, tentatively at first, then more firmly as she reached his biceps. The muscles beneath her fingers twitched. “Will you tell Lord Courtland about our kiss? I doubt the marquis would consider it, except as proof that you are not gentleman enough for his sister.” Her fingers traveled along his shoulders and down his chest. She leaned in closer, until her lips were grazing his. She had to force herself to stop. Heavens. “Go away, Your Grace,” she breathed, then pushed, expecting him to take a step backwards. The blasted man didn’t move. She put a few steps between them and frowned.
The minute she stopped touching him, his wits seemed to return. An unnamed emotion settled on his face, but his voice was annoyingly controlled. “You’re still bent on encouraging Courtland?”
Tilting her head, she considered the question and which response she could give that would annoy him most. She wanted his composure beyond rattled, wanted it shaken to its core. “He is everything I want in a man,” she said, letting her appreciation for Lord Courtland show in the flaring of her eyes.
Pressing his lips together, he lifted his brows. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” she answered, sticking her chin out defiantly. “And I am certain he can offer so much more.” Her last word was deliberately throaty. She held his gaze but could discern little of his emotions. More than anything, he appeared excited, as if she had just issued a challenge. In the back of her mind, a warning sounded.
“More?” he asked, giving her a thorough perusal, as if remembering the taste of some delicious dessert he had sampled—and intended on sampling again. Under the fire of his gaze, her body heated. Mind cautioned body to move away. Instead, her feet remained glued to their spot, in league with the painful warmth coursing through her. Desire tightened her stomach and settled between her thighs. Unwanted and unappreciated though it was, she could no more deny it than she could her enjoyment in seeing him suffer. In moments like these, with her pulse beating wildly and body tingling in anticipation, she could not help but wonder if the visceral response was born of aggravation, or something more concerning, like attraction.
He took a step towards her and closed the distance, his damnably strong hands clasped behind his back. Then he leaned in, unhurriedly, until his lips brushed hers. Lighter than a butterfly's, his touch was fleeting. He moved to her ear, the warmth of his breath wreaking havoc on her senses. Beneath her gown, her nipples hardened. “Just this once, I’m going to ignore the fact that you are intentionally baiting me.”
His voice was a faint undertone to her suddenly galloping heartbeat. “Just this once.” Straightening, he stared down at her, stark lust glinting in his eyes. She took his meaning with widened stare and parted lips and every muscle in her body went rigid in an effort not to flee. She would not give him the satisfaction. Not thi
s time. Not ever again.
“No more games, Sophie. I am warning you,” he said quietly, stepping away from her. “If you encourage Courtland to press his suit, I will consider that a challenge and respond in kind. And before you attempt to flay me alive with words, know this, my dear. I will show no compunction in taking what I want. There will be no murmurs, no speculation. I will make it known to everyone that you belong to me.” He kept his gaze focused on hers for another unsettling moment, then left the room.
Left her standing there, overheated and confused by a feeling she could only interpret as desire. She heard the door close behind him and shuddered, his words bouncing back and forth in her mind. No more games. Was he seriously bent on pursuing her if she did not discourage the marquis’s courtship?
She moved to the settee, resting her elbows on her knees as her head dropped into her hands. Because they had shared only private moments so far, she had been at liberty to deal with him as she wished. Bringing their battle into the open would make retaliation impossible. Turning her back on Lord Courtland meant life in the country with her mother. If she stayed her course, she risked damaging her reputation irreparably. No matter which she chose, she ended up losing.
Why, then, was her heart racing, not with fear, but with excitement?
Chapter Nine
Andrew lounged in the overly large chair in his study, a brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other. Smoke drifted up in mesmerizing trails, flirting with dust mites as it wafted into the diffuse sunlight streaming through windows. After joining Simon at Tattersall’s in the morning, he spent the rest of the afternoon with his solicitors. Listening to a full report on his many residences was rewarding. Still, the day was beginning to feel endless.
The door swung open and Alexandra breezed in, Simon on her heels like a hound after a fox. “That is ridiculous,” she said as she crossed the room and sat. “Tell him to stop being deliberately obtuse, Drew.”
Simon followed and pinned her with a condescending look, as if she were a peasant who had mistakenly chosen the King’s throne as her own. “First of all, madam, you’re in my chair.”
Alex placed a dainty slipper on the one next to hers and pushed. “Sit there.”
“Secondly,” Simon said with a brief, but disdainful, glance at the furniture pressed against his legs, “the woman encouraged his pursuit, with her snide comments and devil may care attitude, all the while begrudging him the very circumstance she sought.”
Andrew’s interest was piqued. While the pair frequently engaged in discussions on a variety of topics, today their dialogue had an edge. “What the devil are you two discussing?”
“And who are you to make such a declaration?” Alexandra asked, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. “You could not possibly understand what drives a man of his complexity.” She stared at Simon as if his intelligence rivaled that of a lap dog.
“Because I am simple?” Simon asked, aiming a finger at her nose. “You are fortunate you aren't a man, or I would call you out for that.”
“Because you haven’t a heart,” she quipped as she swatted his finger away. “Just a tiny sliver of a thing.” She held her fingers less than an inch apart, her voice theatrical as she gave a despondent shake of her head. “Very, very small, and very sad, indeed.”
“And you believe this precludes my ability to understand when a man is making a foolish decision? I do have a brain, you know.”
“For what little you exercise it,” she said, then slanted him an annoyed look and quoted: “‘In cases where every thing is understood, and measured, and reduced to rule, love is out of the question.’ The same holds true for empathy.”
Simon let out a bark of laughter. “While I will admit to being impressed—frequently, I might add—by what a bluestocking you have become, I must point out the difference between universal benevolence and empathy.”
Alex jumped from her seat, tossing her hands in the air. “See? You’ve just proved my point. If you were capable of even a minuscule amount of comprehension, you would be empathetic from the very start.”
“Empathy is overrated.”
“Aloof behavior is a mask to cover deeper feelings, and if you understood, you wouldn’t be arguing such foolish perceptions.”
“Darcy was a prig, plain and simple, Alexandra,” Simon said as he moved to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a clean snifter. He poured a few fingers of brandy and tossed it back.
“I can see there is no point in further discussing the matter,” she sniffed. “Perhaps later, when you have experienced love firsthand—”
“Sounds like a singularly unpleasant event. One I have no intention of ever experiencing,” he said with a sardonic laugh.
Alex’s lips twitched, the retort tumbling from her lips in a rush. “Love is never intended, you fool. It simply happens. One day you will marry—”
“And love will have naught to do with it,” Simon interrupted, sliding into the chair next to her with an insolent smile.
Andrew coughed, reminding them they were not alone in the room. “I don’t have a damn clue what you two are prattling on about, but you’re interrupting the only peace I have before the outing at Vauxhall.” He was uncertain how Sophie would react to his ultimatum, but familiar enough with her brand of determination to realize the evening would be exhausting at best. He needed energy and a clear head, neither of which he would get with Simon and Alex sniping at each other.
Alex’s annoyed gaze turned his direction. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Tell him, Drew, how quickly love ensnares you.”
He stared at her, horrified. How should he know the inner workings of someone in love? Certainly, he’d never experienced the feeling himself, although a healthy dose of lust had made an unwelcome appearance in his life. He cleared his throat. “I believe what Simon is saying is that he is resolved not to let love factor into his marriage.”
“At all and exactly,” the earl seconded, raising his empty glass.
Her gaze darted heavenward. “You said that, too, at one point. Yet you are in love.”
“What?” Andrew squeaked in a manner more fitted to an eleven year old girl than a duke.
“You are?” Simon added, looking both confused and amused as he considered him.
“I most certainly am not,” Andrew answered calmly, despite the knot of alarm cinching his stomach tight. “What makes you say something so ridiculous?”
“You’re not?” Alex asked, perplexity marring her features while skepticism tainted her voice.
“What the devil are you talking about, Alexandra? I am not in love with anyone.”
“But I have seen the way you look at her,” Alex said, patently refusing to accept his declaration, regardless of the vehemence accompanying it.
He would have had more luck convincing her that the sky was green and the grass blue, that fairies and rainbows and unicorns could be found roaming London. Unease manacled his insides. Had Lady Abigail indicated feelings of love to Alex? Did she think that he loved her in return? Damnation.
“I think your brother would know if he were in love. At the very least, I daresay he would mention it, as fools in love are wont to do,” Simon put in, his comments making no point whatsoever except to goad Alex into responding.
“He does not need to mention it,” Alex said, folding her arms over her chest. “I have seen it with my own eyes, even if he refuses to acknowledge it.” She rose and stared back and forth between the two of them as if they were a pair of defiant, purposely uncomprehending children.
Andrew decided to take possession of his study and control of the uncomfortable conversation. “Stalemate,” he said, setting his brandy glass on the desk with a loud thump.
“What?” Simon's unrefined question was shadowed by Alex’s more genteel “Pardon?”
“I said you are at a stalemate,” he repeated, rising. “As usual. And we are to meet Courtland at Vauxhall in precisely two hours, Alexandra. It is time to dress.”
She nodded h
er assent, but not before pinning him with an all-knowing glance. “We shall continue this discussion later,” she said to Simon before sauntering out the door.
“Are you shooing me off as well?” Simon asked.
“Most definitely.”
“Interesting. I shall see you tonight, then.”
“Indeed.” Andrew followed him out of the room and made his way upstairs to dress. His mind turned again to Sophie, to how she would answer his ultimatum. He felt a genuine smile curve his lips as he envisioned her standing there, looking adorably flustered as she capitulated. I have seen the way you look at her. Alex’s words popped unbidden into his head and he stilled. I have seen it with my own eyes.
His next thought stole his breath. She had been referring to Lady Abigail, hadn’t she?
* * * *
Sophie took Simon’s hand and stepped out of the carriage, her champagne colored satin gown and matching gloves in stark contrast to the formal black and burgundy her brother had worn. Only a man as devilish as he would dress in such wicked colors. “And we’re off,” Simon said as they walked towards the entrance to Vauxhall.
She barely slept the night before, had instead spent the time pacing and planning, weighing her options and playing out every scenario in her head. It was near to dawn when she finally dozed off, murmuring encouraging words she hoped would settle into her brain and spine. She awoke feeling surprisingly refreshed, took a long ride on Tulip, her favorite mare, and went shopping with Alex on Bond Street. She returned home around one o’clock, consumed a simple luncheon and then locked herself in her room, where she continued to consider and ponder, to deliberate and contemplate.
Her decision to call Andrew’s bluff brought a surprising mix of apprehension and anticipation. Despite his threat, she was not worried over how he would behave in public. If he acted scandalously in front of the ton, his risked damaging his reputation as well as her own. The danger lay in the meticulously planned clandestine meetings he was so skilled at arranging. How he managed them, she didn’t know, since society viewed these encounters with the same ferocious opposition they would a thief in their midst. Being alone with him, even a few steps away from a group of people, encouraged unwanted intimacy. In those moments, her baser urges would not be silenced, instead nagging like a frustrated child wanting to play instead of taking lessons. The only way to ensure her passion did not get away from her was to deny him the opportunity to provoke it.
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