Simon and she kept a leisurely pace as they melded with the people along the Grand Walk to the entrance of Vauxhall Garden. Along the main path were hundreds of lit lamps, leaving her with the feeling that, at any moment, something magical might occur. “I forgot how charming the groves are,” she said, tugging at his arm to get his attention.
“Yes,” he said, sounding distracted. She did not take offense, for he planned to meet Lady Forrester and was doubtless trying to locate her.
“Do you see Alexandra yet?”
“Yes. She and Courtland’s sister are just across the way, milling around the orchestra's pavilion. Forgive me for leaving you to find your way alone?”
“I will manage, but return to us as soon as you find Lady Forrester. And for heaven's sake, promise you will behave.”
At her admonishing look, he grinned and waggled his brows. “We will find you after a bit.”
Sophie made her way to the pavilion, increasing her pace when they caught her attention and waved. “There you are,” Alex said, sizing Sophie up as she closed the distance. “You look absolutely gorgeous, my friend.”
“Stunning is more the word,” Lady Abigail added in an awed voice. “Every time you move, your gown shimmers!”
Sophie laughed. She chose to wear the translucent gown because of the way light played over the material. “Thank you both. You look smashing yourselves.”
The three women linked arms and made their way to the box. “We've sent the gentlemen to scout for the best place to view the fireworks.” Alex sounded pleased with herself. “But until that time comes, we're over there, in the far right supper box.”
Sophie grinned. “I haven't eaten Vauxhall ham since I was a child.”
“My father always insisted you could read a newspaper through it,” Lady Abigail said, laughing as she shook her head.
“Well, you'll both enjoy some tonight. Lord Courtland has also procured tarts, cheese and a rather delicious vintage wine,” Alex said as they strolled along the paths of the main quadrangle towards the box.
Lord Courtland arrived shortly after they did. “Lady Sophia, you are an oasis to my thirsty eyes,” he said, taking her hand and brushing his lips across her gloved knuckles in a manner she was certain should have set her insides aflame. To her dismay, it did not.
“Such an exquisite greeting, my lord,” Sophie laughed as she discreetly looked for Andrew.
“And still it falls short of the mark.”
Sophie had no time to respond before Andrew approached dressed in his trademark black and white. His eyes met hers, catching her breath low in her throat. He was nothing short of gorgeous—all long limbs and leonine grace, his brown hair just windblown enough to give him a dangerous air. Or to mark him the predator he is.
He cocked an arrogant brow as he caught her admiring gaze. With a careless shrug, she turned to Lord Courtland, giving him her most winning smile. “I am so pleased you invited me, my lord, truly. I'm looking forward to an enjoyable evening.” Inwardly bracing, she waited for Andrew’s reaction, for the consequences he insisted would come. None did. Instead, he acted as if all was as it should be, as if she hadn’t openly declared war on his ridiculous ultimatum. After their meal came and went without repercussions, she found herself relaxing, but found it difficult to drop her guard completely. His insouciance scratched at her suspicions, picked at her nerves just enough to keep them on edge.
“Do you plan to attend Roxford's house party?” Lord Courtland asked they strolled along the banks of the Thames.
“Indeed I do. What about you?”
He nodded, giving her an abashed smile. “I agreed to accompany Abby if you were there also.”
To her right, she heard Lady Abigail's laughter. “No, Your Grace, I only read about it, but my mother mentioned something about Zachary running outside, sure he would catch sight as it passed.”
“Catch sight of what?” Lord Courtland asked, leaning around Sophie to get his sister's attention.
“Messier Garnerin's balloon journey in oh-two. Do you remember?”
“The only thing I remember is telling you about it when you were five, and how terrified you were that it might return.”
“I was not!” she said, coloring.
“She hid underneath her bed,” Lord Courtland announced with a laugh.
“As any sensible lady should,” Andrew said, giving Lady Abigail a conspiratorial wink.
Sophie turned her gaze over the water, fighting against a current of jealousy. In all the years she had known Andrew, they never shared the camaraderie he and Lady Abigail shared. If she intended to further her friendship with the girl, she would have to ignore Andrew's antagonistic behavior.
“Please, tell me you were at least born when Garnerin took flight,” Lord Courtland said, nudging her out of her thoughts.
She chuckled. “Born, but not yet of an age.”
He placed her arm through his. “Like unmarked wine, sultry and mysterious, but without the bite of an aged bitter.”
With a loud boom and a pop, the first of the evening's fireworks exploded into the sky. The luminescent circles called attention to the clouds, bringing their outlines into sharp focus. Lady Abigail made her way to Lord Courtland's side, absent Andrew's company. Sophie wondered where the duke had gone, but didn't want to appear rude by inquiring. And though keeping track of him was the key to averting another ambush, she couldn't risk an obvious glance around. If he caught her searching, then he would want to know why, and she didn't want to lose the advantage.
Lady Abigail grew suddenly animated. “Look, Zach. Just over there; it's Lord Bottley. Could we stop by and say hello?”
Sophie glanced to where Lady Abigail was pointing, taking an extra moment to look for Andrew. She noticed Alexandra chatting with Simon and Lady Forrester, but the duke was nowhere to be found.
“Would you like to join us?” Lord Courtland asked her.
“No, thank you.” She wasn't sure she could take another one of Lady Abigail and Lord Bottley's lengthy reminiscences. “But you go ahead. I’ll wait right here.”
Lord Courtland's brow furrowed, but in the end he merely smiled. “As you wish.”
Sophie watched them go, then turned her attention back to the firework display, which was beginning to reach its peak. As if materializing out of nowhere, Andrew was suddenly next to her and standing far too close. He offered no greeting, but simply watched the sky as if what was happening there was of great consequence. “Enjoying the evening?” he asked as a burst of white exploded, its trails billowing downward like an airborne weeping willow.
Sophie kept her gaze upward. “I am, Your Grace. The display is nothing short of breathtaking. Truly one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.”
His agreement came as a murmur. She did not dare look at him, didn’t want to ruin even this single, perfect moment with what she might see in his expression. Glancing to where Lord Courtland was chatting, she chuckled. The three of them were nodding and laughing at a story Lord Bottley was telling, rather animatedly, if the jerky movement of his body was any indication.
“Walk with me,” Andrew said suddenly.
Sophie peered sideways at him, but could discern nothing from his profile. She frowned, wrapping her arms around her stomach to sooth away a frenzy of fluttering nerves, then squared her shoulders and faced him. “No.”
He looked at her then, though his expression gave nothing away. “No?” he repeated, his tone softer than a caress but still authoritative.
She lowered her voice. “I do not believe that would be wise. We cannot seem to talk without raising our voices. Matters are complicated enough without adding a public disagreement into the mix.”
For the space of several heartbeats he looked ready to argue with her right then and there. An unnamed emotion crossed his face before his lids grew shuttered. Clasping his hands behind his back, he turned his gaze to the sky once more. To anyone else, he would appear a gentleman enjoying an evening in the
gardens. To Sophie, he was a man pushed to his limits, whose paper thin veneer was as telling as outward aggression. His complacence, present throughout the evening, was no more enduring than the flicker of lights in the sky.
“You cannot avoid me forever.”
“Perhaps not forever,” she said, waiting until she had his full attention before continuing. “But I can certainly do so for the rest of the evening.” She dipped into a shallow curtsy, her eyes flicking up to his. “Better luck next time, Your Grace.”
* * * *
Near two in the morning, Sophie entered her bedchamber, looking exhausted. She placed the single burning candle on the bedside table and let out a contented sigh as she slipped off her shoes. Reaching around to untie her laces, she groaned. “Maybe next time you've a mind to give your maid the evening off, you'll consider wearing a gown less difficult to remove.”
From his position in a darkened corner, Andrew grinned. He couldn't have planned for a better moment to announce his presence. “It does seem the sort of thing easier accomplished with assistance,” he said, stepping out of the shadows.
With a startled cry, she reached for a vase on the table, nearly knocking over the lit candle in the process. Before she could grab the vase, he was behind her, one warm hand clamped over her mouth, the other splayed across her midsection. “You could hurt someone with that.” He plucked the vase from her shaking hands and tossed it on the bed. When her lips moved against his palm, he loosened his grip. “No more screaming.” At her nod, he released her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, whipping around to face him.
“I require a private moment.”
She eyed him as if she expected to see devil’s horns on his head. “This is my bedchamber, Your Grace. You have no right to be here, for any moment, private or otherwise.”
At her outraged tone, he chuckled. “Yes, well, that does not seem to have hampered me any. Besides, we need to talk.”
“No,” she said, her hands moving to her hips. “We do not. You need to leave this room, no, this house, immediately.” He shook his head, letting the silence stretch. “How in blazes did you get in here, anyway?” she asked, moving to the opposite side of the bed.
He hid his amusement. Did she really believe putting a bed between them would ensure her innocence? He pushed away the errant thought. “Irrelevant.”
She slanted him an annoyed look and jabbed a finger towards the door. “Get out.”
“But who will help you out of that delicious gown?”
Her eyes flashed round as saucers before narrowing. “Get out now or I swear I will scream.”
“Again?” he asked as he started around the bed towards her.
She took a few steps backwards as she spoke, her words infused with the steel that pulled her posture straight. “My mother would never force me to marry you, and Simon—”
“Is off enjoying Lady Forrester's company, I'm certain. And you’re deluded if you think either one of them wouldn’t march you to the altar straightaway.” He continued prowling towards her as she continued backing away, watching her anger rise with every step. He felt like a predator about to feast on its prey and his pulse quickened as excitement raced through his veins. Then, without warning, she stopped moving. The look in her eyes caught him off guard. He hesitated for a moment, searching her face for signs of fear. Seeing indecision, and not alarm, he leaned against the bedpost. “Sophie—”
“Why did you come here?” she asked, sounding more plaintive than irate.
“I have answered that question already.”
She scoffed. “You could not call upon me at a decent hour? Through the front door, like a civilized gentleman?”
He grinned, folding his arms over his chest. “Where would the fun be in that?”
She looked ready to stomp her foot, but instead only rolled her eyes. “Say what you need to say and go, then.”
“Am I to understand by your behavior this evening that you will continue to accept Courtland's attentions?”
She looked at him with all the impatience of a hellcat trapped in church. “Is that why you’re here, for confirmation? I thought I made my intentions plain.”
“It never hurts to have ones suspicions confirmed,” he said, pushing off the post and walking towards her until they were less than an arm's length apart. Her jaw was set, her fists clenched by her side. Her eyes darted to the vase resting on the bed. He imagined she’d like nothing more than to brain him with it. “Sophie.”
Her breathing hitched and her tongue darted out over her lower lip. The closer he came, the more her body thawed. He hadn't even touched her and she was already melting. “You said you came to talk,” she said, voice quavering.
“Amongst other things. Think of it as an answer to your challenge.”
“Challenge?” she said, her voice growing stronger, louder. “There is no bloody challenge! You only said that to bait me, as I had done you. You didn’t. . .you did not mean it!”
He bit back a smile. When they were sparring, she was difficult to resist. “For all of your supposed knowledge of me, you know me very little. As I mentioned before, I know exactly what I want.” He kept his gaze trained on hers, on the discordance within. “I'm not the one wasting energy on bravado.”
She closed the distance, her gaze frosty. “And I am not the one who issued an ultimatum.” She poked him in his chest, hard. “You did that. Because you are a dictator and a bully, which makes you the very reason women like myself find marriage distasteful.”
Andrew did not touch her then, though his fingers itched to. He wanted to own every ounce of her passionate anger, wanted her to require him and only him for survival. If she was out of reach, then he couldn’t take her into his arms and make a mockery of her words, and he wanted to do so more than he wanted to breathe. “The only difference between you and me are the tactics we use to get what we want.”
“What you want, you mean.”
Without thinking, he reached out, his thumb drifting down her cheek to rub across her lower lip. Her lips parted and he dipped inside, trying not to openly gloat when desire chased away the anger in her eyes. In that instant, in the transition from bluebells to cobalt, he realized that while she would counter his every word with biting denials, they would hold no ground against the burden of physical proof. “What we both want.” She trembled, but made no effort to pull away, not that he expected anything different. For all her experience in verbal warfare, she had no knowledge of the physical battlefield. Andrew was practiced, armed and ready, and dying to unleash his expertise.
* * * *
Andrew’s hands left hers to move to her waist and turn her around, his nimble fingers going to work on her laces. “I wish you could see what I see,” he said, his breath puffing against her hair. She felt him move closer, but instead of annoyance, her pulse beat wild with anticipation. Torn between tearing herself away and wanting to see what he did next, she stilled. He trailed kisses along her neck, his fingers drifting past her collar bone to splay over her throat. Her body softened beneath his touch and a soft moan broke free from her lips.
“Shh,” he said as his hand slid down, taking her gown with it. Surrounded by the warmth of his body, she had forgotten the room wasn't heated. The chill of the air sent a shiver racing through her. His hands curved under her breasts and pushed them up. Her nipples felt painfully tight beneath his fingers, even as the rest of her body melted with pleasure. His teeth met her shoulder with a nibbling bite, and she drew in a sharp breath. With lips and tongue, he soothed the skin and her head fell back against his chest. Her sigh held more encouragement than aggravation, and something within her began to quicken. “So beautiful,” he said, rolling her nipples between his fingers. She gasped as pleasure arced through her, a delicious sensation which started an ache between her thighs. As if to trap the exquisite feeling, she clenched them together. As far as mistakes go, it was one of monumental proportions. The pressure only intensified, left her yearn
ing for more.
The battle between flesh and will was sapping her strength, and she tried to rally memories of her father’s bullying to counter the effects. To her surprise, none came. Andrew pulled away, moving around to face her, his perfect lips twitching as if he knew her failure. She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed a finger against her lips.
“Don’t talk. Just feel.”
He bent down, flicked his tongue over one of her nipples and her breath caught on a broken inhale. She held it, focused on the expanding of her lungs in an effort to ignore the fire racing through her. Most of her skin felt feverish, and the parts that didn’t were tinder waiting for the spark of his touch. Why aren't you pulling away? His eyes met hers and the thought vanished. Kneading her flesh with experienced fingers, he covered one tight bud with his mouth and sucked, his teeth gently biting into her hardened nipple. Sensation speared through her and a low whimper escaped her throat. She wanted to touch him as she was being touch, but her arms were trapped by her sleeves.
He pinned her hands by her sides, lavishing her other breast with equal attention. Falling to his knees, he rained tender kisses along her stomach, and she felt his lips curve as she sucked in a ticklish breath. “Please,” she said, trying to free her arms.
But all he did was stand up and take her head in his hands, his lips finding hers without hesitation. His kiss was gentle yet dominating, coercive and demanding all at once. To her chagrin, she responded with fervor, grasping, pressing, molding her body against his. A single tug and they would tumble into her bed. His delicious body would cover hers. She could take and be taken. She pulled at him, but he did not budge. Instead, he eased their kiss back a notch, then another, and another, until their lips were barely brushing. She let out a low growl of frustration. He chuckled against her mouth, then with one last flick of his tongue, one final teasing nip to the corner of her mouth, released her.
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