“Why did you stop?” she asked, tugging up the straps of her gown, suddenly embarrassed. She’d behaved like a wanton.
“You know why, Sophie,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers. He planted a chaste kiss against her forehead and, with one last smile, started towards the door. “I will call on you tomorrow, through the front door like a proper gentleman.”
Anger burned her cheeks. She resented him for his control and for making her want him. And for making her forget, if only for a short time, all of the reasons she didn't want to be with him. He was just like her father, manipulative and bossy. “I will not receive you.”
“Yes, you will,” he said, giving her a triumphant smile, pulling the door closed before she could retort. Annoyed that she couldn't follow, she grabbed the closest thing she could find and threw it at the door. She never cared much for the vase before, but liked it even less when it did not shatter.
Chapter Ten
Andrew lined up his billiards cue and took his shot. The ball bounced off the side and into the right corner pocket as if commanded.
“Lucky bastard,” Simon said around his drink, drawing a chuckle from Andrew.
He enjoyed billiards, always had. It was a game that required precision and skill. Not all that different from a seduction, he thought with a smug smile as he took his next shot and the ball vaulted into its pocket. He would win that game as well. Sophie’s response to his touch was intoxicating and stopping where he had had taken a concerted effort. Every fiber of his being had wanted to stay and strip her of both gown and anger so he could show her what she would be giving up by not giving in. Lining up his cue once again, he remembered the sensual way she moved against him. The ball went sailing into the air, nearly clipping Simon in the head.
“Christ, Drew. That could have been ugly,” he said as he located the wayward ball and picked it up.
Andrew shook off the shot and returned to his brandy, pulling slightly at his cravat as memories of Sophie heated his skin.
“Do you still plan to attend Roxford’s house party?” Simon asked as he bent over the table to take his turn.
“Mm hm,” he said, distracted by images of Sophie’s upcoming surrender.
Simon paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Did you not hear she’s not attending?”
Before Andrew's mind had a chance to free itself from Sophie’s clutches, an annoyed question jumped to his lips. “What do you mean, she isn't attending?”
Simon straightened, leaning on his cue as his gaze narrowed. The moment of scrutiny snapped Andrew's wits into place. Naturally, Simon was referring to Lady Abigail. “Your sister was right, wasn’t she?” he asked, folding his arms, cue included, over his chest.
Andrew forced a disinterested tone. “Right about what?”
“When she said you love her.”
Had Andrew not realized which lady they were talking about, he would have paled right down to his boots. Since, thankfully, he did, he felt perfectly justified in pinning his friend with a determined look and stating “no” with equal resolution.
“If you say so,” Simon said before taking his shot.
Andrew had no idea why he had not revealed his plans to Simon. In a normal courtship, Andrew would gain the permission of her brother before he made advances upon her person. And that is exactly why you have not mentioned it, his inner voice accused. A normal courtship did not involve seduction. Wooing a lady of breeding involved flowers and long rides in the park and poorly written poetry declaring everlasting devotion. Sophie would suffer none of those from a man whose intentions were, to her mind, dishonorable. He wasn't sure where her misconceptions of him stemmed, but they were serious obstacles he would need to overcome.
“Courtland stopped by this morning with a message saying that he and his sister are heading to Bath. Apparently, one of his aunts has fallen ill.” Simon shook his head as his ball rolled towards the hole and stopped just at the edge.
Andrew feigned a curious look over the rim of his glass. “Is that so?” With Lady Abigail out of the picture, he would not have to concern himself with how to let her down.
“Yes. Oddly enough, though, Sophie would not see him. As long as I live, I will never understand the girl. Courtland spent the last week escorting her hither, thither and yon and do you know what she said when she found out he wouldn't be at the house party?”
“Enlighten me.”
“She said, and I quote,” he pitched his voice into a falsetto, “'I am sure Lady Abigail is more put out than I over the matter.' Can you believe that? She didn't mention Courtland at all.”
“Interesting.” Hiding his amusement was becoming more difficult with each passing moment.
“At any rate, mother wonders if she and Courtland had a falling out. The woman’s actions are simply beyond comprehension anymore.”
“What can you do?” he asked, shrugging as if the idea of Sophie's remark did not have him wanting to jump up on the billiards table and dance a victory jig.
“The only thing I intend on doing is finding a secluded spot and enjoying Lady Forrester's generous bounty.” He grinned.
Andrew laughed. “Sounds like you have it all planned out.”
Simon clapped him on the back. “I do. Which means you’ll have to entertain yourself without benefit of my company, or that of your scintillating bride-to-be.”
They finished their billiards game and headed to White’s. Andrew had been enjoying himself until he had heard of the newest wager on the books, a bet made by Lord Jackson on how long it would take for him to secure a certain blonde-haired, blue eyed minx as his bride. Simon merely laughed at what he termed “a fat chance from the bowels of hell,” but Andrew wanted to tear the man apart with his bare hands. He settled instead for silence, which left the topic of conversation up to Simon.
“I think Jackson would suit her just fine, but she has a very different opinion on the matter. For a woman up against a clock, she seems to be exceedingly picky.” Simon spent the entire carriage ride home elaborating on what he meant. It had been the longest of Andrew’s life.
Once he arrived, he took Sasha, his stallion, for a long, hard ride, pressing both of their skills to the limits. He tried centering his thoughts on his estates, the whereabouts of his brother Gabriel, his friend Charles in America, all to no avail. Memories of his encounter with Sophie continued to haunt him—her face flushed with desire, the velvety feel of her skin, the low, seductive moan she let out when his tongue slid across hers. No matter what topic with which he endeavored to fill his mind, the blasted woman would not leave his head. By the time he arrived home and stabled his horse, it was as late as he was frustrated.
Alex waited in the foyer, wearing a hole in her slippers as she wore the wax off the wood. In her curled hand was a piece of paper. “Did you know about this?” she asked without preamble, thrusting the tattered article towards him as if it were a death sentence.
For a split second he considered adopting a lofty tone and reminding her who between them held the title. Instead, he took in her shaking hand, the aberrant flames in her eyes and the posture that screamed she was on the offensive. He changed tactics. “Know about what?”
“This,” she said, shaking the paper at him.
“I do not even know what it is,” he said, keeping his voice level as he held out his hand.
“Read it, then.” She thrust the missive into it.
He took the paper and opened it, smoothing it out against his thigh. His eyes jumped first to the signature line, then to the body. It was a note from Sophie passing along word of Courtland's departure to Bath. Andrew expected to find angry adjectives flinging themselves about the page, but Sophie's tone was cool. “Simon informed me of their departure this morning,” he said, handing the letter back with a disinterested shrug.
“And you had nothing to do with it?” she asked, regarding him disdainfully.
“Courtland’s sick aunt?” he asked, incredulous. “What is it you’re not sayi
ng, Alexandra?”
“I believe you would do anything within your power to get her alone.”
He searched her face for any sign that she might be putting him on, but could find none. Straightening to his full height, he stared down at her. “Did it ever occur to you that if I wanted to get Lady Abigail alone, the last thing I would do is arrange for a sick relation? In Bath, no less. Or are you of the belief that I possess the power to summon illness now?”
She stared back at him as if he were the very definition of the word idiot. “I was not speaking of Lady Abigail and you damned well know it.”
He ignored the sickening weight that settled in his stomach, a reminder that Alex had seen more than she ought. Goddammit, he thought. He was not going to have this conversation with her. “It has nothing to do with you, Alexandra, so stay out of it.”
“Sophie is my friend.”
“Which doesn't entitle your involvement.”
“I won't sit back and watch her suffer.”
“She is hardly suffering. And you would do well to remember that she is capable of making her own decisions.” He felt the weight of equal advice in her stare. While she stood with pointed finger and assaulted him with the words of poets, she was as aware of her own feelings as a fox was the value of a shilling.
“Why can't you just—”
He silenced her with a look filled with every ounce of autocracy he could muster. “As head of this household, I am warning you to leave it be.”
Alex took a step towards him, her voice low and ominous as distant thunder. “Fine. But one day, my lord Duke, she will cease playing whatever game you have bullied her into and marry the first person to cross her path. And make no mistake, brother. You will lose more than just a playmate.”
They continued to glare daggers at each other for a full minute before Andrew stalked around her and left the hall, his hands clenched into painful fists by his side. He could remember only a handful of times he and Alex had butted heads with such vehemence. Her awareness was a bad omen. Explaining his actions to her was out of the question. Besides, he did not owe her any explanations, not her or Simon or anyone else. He barely had the courage to have the dialogue with himself.
He stormed up the staircase and flung open the door to his bedchamber, startling his valet. “We need to hurry,” he grumbled as he pulled his shirt off. While Kenneth helped him into his evening attire, Andrew's mind turned to Sophie's letter. He would have to be on top of his game this evening if he planned on advancing matters. The thought elicited trepidation; she was an explosive set close to a burning candle already. Once her fuse was lit, she would ensure she was not the only one burned.
Andrew and Alex arrived at the Jackson ball over an hour late, both their moods sour, despite the practiced smiles gracing their faces. After greeting their hostess, Alex flounced off without a word, leaving him with a few moments to himself. Opting not to descend the grand staircase immediately, he settled into a darker corner and observed the ballroom from above. He needed only a glimpse of Sophie’s face to determine her mood.
He scanned the floor below, searching until he spotted her on the far side of the room, near the end of a line of dancers. She stepped forward, hand up as she circled around her partner, her pretty cheeks flushed from the exertion. He wished he were close enough to hear her laughter. His memory of the sound never quite did it justice. A few more turns and the set ended. She made a brief curtsy and smiled graciously, looking carefree as he'd ever seen her. He took one last moment to soak in her happy expression, for the instant she saw him, he knew it would disappear.
* * * *
Sophie set her hand on Lord Bottley’s arm and allowed him to lead her from the floor. Noticing Alex waiting at the perimeter, she waved. Alex smiled in return, but her head nodded towards the balcony doors before she exited that way. What on earth has happened now, Sophie wondered, brows pulling together in consternation. “Pardon me, my lord, but I am needed elsewhere.”
“Of course,” Lord Bottley said, bowing.
“Over here,” Alex called out the second Sophie stepped outside.
Whatever was wrong was obviously important. She joined her at the shadowed end. “What has happened?”
“I received your note. I know you must be disappointed that Lord Courtland won’t be at the house party,” Alex said, seeming genuinely upset. “I am so sorry.”
Sophie tilted her head. “The last time you said those words to me, your brother appeared out of thin air.” She glanced over her shoulder to ensure the devil wasn’t lurking there.
“My brother is an ass,” she said forcefully.
“Both of our brothers are, but we knew that already, dearest.” Sophie took her hand. “Now tell me, what is the matter?”
“He simply refuses to understand,” Alex said, leaving Sophie with the niggling feeling that whatever had her in a snit was not something she was ready to discuss.
Under the ton’s scrutinizing gaze, she and Andrew had kept their conversations to a minimum. They were both conscientious of the fact that a single misspoken word would be enough to frenzy the gossips, a mere look askance enough to fan the flames of curiosity. They understood and so behaved with outward civility so long as others were near. “Lord Courtland can hardly be faulted for an ill relative. But I am confident he will return with utmost haste as soon as he is able. In the meantime, we should enjoy ourselves.”
Alex stared at her with bewildered eyes. “You truly aren’t troubled that he won’t be at the house party?”
“I admit to being a trifle disappointed, but troubled?” she said, forcing a light laugh. “Not at all. Why should I be?”
“I am so confused,” Alex said, her shoulders slumping. “I read that note thirty times before Drew got home. I thought. . .” She heaved a sigh then turned to look out over the lawns. “Oh, Sophie. It's too embarrassing to recount. I made a complete cake out of myself.”
“Then say no more. Whatever happened, I'm certain you didn't end up a cake.”
She groaned. “I won't be surprised if Andrew never lets me live this down.”
Sophie chuckled. “Probably not, but that's what siblings do. Torment each other under the guise of love.” She wrapped her arm around Alex’s shoulders and squeezed.
Alex laughed ruefully. “I suppose I should find him and apologize.”
“I hear the orchestra tuning. Let us head inside. I promised this dance to,” she glanced at the dance card on her wrist, “Lord Roxford.”
Alex nodded and they headed back through the balcony doors. Lord Roxford claimed Sophie for their waltz as soon as he saw her. As they took to the floor, she caught Andrew’s entrance. She had once heard her mother describe her father as delectable. At eight, she could not comprehend how one human being could find another so. Delectable was a word used to describe food like strawberry tarts and chocolate pie. Now, however, watching him stride across the room, she realized exactly what her mother meant. His breeches fit him perfectly, accentuating long, muscular legs. His shirt was made of stark white superfine, his silver cravat intricately tied. He looked confident and impeccable. And in dire need of ruffling.
Sophie did not even attempt to focus on the waltz, instead doing her best to keep the conversation to the mundane, as her senses were wholly tuned to the man pretending not to watch her from the perimeter of the ballroom floor. His gaze bore into her back when he thought she wasn’t looking, his mask of aloofness firmly in place when the dance faced her in his direction.
The old adage about friends and enemies popped into her head. If she intended on avoiding the duke, it was imperative that she know where he was at all times. Surrounding herself with a group of admirers would not be enough. His rank ensured that people stepped aside and Sophie had seen for herself the reactions garnered by a mere lift of his brow. Aside from another of equal station, there wasn’t a gentleman of her acquaintance who would stand against him. Her options, she knew, were limited. And though it pained her to accept t
he fact, she refused to give up hope; instead centered her strategy on thwarting his surprises. If he could not catch her off guard, then he would not be successful in breaching her defenses. Besides, she only had to hold him off long enough to bring Lord Courtland to scratch.
At length, the waltz ended. She curtsied to Lord Roxford, looking over his shoulder to where Andrew had been standing and expecting to see him there. To her frustration, he was gone. She searched as discreetly as she could, but in the end, could find no sign of him. She spotted Alex by the refreshment table conversing with, or rather listening to, Lord Bottley. A polite, but bored, look graced her face and Sophie knew she would have to rescue her.
“Would you mind?” she asked Lord Roxford as she gestured towards where Alex stood.
“It would be my pleasure,” he replied, setting her arm in his.
Alex caught their approach with a broad smile. “Sophie! I was wondering where you were. Excuse us, gentlemen,” she said, taking Sophie’s arm and leading her away before she could protest. Not that Sophie planned to; she had bigger fish to fry this evening. She just had to locate the fish.
“This has got to be the absolute worst ball ever,” Alex said, steering them to a less crowded corner of the room.
“It might help if you danced, dearest. Or at the very least, numbed the evening with drink,” Sophie said with a laugh, grabbing two flutes of champagne and pressing one into Alex's hand.
“Is your brother here?” she asked as she took a sip. “Perhaps I could convince him to stand up with me. I can’t bear another moment discussing the weather from the perimeter.”
“I believe so, though I doubt he is in the ballroom.”
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