Trapping a Duchess

by Michele Bekemeyer

“I'm going to find him. Come with me?”

  As tacking their way through the crush of guests gave Sophie a chance to search for Andrew, she did not protest. “Of course.” Twenty minutes and several tedious conversations later, they located him playing cards in the sitting room. To Sophie's surprise, Andrew was with him, his back to the door as he tossed a note down on the table. Alex marched her in that direction, stopping only when they stood directly at Andrew's back. At least I am sneaking up on him for once, Sophie thought.

  Simon noticed them first and shot them a patronizing smile. “Ballroom entertainment not stimulating enough?” he asked with a sardonic lift of his brows.

  “Alexandra has come to collect you for a dance,” Sophie answered wryly. At the sound of her voice, Andrew glanced over his shoulder. She met his surprised gaze with a determined smile. “Good evening.”

  “I’m out,” he said, tossing his cards down and standing so abruptly that she was forced to take a step backwards. Simon gave him an aggrieved sigh, but otherwise kept silent. Alex took her brother's seat, and his sideways step left him standing close. Too close. She drew a bracing breath as she glanced up into his face. The blackguard looked like he was biting back a triumphant grin. “Care to accompany me to the refreshment table?” he asked, offering his arm.

  “We’ve just come from there,” Alex tossed over her shoulder.

  “No, thank you. But you could deliver me to Lord Thomas,” Sophie said politely. “I am promised to him for the next set.”

  “I could,” he answered, tucking her arm into his. His smile was neither irritated nor condescending. It was, for once, nothing more than a smile; a flash of perfect teeth surrounded by genuinely amused lips. Blasted thing turned her knees to jelly. He led her out of the card room and towards the crowded ballroom.

  Sophie did not look at his face, but imagined him wearing his lordly mask, the one which informed all of the peasants he would order them beheaded if they dared engage him. She noticed Lord Thomas dancing the minuet, considered Andrew’s ambling pace and wondered how much longer the set would last. Until it did, she was content to circle the room like a vulture over a carcass.

  Andrew seemed to have shortened his stride, leaving them plenty of time to converse as they made their way through the sea of finery. “Have you enjoyed your evening so far?” he asked as he nodded a greeting to a passing acquaintance. The muscles beneath her fingers held none of their usual tension. Where there was normally a wellspring of coiled strength, tonight he appeared relaxed.

  “As much as I can,” she answered, the devil inside her prompting her to add, “for reasons I am certain do not require listing.” She waited for the tautness of his muscles to make an appearance. Nothing.

  The refreshment table came and went, and still he kept them moving. Their parade around the room was the most time she had spent at his side in a public setting. Even though they were surrounded by their peers, their conversation felt intimate. He made it so every time he leaned down to speak to her or catch her response, or dissuade another guest from joining them. “I would apologize, but I am certain you would not accept.”

  “Because you wouldn’t mean a single syllable of it,” she countered, sure to keep her voice low, even if it lacked its usual bite.

  He shook his head. “Because your opinion of me makes it impossible for you to view things with an unbiased eye.”

  At that, she met his gaze, but was surprised to find it held only amusement. “And your arrogance prevents me from viewing them in any other light.”

  He appeared to struggle for the barest of moments, but even that passed. When his eyes met hers, the amusement was gone, and in its place an irresistible vulnerability. The sight was confounding enough that his next words, despite their nature, whispered through her like an easy caress. “And your existence undermines my ability to think clearly, Sophie, so no more complaints about how unfair this whole situation is.”

  Lady Rochester waved hello, forcing Sophie to do the same. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, I am no more immune to you than you are to me. And ungentlemanly as it may be to bring up what's happened between us, I should still like to remind you that you were also present at those engagements.”

  She took a moment to respond, her senses reaching out, searching for signs of bitterness. Absolutely nothing. She was shocked and curious, both of which emboldened her enough to say, “Ah, but if you recall, I was not there by choice.”

  He shrugged, shooting her a naughty sideways glance. “Perhaps not initially, my dear, but I don’t remember you pushing me away, either. In fact, I seem to remember more moaning and sighing than anything else.” Sophie felt the heat of her blush all the way to her toes. A denial rushed to her lips, but he quelled it with a charming smile. “That was not a complaint.”

  Is he flirting with me? How should I respond? She settled for a “humph”.

  “Protest all you wish, madam, but matters between us are only as muddled as you insist on making them.”

  Torn between the confession he’d just made and the accusation that she was the one making things difficult, she bristled, but only a little. The sheer enjoyment of sparring with him overshadowed any irritation she tried to summon. “Do you remember when we were children and you declared yourself king of the world?”

  “Yes,” he said, catching her off guard with a deep laugh.

  “You refused to rescue me from my hilltop castle because you had ordered me to come down. You were offended that I was disobeying you.”

  “You accused me of ruling through arrogance.”

  She felt her lips curve into a smile. “Precisely. The only thing that has ever existed between us, Your Grace, is that which your pride created.”

  He tutted as he guided her past a row of curious onlookers, then turned his gaze out over the room. “If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

  “Now, what is that supposed to mean?” she asked, an uncontrollable laugh escaping her lips.

  He reached over with his free hand and patted hers in the same way one of the dowagers would. “I am well aware my declarations are wasted on your selectively deaf ears, but you cannot fault my tenacity. I like you too much to give up.” He shot her another one of those devastating smiles, only this one didn't just melt her knees, it melted her everywhere.

  Flustered, she glanced at her surroundings, suddenly aware that they were alone. “We left the ballroom.” She’d been enjoying the banter too much to notice he had steered them through the open French doors and onto the balcony outside. She leveled a hard stare in his direction, but his face held only genuine enjoyment of the moment, as if he were still caught up in their exchange.

  “An occurrence much more fun for both of us if you would just admit that you like me back.” His teasing tone and words were the exact formula to set her mind at ease.

  She lifted a brow. “I am certain the sheer size of your pride precludes any possibility of belief on your part, Your Grace, but you must believe me when I say that I do not like you enough to marry you.”

  “But you like me some.”

  “My feelings still aren’t plain enough?”

  He grinned. “Plain enough, but not true enough.” She did not have an opportunity to respond before he released her arm and walked down the steps towards the copse of trees below. Sophie remained in place, feeling confused and wanting nothing more than to find a quiet spot in which to deal with her somersaulting emotions. You could always return inside, her conscience whispered. She brushed the voice aside and wandered over to lean against the balustrade. The coolness of the stone was comforting through the pale lavender satin of her evening gown. She watched as a couple passed. They took no notice of her or Andrew, clearly enjoying each others company.

  Though she had known him for most of her life, it had been longer than not since she had glimpsed the man behind the duke, the one who had existed before he’d turned into a powerful, arrogant peer. Women whispered of his allu
re, but until now she had never truly experienced it. When they were betrothed, he’d always been unfailingly polite, a caricature of the English gentleman. Never once did he speak casually or tease her the way he had done this evening. And never, ever, had he turned the full force of his charm in her direction.

  She gazed up at the sky; for once she could see stars sprinkled there. Her eyelids drifted closed and a light breeze blew across her face, causing wisps of hair to tickle her neck. With a small laugh, she opened her eyes. Just in front of the tree line stood Andrew, watching her with an amused grin. He tilted his head, temptation personified as he lifted a hand and crooked his index finger in a silent request to join him. She stared a moment longer, spellbound by the contrasting power in his stance and promise in his capable hands and unforgivably kissable lips. Even from twenty feet away, she could well imagine the twinkle dancing in his eyes. Her finger traced along her lower lip, memories of his taste and touch sparking a blush feverish enough to ward off the chill air.

  He chuckled and the sound drifted up, doing nothing to snap her laggard wits into place. With a quick glance around she walked down the steps, keeping her hand in constant contact with the stone as if it might cool the heat coursing through her veins. If memories drove her towards him, then curiosity prodded her on. And though a warning whispered in the back of her mind, she found herself ignoring it. She was willing to risk losing her sanity for another peak at the man behind the duke.

  “Will you walk with me now?” he asked, offering his arm as she approached.

  Her will screeched a protest, unwilling to risk losing clarity of purpose in sinewy heat. Had the duke been the one asking, she might have been able to refuse him. But Andrew’s face held none of its usual authority. In fact, he looked like a man in the throes of uncertainty; a boy who wanted to succeed at something but was terrified to try. It disarmed her, utterly and completely. His boyish smile sent a frisson of memory through her body, bringing with it a giddy excitement far beneath her four and twenty years. Tamping down her body’s reaction, she placed her hand on his coat sleeve. “Where to?” she asked, torn between the desire that was flaring inside her and the instinct that insisted she could not trust him. It was a brief but bitter battle in which yearning was indisputably the victor. Some perverse part of her wanted to test his declaration about not being immune to her. Did it take more than a single smile or look? Or was it only once their bodies met that what flared between them sparked to life?

  Here, now, she could have her questions answered on her own terms, without the element of surprise that always lent him the advantage. Tonight, she would be the one in control. She repeated the litany in her head as they drifted deeper into the gardens, then again more forcefully when his arm straightened and her fingers slid into his, warm and strong as he tugged her onward.

  * * * *

  Andrew did not slow until they arrived at the rose arbor, a trellised alcove covered by rose vines. He was thankful to have remembered its existence. Years ago, his mother helped Lady Jackson design the cozy little nook as a refuge from the summer sun. The shelter was shaded, but allowed enough light for reading during the bright summer days. As an added bonus, it provided a fair amount of privacy. Wrought-iron benches rested against its walls, one close to the entrance and another further back, beyond the reach of the moonlight.

  He considered the woman with him, the willingness with which she had joined him and what, if anything, her consent meant. She looked so damned pleased with herself, his curiosity was piqued. Though he was not foolish enough to consider this short period of acquiescence as surrender, he wasn't yet willing to let their genial conversation end. She took a seat on the bench, smoothed the silk of her gown and rested her gloved hands in her lap. Her coy expression roused the suspicion he had put to bed during the last hour. “What are you about?” he asked, more forcefully than he intended.

  She straightened, tilted her head. He could practically see the responses flash across her mind as she thought of, and discarded, each. “Nothing. I want. . .” She shrugged.

  He moved closer, crouched down before her and met her gaze. “Tell me what you want, Sophie.”

  She shook her head, bit down on her lower lip. “I think perhaps we should return.”

  He had half a mind to agree, but it was the half that noticed desire in her eyes which caused him to act. “No, you don’t,” he said, taking her hand. He toyed with the glove on her fingers until it was loosened, then tugged it off and laid it beside her on the bench. As if she were too embarrassed to watch what he was doing, she turned her gaze out over his shoulder. He wondered what she was thinking, but knew she would never tell him, so instead of asking, he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss against her wrist. At her sigh, his body tightened. He wanted her to ask for what she wanted, wanted her to recognize that their attraction was as much hers to own as his. He needed her to not only embrace it, but participate in it.

  “I wish,” she said quietly, her eyes dropping closed. The start of a frown pulled her brows together. “Never mind.”

  “You wish?” he asked, his voice gravelly and full of more want, more need, than he thought himself capable. She stood and he watched, trying to read her intent. He wanted her, desperately, but if she walked away, he would not follow. It may be the bloody death of him, but he would force himself to remain there and not chase after her. She reached up and ran indecisive fingers over his cheek, down the column of his throat. For all the breath he was able to draw, she may as well have punched him in the chest. His lungs locked, every muscle taut as he waited for her to speak, to put a name to the emotion darkening her eyes. Her gaze searched his, but she remained silent.

  He could bear it no longer. “Tell me what you want.” She shook her head. He tilted her chin up and brushed a soft kiss over her lips. Conceding this one point did not mean admitting defeat. At the first sign of encouragement, he slanted his mouth over hers and slid his tongue inside. Not gently, either, but in a manner that would force her to face the intensity of her desire.

  Against him, she stiffened, and he thought she might pull away. Then her tongue met his. With a growl, he pulled her close, then set out to show her with lips and tongue and teeth that her desire was reciprocated, encouraged and appreciated. Restraint sorely tested, his kiss was hard, demanding. Instead of pulling away, though, she met him with equal fervor. Long fingers tangled in his hair, sparking sensation as they moved over the back of his head. They lingered at the nape of his neck, her touch gentle and exploratory. Eyes closed, his body still, he endeavored to enjoy the moment.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sophie struggled to keep control while blood coursed through her veins like molten fire. Breasts full and achy, her nipples pushed against her chemise in a manner that both abraded and aroused. She fought against the pleasure, against the knee weakening desire he was awakening with every expert stroke. Then he angled his head and deepened the kiss, and her wits scattered like dandelions in the wind. His hands molded over the curves of her body, his firm grip warming her from the top of her head to the tips of her slippered toes. His tongue stroked against hers, a silken, tantalizing caress that sent fire raging between her thighs. Strong hands drifted to the small of her back where his fingers splayed, momentarily, before continuing their journey downward and firming around her bottom. He backed her against the trellis wall, trapping her hands behind her and as he stared deep into her eyes.

  “Christ, Sophie,” he rasped through uneven breaths.

  The blaspheme was disregarded when he leaned forward and nibbled her earlobe, bringing pleasure-filled goose bumps to her arms. The buds of her nipples pulled painfully tight. She hadn’t the slightest idea of how to ease their ache, knew only that her body was desperate for more touching, more kissing, more of him pressed against her. Everywhere.

  “If you won’t tell me what you want, then let’s start with what you like.” He took her hands in his, raising them above her head and clasping both her wrists in one o
f his. His fingers ran down her throat to her scooped neckline, toying with the thin material. “For example, do you like this,” he asked, dipping inside. He rolled her nipple between his fingertips, spearing threads of pleasure through her. The sensation made her feel wanton, wicked and wonderful.

  And tongue-tied as a half-wit, apparently. Unable to voice her affirmation, she nodded.

  “Mm, I thought you might.” His hand drifted lower, long fingers tugging up her gown before skimming along her knee and past her garters. The sensitive junction between her legs throbbed and she arched against him, desperate to relieve the ache.

  “What about this?” He found her, touched her intimately, parting the folds of her flesh with skillful fingers.

  A gasp tore from her throat, equal parts excitement and embarrassment. Once, when she was younger, she overheard one of the maids talking about the pleasure to be had from a man's touch, but Sophie never considered what it would actually feel like. The description the maid gave was full of words like good and tender. What Sophie was experiencing was ineffable.

  He slid a finger inside of her and the breath she was holding rushed out with a moan. “Ah,” he said, sounding pleased by her response. “I see.” He pulled his finger out, flicking it against that wicked spot hidden beneath her thatch of hair. She was going to explode if he did not do something to ease the tension he was building. He feathered biting kisses along her jaw as he continued caressing her then stopped, breathing his next words into her ear. “Ask me, Sophie.” She whimpered, grinding against his hand shamelessly. He pulled back, refusing her imploring body the release for which it begged.

  “Please,” she said, feeling like she might die if he did not resume his touch.

  “Please what, love?”

  “More,” she whispered, consumed by the word and the pleasure it promised. His hands moved to her bottom, pulling her close as he thrust his hips. The hard length of him ground against her, driving her need to a fever pitch. His hips rolled over and over again, until she was panting and gripping his shoulders in desperation. She was close, so close, to reaching the explosive top of the volcano of need he had created. He moaned against her mouth and she toppled over, sensations pulsing through her body with such intensity that she wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time.