Trapping a Duchess

by Michele Bekemeyer

  Overwhelmed, she clung to him, trying to anchor her body against the onslaught. As her wits made their slow return, she was unable to summon even an iota of the anger and disappointment she knew she should be feeling. After all, despite her plans to the contrary, she had once again landed in another of his well-planned moments. Even worse, this time she had encouraged it. She should be furious. Instead, she felt boneless, weightless, the usual steel in her spine as malleable as butter.

  “It's okay.” He pulled her close as she shook with the aftershocks of pleasure. “Let it go.” Several moments later, the intensity dimmed, leaving behind a level of contentment she’d never dreamed existed. Weak-kneed and shivering, she burrowed against him. She was dizzy, deliriously so, by the time he released her hands. “You are lovely like this,” he said with a devilish smirk.

  Sophie couldn’t catch her breath, could barely form a coherent thought as she willed her body to cool, beckoned the remainder of her wits to return. After what seemed like forever, she stopped shaking.

  “Come,” he said softly, offering his arm. “We have been gone too long already.” She nodded, but said nothing and continued in that vein the entire walk back. She had no idea what he was thinking, and thus, had no idea what to say. She wasn’t entirely convinced she would end up doing more than flapping her lips insipidly, anyway. He slanted her a sideways glance as they arrived at the bottom of the portico steps. The journey back in the cool night air worked wonders in clearing her head, though her body still felt like a limp rag. “You go in. I am going to stay here for a bit.”

  Acknowledging his request with a shaky nod, she made for the safety of the ballroom with as much outward grace as she could. And inwardly as though her life depended on it.

  * * * *

  Andrew watched until she was inside, then went to the front of the house and ordered his carriage. Ten minutes later, he headed home, his control depleted. His body ached with a need so great he felt short of breath and completely cramped in his clothes. He had planned on seducing Sophie but had not counted on the price the endeavor would cost him. Leaning back against the comfortable seats, he willed his body to relax. He would need to bind his needs in a cocoon of control before their next encounter, though he was not entirely convinced he could control anything, especially when she ground against him. The woman was completely unaware of the eroticism in her unpracticed movements.

  He closed his eyes on a groan, his cock stirring to life with the image. Clearly, he needed to redirect his thoughts. Perhaps a long ride or a stiff drink would help. A deep chuckle escaped him. He could not stand up right now if he tried. The last thing he needed was something stiff.

  Christ, he thought with a shudder, what you really need is an ice-cold bath at a monastery on the other end of the Earth.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two frustrating days later, Andrew sat in his study watching as the rain ran down the window in hazy ribbons. Bolts of lightning ripped through the sky, revealing clouds as black as his mood. Roxford’s house party started over a day ago. Andrew had been packed and set to travel with Alexandra and their aunt when he received an urgent letter from his business partner Charles, Viscount of Winterley. The note announced his impending arrival in London and requested an audience upon his return.

  The ambiguous tenor of the missive baffled Andrew. Charles was usually succinct when relaying news of a business nature, which meant that whatever he needed to discuss was personal. Andrew informed his aunt and Alexandra that he would be unable to join them, offering the first excuse which came to mind, a fallen tree on their country estate. Thin thought it sounded, even to his ears, the women accepted his reason without question. He doubted Sophie would do the same.

  As he considered the storm raging outside, he hoped it would not delay his friend’s arrival. The letter was franked a fortnight prior in Germany, an occurrence Andrew did not find suspicious. The two men had business interests there. Yet, three days had passed since he had received the missive and no other information had been forthcoming. The wait had long since begun to get to him.

  Finishing his brandy, he leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrest as he steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. He wondered what Sophie was doing at that moment. With little time to inform Alexandra that he would not be joining them, he was forced to rely on her to explain his absence to Sophie. As his sister had no idea what had happened between them, he was certain she would pass along the excuse of the fallen tree. To his mind it sounded like a hasty retreat, a happening sure to set him back a step. Worse than that, he was missing out on the opportunity afforded by a lack of scrutiny. There was something about being ensconced in the country which seemed to loosen the reins of propriety. The scandals born during these extended holidays should have made them a concern for chaperones, but as many of said scandals turned into proper marriages, they paid no heed.

  He sighed, leaning his head back as his eyes drifted closed. Sophie’s face filled the darkness, filled with desire that transformed her blue eyes to cobalt. The transitory color remained with her, even as she tried to cool down. He could smell and taste the sweetness of her body as if she were sitting in his lap. As if to remind him of her absence, another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, rattling the windows with the force of its thunder. Standing, he moved his neck from side to side, stretching his arms and legs. He needed sleep. Entering the hall, cleared his throat. His trusty butler appeared immediately.

  “May I be of service, Your Grace?”

  “No, Weston. I believe I’m for bed. You should do the same. Storm looks like it might be here for hours.”

  The butler bowed. “Very well, Your Grace. Good evening.”

  Andrew had just reached the bottom of the staircase when he heard the sound of an approaching carriage. “What the devil?” he said, returning quickly back to the door. In an instant, he’d reached it and pulled it open, revealing Charles as he took the portico steps three at a time.

  “Oh, good,” he said, skidding to a stop as he shielded his eyes from the deluge. “You’re awake.”

  “And you’re soaked through,” Andrew noted with a frown. “What the hell persuaded you to head out here in this tempest?”

  Charles met his gaze with a grave expression. “It’s Gabriel.”

  Andrew was down the steps and to the carriage before his heart had time to beat again. Yanking the door open, he peered inside, heedless of the downpour chilling him through to his bones. His younger brother lay against the seat, face colored in an astonishing display of bruises, his right arm in a sling. He looked as if he’d been nearly stomped to death by an elephant. Gabriel offered a grin, or at least Andrew thought he meant to. His lips were so swollen and cut up that the motion may as well have been a grimace. He climbed inside and sat on the seat next to him. Charles followed, taking the seat opposite as he reached out to close the door.

  “What the hell happened, Gabe?” Andrew asked, his voice a desperate combination of fear and irritation.

  “Not quite the welco’ ho’ I had en’isioned,” Gabe said, wincing.

  “Well, this is bloody well not the sight I expected for your homecoming, either,” Andrew shot back before he could stop himself. He was taking his anger out on the wrong person.

  “We need to move him inside,” Charles broke in. “He’ll catch his death surrounded by all this damp air. We’ve been dealing with storms like this for days.” The two men helped Gabriel out of the carriage and to the bedchamber that had remained his even after he’d taken his position with Whitehall. Later, Andrew went to check on him, but Gabriel, once ensconced in the safety of his bed, had fallen asleep.

  Charles stood when Andrew entered the study. “How is he?”

  “Asleep, thank god,” Andrew said, moving to the liquor cabinet. He filled his snifter to the top. “Would you like one?”

  Charles chuckled. “Already helped myself,” he said, indicating the half-filled drink on the desk. Both men sipped in silence for a l
ong moment.

  “How did you happen by him?”

  Charles reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a tattered piece of paper. “I received this,” he said, handing the note to him, “at a ball in Cherbourg. I was there after the close of the Haufstein deal and was approached by a young woman.”

  Andrew opened it, quickly scanning through the scrawled address. “Do you remember what she looked like?” he asked, inspecting the handwriting more closely. Had he not know it belonged to a woman, he never would have guessed. She must have been in a rush.

  Charles shook his head. “Violet eyes, brown hair. That’s all I can remember. It was a masked ball. We shared a drink and flirtatious conversation before she handed that to me and left. I assumed she wanted me to meet her there after the ball. So, I did.” His expression darkened.

  Andrew nodded. “And found Gabe. How long ago was this?”

  “Just over a fortnight. When I arrived. . .” Charles stared into his snifter. “You can imagine my shock.”

  “He was tortured,” he said frankly.

  Charles nodded. “And left for dead. God only knows how long he had been there. He says he doesn’t remember.”

  “Or doesn’t want to say.” His brother had a mind as sharp as a rapier and Andrew thought it more likely that he remembered every torturous moment of his ordeal. “Did the lady give a name?”

  “Miss Glennie Pope.” He glanced up, his pale eyes shining with disappointment.

  “What is it?”

  “I should have known, Andrew. Looking back, Miss Pope seemed overly flirtatious, even nervous. I was enjoying the banter too much at the time to consider how false the whole thing rang. Once I arrived and saw the state of the room. . .once I realized what had happened, I was completely thrown. It was like stumbling into another man's nightmare.”

  “You couldn't have done anything to stop it, Charles.”

  “Miss Pope did, and she was an innocent. I cannot fathom how she came to know your brother was in that hellhole or that delivering a message to me would be of any help.”

  Andrew nodded. Charles was an upstanding member of society, a true gentleman to his core. He would never have accepted the attentions of an innocent, no matter how intriguing the conversation. He remembered when he’d first brought Charles home to meet his family, during a Christmas break from Oxford. Alexandra had been sixteen at the time and took an immediate liking to him. Though she was not prone to incessant flirting, her interest had been plain enough. Charles, once aware of the situation, had done his best to avoid her for the remainder of the holiday.

  “You did not have contact with Miss Pope after that?” Andrew asked, a thousand thoughts raging through his mind.

  “I wanted to stay and search for her. I even made a few discreet inquiries before we left, but my primary concern was getting Gabriel to safety.”

  “Thank you for that,” Andrew said softly. “And for the discretion in your note. Had I known the details of his homecoming, I would have made mucked everything up by keeping Alexandra here.”

  “She will be angry if she learns the truth.”

  “Thankfully, she and my aunt are in Surrey attending Roxford’s house party until Monday next. I’ve asked Weston to have one of the guest rooms readied for you. I thought you might need a place to stay until you can procure lodgings.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said, rising. “It’s been a long night. If we’re done here, I believe I’ll find my bed.”

  “You should get some rest.”

  Charles walked to the door then turned. “One more thing. We ran into my cousin Kate at an inn on the way home. She's on her way to London for a few weeks and was quite concerned, as you can imagine.”

  “I'm sure she coddled him like a babe,” he said, smiling for the first time since Charles had arrived.

  He laughed. “She dressed his wounds and made a healing poultice for our travels. I made her promise not to follow until the rain let up, but she insisted on checking up on him once she arrives. I imagine that will be within the next few days.”

  “As long as she is aware that my sister is to have no knowledge of Gabriel's state.”

  “Of course.” With that, Charles left the room.

  Lady Katherine—Kate, to her friends—was a physician’s daughter who had married Charles’ cousin, the Duke of Bramley. The pair had enjoyed nine years of marriage before he suffered an apoplexy at the age of thirty-eight. Since then, Kate had lived a quiet life with her seven-year old daughter Celia, coming up for only a few weeks at the end of the Season, much to society’s dismay. Her bubbly personality made her a favorite of both men and women alike. Having her around would prove helpful in dealing with Gabriel, as she was one of the few women with whom he appeared to have a close bond.

  He would rely on her to be Gabriel's confidant, in the hopes he might reveal something, anything about the villains responsible for his torture. Andrew would do everything in his power to run them to ground and make them pay.

  * * * *

  On the fourth day of the house party, Sophie found herself arranged on the chaise lounge in the sitting room, captive audience to a group of female guests who were spending the afternoon gossiping about the latest on-dit. Alex had chosen to spend the afternoon locked in her room with a book, claiming the need for rest before the evening’s festivities. Sophie had tried to do the same, but the solitude had proved too much. As long as her mind was occupied, she could forget about Andrew and her feelings.

  The nights were difficult enough. Once in bed, her mind was plagued with memories of their moments together, the feel of his strong fingers as they drifted over her skin, the warmth of his mouth as his tongue mated with hers, the smell and taste of him, elemental and raw and oh-so-delicious. After four days of sleepless nights, her patience was sorely taxed. She noticed Lady Forrester entering the room and smiled. At least she wouldn't have to endure the ridiculous chatter alone.

  “May I?” Lady Forrester asked, indicating the extra space on the lounge.

  “Please do,” Sophie said, straightening to make room as trying her best to not stare. In a land of fair maidens, Lady Forrester was a dark beauty. Her straight, jet black hair was striking against her fair skin, and her piercing emerald eyes spoke of experience and wisdom. Beneath her polished exterior was a woman who had seen more of life's darkness than light, but who was clearly determined to not to succumb to the shadows. Sophie liked her immensely, not only because Lady Forrester could hand her brother a set down with a minimum of words, but because she was living life on her own terms.

  “I’m afraid we have not had much of a chance to converse during our stay, Lady Sophia,” the viscountess said with a friendly smile.

  “No,” she agreed. “Unfortunately. And, please, call me Sophie. All of my friends do.”

  Lady Forrester smiled. “Then you may call me Eliza. And I am pleased to hear you consider me a friend, as I wish to speak with you about a personal matter.” She hesitated, an uncharacteristic blush staining her elegant cheekbones. Leaning in, she lowered her voice. “I wish to offer you some advice, but at the same time, I do not want to intrude.”

  “Advice?” Sophie asked, her curiosity piqued.

  She nodded. “You appear to be at a crossroads.”

  “A crossroads?” she asked, brows pulling together.

  “May I tell you a story?”

  “Please,” Sophie said quickly, eager to learn what she meant by crossroads.

  “My husband was a horrible man.”

  Well, that was no secret, Sophie thought. Society had showed neither discretion nor tact when discussing the travesty of Eliza's marriage.

  “I can tell by your expression that I have no need to elaborate.”

  Sophie shook her head, unable to deny it.

  “Despite Lord Forrester's many flaws, I loved him deeply. It may come as a surprise, but he was not always a bastard.” At Sophie's surprised expression, she chuckled. “But when our marriage soured, I began t
o question myself and my choices. I thought it was I who had failed, you see. I thought, if I had been a better wife, a better lover or even a better friend, I might have been able to save him.”

  “I don't believe there's anything you could have done.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps not, but it did not stop me wondering if I would ever trust love again.”

  “You do not believe you will ever find happiness again?” Sophie asked, frowning.

  She gave a decisive shake of her head. “Not happiness, my dear Sophie, but love. See, I believe that sometimes our past makes it seem impossible to trust the possibility of our future. You understand what that is like, do you not?”

  Sophie gave a bemused shake of her head. “I have never been in love.”

  “Really?” she asked, her green eyes sparkling with genuine surprise.

  Sophie felt the weight of her regard, but only shrugged.

  “Well, perhaps not,” she continued, “for you, my dear, are still young. But he is certainly feeling the emotion.”

  Secure in the knowledge that only she and Andrew were aware of what was going on between them, Sophie could only assume that she spoke of Lord Courtland. At the memory of the smile which lit Lord Courtland’s face whenever they were together, she colored and hung her head to veil the heat in her cheeks. “I do not believe that is quite the emotion he is feeling. I mean, he likes me well enough, but I am fairly certain he does not love me.”

  Eliza leaned forward and clasped Sophie's hands in hers. “Oh, but I know he does, my dear. And I am certain you will find the other half of your soul if you dare allow yourself to know him. He is a wonderful man, once you get past the controlled exterior.”

  “Controlled exterior?” she asked, thinking she must not know Lord Courtland very well.