Trapping a Duchess

by Michele Bekemeyer

  She leaned in close until he was forced to do the same. “I know you love her,” she whispered loudly in his ear.

  “Shhh,” he said, looking around to ensure her declaration wasn't overheard.

  “Shhh, yourself,” she said, pressing her finger over his lips.

  “People will assume I'm in love with you, if you aren't careful,” he said, drawing her hand away. At her blush, he fought back a rakish grin.

  “Well, Lady Sophia won't be one of them. Though, I must admit, she seemed baffled by the idea when we spoke at Roxford’s house party.”

  “You spoke to her? About me?” Did the whole blasted world know of his madness for the woman?

  “Calm down, my lord duke. It was naught but a momentary lapse in judgment on my part.”

  “I would say so.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “The question now is, how will you win her?”

  “Not by playing fairly,” he said as he searched the crowd and found her standing in her usual circle of friends.

  “Perhaps she needs a reminder of why you are such a brilliant catch?” Eliza said suddenly. “I have heard Lady Braxford intends on having three waltzes this evening in an effort to mimic Lady Trumpley’s new trend. The woman is scandalous, if you ask me, but with only one waltz out of the way, that would still leave the last for the two of you. Besides, it might not hurt to dance with another, make your presence known rather than flit about in the shadows waiting for the opportune moment to come to you.”

  Opportunity was not something for which he had time to wait. His intentions must come to fruition, whether or not chance gave over. “Actually, that sounds like a fine idea. Are you available for the next waltz?”

  “I would be honored, sir,” she said with a devious smile, and he was suddenly quite glad to have her on his side.

  * * * *

  Sophie was beginning to worry. She had seen neither hide nor silky hair of Andrew in days and was beginning to wonder if he had washed his hands of her. Not that she was upended by the idea, or so she endeavored to convince herself. After all, it was she who had done the avoiding since their meeting in Hyde Park. Her heart felt twisted into an infuriating little knot, like one of those fancy-looking but impossible to untie cravats her brother’s valet was always whipping up. Tonight she planned to talk to him, to voice her confusion and ask for a little more time to make a decision.

  With a subtle glance around the ballroom, she offered a vague opinion on whatever topic of conversation the group was discussing. All the while, her mind was wholly focused on finding the man who had ignited her blood and weakened her will with four words—because I love you. As the orchestra began tuning for the second waltz, she spotted him taking the floor, Lady Forrester on his arm. Jealousy hit her like a well-thrown punch, settling painfully in her stomach and nearly knocking the breath out of her in the process. Clenching her teeth together, she smothered a curse. Not only had he already arrived, but he had clearly been avoiding her. How long had he been there?

  Sophie watched, swallowing her inner turmoil, as the pair readied themselves for the dance. His hand rested gently upon her waist, his trademark half-smile playing over his lips. She spoke and he leaned in closer to hear. His deep chuckle drifted over Sophie’s ears and she nearly ground her teeth to powder in an effort to control her wayward tongue. A moment later, the music began and they were gliding across the floor in the opposite direction from where Sophie stood. At least she was spared having to see them together. Adopting a bored mien, she nudged Alex’s attention away from the conversation she was having with Lord Courtland. “Excuse me for a moment, Lex. My mother is summoning me from the other side of the room.”

  “Where?” Alex asked, squinting.

  “She mouthed something about the ladies retiring room,” she lied. “I need to ensure she is well.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, no. I won't be gone long.” Sophie disappeared into the crowds and made a quick exit through the garden doors. The night air wafted over her, cooling her heated skin but not the rage inside. She stayed close enough to the door to be within the bounds of propriety but far enough away that she would not be spotted from within. Lost in her anger, and trying desperately to remember what she planned to say to Andrew, she focused on the cloudy sky. Minutes later, she heard the waltz's crescendo and was forced to return inside.

  “How is your mother?” Alexandra asked.

  “I never did find her,” she said, feigning annoyance. “Did I miss anything of interest?”

  “Only Lady Araminda spilling punch on Lord Emerson,” Alex said with a laugh. Lord Courtland began telling the story, but Sophie wasn't listening. Her attention was focused on the duke making his way across the room. He was momentarily waylaid by Lord and Lady Garrett, but with a charming smile, soon inched away. His gaze clashed again with hers, but no matter how hard Sophie tried, she could not look away. His immaculately clad body was a study in seductive intent. The closer he came, the more nervous she got, but still she could not look away. Instinct screamed at her to flee, as fast and far away as her legs would take her. Instead, she remained rooted to her spot, transfixed by his leonine grace as he prowled his way over.

  “Are you alright?” Alex asked suddenly and Sophie realized she not only reached out to her friend, but would probably leave bruises with the death grip she had taken on her arm.

  “No,” she whispered, a second before Andrew was standing before her.

  “I say, Your Grace,” someone muttered, for he had just blatantly interrupted their conversation. Without so much as a single word, he took her head in his hands and set his mouth to hers, claiming her with lips and tongue and body, right in the middle of a crowded ballroom. “Oh, my stars,” she heard Alex say. My stars indeed!

  Sophie longed to pull away, to slap his face and recoil in horror as propriety demanded. But fate, tempestuous and irascible as the man himself, had her leaning into him, drawn forward by his kissable lips and the lure of his subtly stroking tongue. Memories of their stolen hour in her bedchamber flowed through her as a soft moan broke free of her throat. Her fingers flitted over his strong jaw to tangle in his hair.

  She had no idea how long the embrace lasted, no concept of anything beyond the feel of him as he shifted his head and deepened the kiss. A nearly inaudible groan—his or hers, she was not sure which—passed between them and when her tongue slid against his teeth, the last of her thoughts flew out of her head, bubbles on a heavy breeze. Only the two of them existed in that moment, transcending time, space and everyone around them as his hands slid over her back.

  Pleasure dazed and entranced by the feel of his touch, she barely heard the sharp intakes of breath from the scandalized onlookers; indeed did not see anything the slightest bit unusual about accepting his attentions, over and over again. Seconds, or perhaps minutes, later, he drew back, staring deep into her eyes. Disoriented from the intimacy of the contact, Sophie was slow to register the buzzing of whispers as the gossips absorbed and related the sight.

  Once his proximity registered, she gasped, causing a wave of supposition to spread throughout the entire crowd. Then. . .absolutely nothing. A room packed to the gills with people had become eerily silent. “Oh, my god,” she whispered, though she may as well have shouted the blaspheme, since everyone else, including the musicians, appeared to be watching them with bated breath.

  Gazing up at Andrew, she caught the start of an arrogant half-smile a second before she reached out to him, her legs suddenly unable to support her. “No, love. It’s just me,” he said, his strong arms reaching out, his face highlighted by flecks of white light which danced around his head like a halo. But it was most assuredly not a halo; the devil did not own a halo. He had horns and a pointed tail. And a large pitchfork. And he was fallen, just as she. A fallen. . .

  “Angel. . .” was all she was able to say before the room faded to black.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The weddi
ng date was set, invitations sent and marriage settlement finalized. As of tomorrow, Sophie would be the owner of the highly regarded title of Duchess of Tolland. As of this particular moment, though, she was stuck in her mother's sitting room, taking tea with a handful of society's most notorious gossips. She was, to put it lightly, miserable.

  “Was it always a dream of yours to become a duchess?” Lady Ridgley asked as she sipped her tea.

  “I can't say it was a dream, no,” Sophie said, drawing a scolding look from Louise.

  “Nearly every lady I know can claim that particular dream as her own,” Lady Forrester said, laughing.

  “And to become the Duchess of Tolland is a great honor, indeed,” Louise added, eliciting nods of agreement from rest of the ladies in the room.

  “Absolutely,” Lady Trumpley said as she helped herself to more sugar. “And Tolland is definitely a man of honor.”

  “How do you know?” Sophie asked, curious to know why others viewed him so different than she.

  “My dear, he is a genuine Prince Charming.”

  “What does that mean? I still don't understand.”

  “You know, a man, deeply in love, willing to risk everything to have the woman of his dreams.” Lady Trumpley sighed one of those dreamy sighs, the kind Sophie only read about in novels.

  “I wouldn’t say the duke risked everything.” As far as Sophie was concerned, he hadn’t risked anything.

  “My dear, you underestimate the importance of a spotless reputation.”

  Her brow darted into her hairline. “Spotless reputation? I think—”

  “Darling, you look fatigued,” Louise said, her eyes flaring. “Perhaps you should have a lie down and leave the entertaining to me for now.”

  “You don't want to appear exhausted at your engagement ball,” Lady Ridgley said, giving her a pitying look.

  Eliza rose and linked her arm through Sophie's. “I'll escort her, if you will excuse my absence.” Louise nodded her consent.

  “Thank you,” Sophie said, grateful for the offer.

  Louise conceded with a nod. “See you tonight, dearest.” As they climbed the staircase to her bedchamber, Sophie tried to let go of her irritation. “What a heavy sigh,” Eliza said from behind her.

  She felt tears sting her eyes and wiped at them. “I'm sorry. I'm just feeling overwhelmed.”

  “Would you care to talk about it?”

  She shook her head. What was there to say? As if to mock her, a hundred thoughts seemed to fill her head at once. “It's just, he knew I didn't want to marry,” she said, pushing open the door to her bedchamber. Eliza followed her inside. “And still he pursued, like some marauding pirate after a fortune.” She sat down on the bed. “I am no fortune.”

  “Of course you aren't, Sophie. But you are a prize.” Her green eyes were candid. “You cannot fault Prince Charming for kissing the sleeping maiden, when his very happiness rests on her awakening.”

  “And I cannot be faulted for behaving ungraciously when I find out my prince is a toad,” she snapped, tired of hearing how great a catch he was.

  Eliza chuckled. “He must have behaved quite boorishly to make you feel thus.”

  She was the first person to say so, which went a long way in encouraging Sophie's trust. Suddenly, Sophie wanted to tell her everything, including the parts she couldn't bear to tell Alex. “I want to tell you something, but I don't want you to think poorly of me.”

  “Dearest, I would never think poorly of you. And anything you say will stay in this room. I promise.”

  She gave her a thankful smile. “Remember at Lord Roxford's, when you spoke of your husband?” Eliza nodded. “Well, my father was not much different. My mother would never admit it, but he was a horrible bully.” Her eyelids drifted closed, narrowing the room down to her memories. “We couldn't do anything without his permission, and if one of us did, he punished everyone. Most of the time, my brother bore the brunt of his anger. But there were several occasions when it fell to mother and me. When I was young, she was vibrant and happy, but as the years wore on, her happiness faded. A tear fell down Eliza's cheek. “I'm only telling you because I want someone to understand why I am so opposed to marrying a man like the duke. Society thinks him charming. His peers view him as a man of great wealth and power. They don't see how ruthless or oppressive he can be, or if they do, they write it off. But when I look at him, I see my father. And when he behaves as he has, I see a man who will steal away my happiness. Just as my father did to my mother.”

  “Dominating, manipulative and cruel.” Eliza's words came out a harsh whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “Your brother spoke of him exactly the same way.”

  Surprise drew a gasp from her lips. “He did?”

  “Yes, he did. It was late one night after we'd been playing cards. He mentioned marriage, and I mentioned my husband, and how I would never again allow a man to control me.”

  “My brother asked you to marry him?”

  She laughed. “No. We were speaking of marriage in general. I told him he would make an excellent husband, and he said he was afraid he would turn out like his father.”

  Sophie sat down on the bed. “He never let on that he worried about it.”

  “Men never do, except in rare moments.” She took Sophie's hands in hers. “I have been friends with the duke a long time, Sophie. Trust me when I say he is nothing like my husband or your father. If he has behaved badly, it is because he is a fool in love. And if he pulls too tightly on the reins, it is because he is terrified of losing you.”

  “You really believe he is in love with me?”

  “Absolutely. I also believe he will make you happy, but you must overcome your lack of communication. He isn't an ogre, my dear, but a man.”

  Sophie considered all Eliza had imparted, but couldn't seem to let go of a niggling sense of doubt. Friendship was not the same as intimacy, and knowing someone socially did not equal living with them.

  “If you don't believe me, try talking to him. Tell him what you're afraid of and give him a chance to prove you wrong. He—no, both of you—deserve that much.” The clock chimed three. “I need to go home and dress, but I want you to think about what I've told you. Tomorrow can be whatever you want it to be.”

  “I just want to be happy.”

  “If that is what you want, then fight for it. You can't change the fact that you'll become his duchess, but you can change what becoming his duchess means.”

  Sophie hugged her tight. “Thank you so much for everything you've told me.”

  Eliza pulled back, a smile on her face. “I haven't told you anything you wouldn't have figured out on your own. I've just made it possible for you to meet your brother's deadline.”

  * * * *

  Andrew lounged in Simon’s study and watched as his oldest friend’s grin went from broad to impossibly smug. Given their confrontation only two days earlier, he was surprised Simon wasn't still angry.

  “I won't apologize for being happy.”

  “I didn't ask you to.” Andrew said gruffly.

  “Then stop looking at me with that dour expression.”

  “I'm not dour, just nervous.”

  “By tomorrow, this will all be over.”

  “God knows how long it will take for her to forgive me.” Instead of the joy possessed by a newly affianced man, Andrew was filled with the same sense of trepidation owned by a battle-worn victor. He had risked life and limb to fight his way to a hilltop, only to find an eviler foe awaiting him on the other side. There would be no planting of victory flags, no claiming of territories until he faced their onslaught. It didn’t matter that the next battle would be between him and a mere chit of four and twenty. He was not foolish enough to believe she’d made peace with her fate. “I need to talk to her. Alone.”

  “You'll have the rest of your lives for that,” Simon said firmly.

  “Has she said anything to you?”

  “About?”

  He shr
ugged. “Anything.”

  “Not even 'go to hell', though the daggers in her eyes have been expressive enough,” Simon laughed.

  “You're not helping matters.”

  “Nor do I mean to. My job is to see the pair of you through tonight's engagement ball and to the altar.” Andrew let out a frustrated growl. “At any rate, it is time to go. Are you ready?”

  Andrew inhaled deeply then nodded. “Any sage words of advice?”

  Simon considered him for a long moment before offering a casual shrug. “Don’t turn your back on her?” Andrew was torn between planting him a facer and bursting into laughter. He settled for a wry grin. Simon clapped him on the back and nudged him towards the door. Before Andrew had another heartbeat to reflect on the matter, they were standing in the marble foyer. He glanced around, searching, but saw no sign of Sophie.

  “She will be down in a moment,” Louise said, answering his unspoken question as she slid in beside him. He gave her a thankful smile and polite bow, then turned his gaze back to the staircase. There, standing at its ornately carved bottom, stood the woman in question. She was dressed in a lavender gown and looked as desirable as he had ever seen her. Her gaze swept the hall before landing on his. A blush tinted her cheeks. He was hit with an overwhelming desire to rush over, fall on his knees and beg her forgiveness. Instead, he forced himself to remain still.

  She was neither smiling nor frowning and if she felt even a smidgen of anticipation or anger, not a single bit of it showed in her face. Strategically placed by her side was Alexandra. Her no-nonsense expression left little doubts to her thoughts. A single misstep and she'd have his head. For once, he wasn't worried. The only thing that mattered to him now was Sophie's happiness.

  * * * *

  All eyes were upon Sophie as she made her way to Andrew’s side. Even the staff, masters in the art of avoidance, seemed unable to avert their gazes. She wanted to tell them all to bugger off, snatch Andrew by the hand and drag him to a darkened corner. And not for some silly conversation, either. At least that hasn’t changed, she thought. Instead, she kissed her mother’s cheek and hugged her brother before finally facing her future husband. He took her hand and she dropped into a respectful curtsy. “Your Grace.”