“The last time we were here… on this bench…” His voice was a husky whisper. “It was so long ago, but I’ve craved your mouth ever since.”
Heat emanated from him. His breath whispered across her cheek. She released a shaky sigh of pleasure at his words.
“I’ve wanted to touch you everywhere. Kiss you all over.”
She opened her eyes, because she wanted to see him as she leaned closer in —
He dropped his hand from her face, jerking back as if she’d burned him.
“God.” A low groan emitted from his throat as he thrust his hand into his hair and turned away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s… all right…” she managed to say through her dry throat. Her skin was still buzzing from the contact, her cheek tingling and warm where he’d touched her.
“Sarah – it was a mistake. I shouldn’t ever have touched you. It was disrespectful of me… and wrong.”
“Oh… Your Grace. No.” She had felt anything but disrespected that night. She’d felt… desired. And for the last three years, she’d savored that feeling.
“It was late at night, and I took advantage of you.”
“No,” she repeated.
“I shouldn’t have.”
He rose to his feet. She, stubbornly, remained seated.
He clenched his hands at his sides. “I’ve spent three years reminding myself of how wrong it was to touch you, and yet I sit here and all I can think about is putting my hands all over you. Tasting you all over again.”
His words sent a delicious shudder through her body. She wanted that, too. She gazed up at him, waiting, wishing he’d give in and sit beside her again, take her into his arms, and drown her in his kisses.
Raising his hand, he bent his head and rubbed his temple, then blew out a breath and met her gaze again. “I shouldn’t – mustn’t – touch you. I want to do right by you, Sarah. It is morally reprehensible for me to have these feelings for someone who is under my care.”
If she were a London debutante, it might be different. But she was Sarah Osborne, his head housemaid, and she understood exactly why Simon felt like it would be morally reprehensible to touch her again. It had everything to do with those vast chasms that separated her social class from his.
Damn them, she thought brutally. Why must it matter? He was hungry for her – she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his words. And, Lord knew, she was hungry for him, too.
Her gaze dropped to his fist, clenched so desperately at his side. He really did believe it would be wrong to touch her. She knew Simon’s deepest fear was that he’d become like his parents, whose lives had been replete with scandal, betrayal, and flagrant promiscuity.
Above all, she didn’t want him to lose sight of who he was, who he wanted to be, who he never intended to be.
If he ever did touch her again, she didn’t want him to regret it afterward.
So she took a deep breath and rose, brushing the wrinkles from her skirt to keep her shaky hands occupied. Giving him a slight smile, she asked, “Walk me home?”
“Of course.”
They walked down the path side by side. Awareness of him still resonated through her, stronger than ever. She watched him from the corner of her eye as they walked.
She knew there was wisdom in his reluctance. His brother Luke had boldly ventured into an affair with one of the maids at Ironwood Park once, and it had turned into an unpleasant situation all around. What could come of a relationship between a housemaid and a duke? Very little but heartbreak for the housemaid. Sarah knew this. She wasn’t stupid.
Her traitorous body clearly had no intention of listening to her mind, though, because it desperately longed for more of his touch. For another of those hot, passion-filled kisses of three years ago. For more.
Simon stared ahead, silent and brooding, his gaze never wavering from the path. When it narrowed in spots, he stepped aside to give her a wide enough berth to pass before falling in behind her.
The distance to Papa’s cottage felt interminable when it usually seemed so short. When they finally reached the cottage door, Simon finally spoke. “I don’t want you walking the grounds alone anymore. Not until we discover exactly what happened to the duchess. I should have had someone walk you home tonight.”
“But —”
He raised his hand. His gaze drilled into her. “From now until we leave for London, a footman will accompany you where you need to go.”
She sighed. “All right.”
Stepping forward, he bent low over her, his eyes narrow. “I know you, Sarah. You haven’t stopped wandering about since you were eight years old. Promise me you won’t until we’re sure it’s safe.”
He was close enough that she could wrap her arms around him and pull him to her. Her gaze flickered to his parted lips, so close, so deliciously edible. Her heartbeat spiked in anticipation. And for the first time, she realized she could do it, if she chose to. She could bring her lips to his and take them. He wasn’t the only one who could initiate a kiss. She could kiss him, too.
But before she had a chance to adequately process this new information or to consider her options further, he repeated in a low growl, “Promise, Sarah.”
“I promise,” she breathed. She didn’t take her eyes from his lips. Her voice could have fluttered away on the wings of a butterfly.
He straightened and took a step back. “Good.” He gave a short nod, but his eyes had lightened, and his hungry gaze burned hot under her skin. “Good night, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”
With that, he swiveled and retreated down the path, leaving her to watch his broad, wool-covered shoulders recede into the darkness, her heart galloping again.
Chapter Three
Simon and Sam woke at dawn the next morning to search the dower house. As Esme had said, everything was in its place, with no sign of a struggle or anything untoward – besides the empty safe and the items missing from it.
After breakfast, Esme and Sarah joined them to continue the search, while Theo and Mark rode to question the villagers.
From the moment Sarah walked through the door of the dower house, Simon’s awareness of her sharpened, honing in on the small things about her he found so fascinating. The fresh scent of her, like a meadow after a spring rain. The curve of her waist, the rise and fall of her bosom, the pale turn of her ankle when her skirt lifted slightly as she leaned over something. Her pink lips pursed in concentration as she filed through a sheaf of papers. The way black curls kept falling over her eyes… how his fingers itched to smooth the hair back, tuck it behind her ear.
When he’d touched her last night, felt the soft flesh of her chin pressing against his fingertips, his body had hardened and his cock had stirred, straining against the material of his pantaloons. He’d looked into those wide blue eyes, had studied the contrast of her dark lashes and brows against her porcelain skin, and he had grown uncomfortably hard. He’d wanted to brush his fingers over the slant of her cheekbones, press his lips to that soft, pink mouth, lay her down on the bench…
Hell.
He wished that part of him that had become so wildly attracted to Sarah Osborne would retreat. This was neither the time nor the place, and as much as his body told him otherwise, Sarah was most certainly not the woman.
And, for God’s sake, his mother was missing.
They were all in the duchess’s bedchamber, Sarah and Esme going through the bedside tables while Simon and Sam searched their mother’s desk drawers, when Sarah said, “Ooh. They didn’t take all the jewelry, then.”
Simon turned to see her holding up something small between her thumb and forefinger. He frowned. “What is it?”
“It’s a ring,” she said. They all gathered around to see the object she transferred to her palm so they could view it more clearly.
“Mother’s ring.” He gazed at the diamond-encrusted gold. She never took it off – hadn’t since the day his father had given it to her as a wedding
gift. Simon’s grandfather had purchased the ring for his grandmother on a long-ago trip to the Continent.
After a long silence in which no one moved, Esme asked warily, “Why is it not on her finger?”
“Perhaps she removed it before retiring at night?” Sarah suggested. “It was in her bedside table.”
“Although her bed is made,” Sam said, “so we know she wasn’t forcefully taken from it.”
“She could have been… taken… just before she went to bed.” Esme nearly garbled the word taken. “Everything is laid out on her dressing table as if she was preparing for bed.”
That was true. There was a basin full of water and soap scum, long since grown cold. A cosmetics jar was open on the dressing table, and the duchess’s brush had strands of hair in its bristles as if she’d just finished combing her hair.
“Yes,” Sam agreed. “Though if she was removed from this house against her will, she didn’t put up much of a struggle. If she had, things wouldn’t be so orderly.”
“And yet if she knew she would be leaving,” Sarah mused, “she wouldn’t have been preparing for bed.”
“Perhaps the person she left the dower house with was someone she knew,” Simon said.
“Oh, that doesn’t help at all,” Esme whispered. “She is acquainted with everyone.”
“It does narrow the field a bit, though.” Simon took the ring from Sarah’s open hand and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll keep it safe until she returns to us.”
Simon met Sarah’s gaze. He stared into her lovely blue eyes for a long moment, heat creeping beneath his skin, before he returned to himself and looked away.
“Let’s finish here,” he said in a brisk voice.
After he’d gone to bed last night, he hadn’t been able to push the images from his mind. He’d lain there, wide awake, his skin crawling with need, craving Sarah Osborne under him. Now, as he sifted through the duchess’s papers, none of them providing a clue as to what had happened to her, worries about his mother’s fate battled with fantasies of Sarah’s warm, naked, slender form arching against his.
Every nerve in his body heated, reaching out for her. Craving her. Every time she glanced at him, heat scorched through him. Need, rising and burning, aching and demanding.
His body paid no heed to his strict attempts at discipline, to his notions of honor and responsibility.
He wanted her.
God help him.
After a quick luncheon, Simon began to question the staff. Over and over again, he asked the same questions and received the same answers.
“When was the last time you saw the duchess?”
“’Bout a week ago, Your Grace.”
“Where?”
“Out and about on the property.”
“Did anything seem odd about her? Was she behaving differently in any way?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you seen anyone besides the staff and family on the grounds of Ironwood Park recently?”
“No, sir.”
And on and on. Until one of the coachmen entered the saloon through the double doors of dark, heavy oak.
He was a new employee, tall, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, and clearly he had never been inside the saloon before, for he gazed in unabashed wonder at the octagon-shaped ceiling painted with an image of Apollo driving into the sun.
Simon had not been introduced to this man, and evidently none of his brothers had either, for none of them greeted him. Sarah was the one to rise from a gilded red velvet armchair, one of several arranged about the vast room. She came forward to stand beside the man and make the introductions.
“Your Grace, this is Robert Johnston, the new coachman. He has been at Ironwood Park since September of last year.”
“Mr. Johnston,” Simon acknowledged with a tilt of his head.
Sarah introduced the man to Simon’s brothers one by one, and when they were finished, Johnston turned his attention back to Sarah, his mouth quirked in something of a smile as his gaze took her in. Simon saw interest in that gaze.
He didn’t like it.
He arranged the sheets of paper that were lying on the table in front of him and stacked them with loud taps on the polished wood surface. Johnston’s attention snapped back to him.
“We’ve brought you here to ask you some questions. You are acquainted with the duchess, correct?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I drive her to the village often.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Johnston tilted his head, considered. “Well, I’d say that’d be just over a week ago. Last time I drove for her.”
“Did anything seem odd about her? Was she behaving differently in any way?”
“No, sir. She was kind and friendly as always. She gave me some pennies to go to the pub for a pint while she was at her ladies’ gathering.”
Mark snorted. “Of course she did,” he said under his breath.
“And you drove her home after that?” Simon asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And there were no odd occurrences or incidents that you recall on that day?”
“No, sir. None.”
Looking down at the papers he held, Simon blew a breath through clenched teeth. Not one blasted soul had seen or heard anything odd. His mother had seemingly vanished into thin air.
Johnston cleared his throat, and Simon glanced up to see him looking at Sarah again, who was giving him an encouraging nod. Johnston turned back to Simon. There was hesitation in his voice when he said, “There was one thing, though.”
Simon set down the papers on the table. Very slightly, he leaned forward. “Tell me.”
“I did see – and hear – something I’d count as odd. Not that last day I drove Her Grace, but days later. Two days, maybe.” He scrunched his forehead as if trying to remember.
Everyone waited in suspended silence for him to continue.
He glanced at Sarah again as if asking permission, and she nodded again, urging him with her expression.
“It was early evening. It’d been pouring down rain all day, but it had finally let up, and the moon was providing a bit of light, so I’d gone out to exercise one of the mares. I saw a cart in the driveway of the dower house as I passed it. I’ve seen carts there before, mind, when something’s being delivered to Her Grace and such. But this cart didn’t belong to anyone I knew, and it was drawn by asses, not horses. And the back was piled high” – he gestured above his head to demonstrate – “but I couldn’t tell what with. ’Twas all covered by oiled woolen blankets, water from the earlier rain still dribbling off the pile down the sides.
“I rode on, not giving it much thought beyond that. I had ridden behind the dower house when I heard it.”
“Heard what?” Theo breathed.
Johnston swallowed. “Well, sir… it was shouting. Coming somewhere from the upper story – I couldn’t rightly tell which window it came from. It sounded like the duchess was yelling at someone.”
“What was she saying?” Simon asked.
Johnston looked a little pink now. “I couldn’t hear it all, Your Grace. But I thought I heard ‘fool’ and ‘bloody idiot’ and ‘how dare he!’” Again, he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I was… er… rather discomfited, sir, and I thought the duchess wouldn’t like me eavesdropping. It wasn’t my place to listen to a private conversation like that. So I turned the horse and rode away.”
“Did she sound like she was afraid?” Sam asked.
“Why, no sir. She sounded very angry. Angrier than I’d have ever thought a lady like that was capable of. It sounded like she wanted someone’s blood. Honestly…” Blushing full-on now, the tips of his ears scarlet, he said, “I thought she might be beating one of the servants.”
Simon supposed that Johnston was new enough to Ironwood Park that he could forgive him for thinking that. Any of the older staff would never have considered such a thing.
“Did you hear anyone else?” Sam asked. “Was anyone else
speaking?”
“No, ’twas just Her Grace. Or,” he amended, “I thought it was.” He frowned again. “It did sound like her, but her voice was raised so high and angry, I can’t be completely sure of it.”
“Oh, it was Mama, all right,” Mark mumbled. “I’d bet my dinner on it.”
Simon would, too. Their mother rarely lost her temper, but when she did she lost it monstrously.
“Have you anything else you can tell us, Johnston?” Simon asked him.
Johnston’s forehead lined with thought. “Can’t say as I have, Your Grace.”
“All right. If you think of anything else, you must come to me straightaway.”
“Yes, sir.”
He dismissed the coachman, and Sarah walked him out. As soon as the door closed behind them, Mark asked, “What the devil could have made Mama so angry?”
Sam blew out a breath. “Who knows? Nothing that we found in the house gave us any clues.”
His brothers continued talking, but Simon kept glancing at the door, wishing Sarah would return. He didn’t like the way the coachman had looked at her. He didn’t like her being alone with him.
“What do you think, Trent?” Mark was asking.
Simon dragged his attention from the door. “About what?”
“Do you think we should all leave Ironwood Park tomorrow?” Mark repeated.
Simon kept his gaze cool, and he leveled it on his brother. “Yes. Since we haven’t unearthed any answers here, we’ll all leave to our respective destinations tomorrow, as planned. Except you, Mark.”
Mark nodded. Over luncheon, they’d discussed the need for someone to stay an extra week or two at Ironwood Park to ensure no stone had been left unturned here… and to oversee the unpleasant business of dragging the lake.
“Now that we know about the cart,” Simon continued, “we can include it in our questioning. Odd as it sounds, it seems the Duchess of Trent disappeared from Ironwood Park in a cart drawn by asses.”
“Good-bye, girl,” Sarah’s father said in a gruff voice. He gave her a quick, tight hug, then pushed her an arm’s length away from him, still gripping her shoulders. “Be good.”
The Duchess Hunt Page 5