The Duchess Hunt

by Jennifer Haymore

  “Oh, I remember that!” Sir Thomas Seton, another unmarried buck, announced. “Thought the ladies would never bother glancing at another one of us again.”

  Simon cocked an eyebrow at Sir Thomas. “Is that so? If I recall, you were still at Eton back then. I can’t imagine how you could have heard about all that nonsense.”

  “Oh, everyone heard about it, Trent. Everyone.”

  “I remember, too,” the curate who’d been Sarah’s dinner partner said. “I heard about it while I was at the seminary. All of London was watching on tenterhooks, Your Grace, waiting to see who you’d choose for your duchess.”

  “Every word you spoke in public that year was printed, pored over by matchmaking mamas searching for the one element that would give their daughters the edge,” Dunsberg said with a chuckle. Dunsberg had experienced a similar situation years earlier and had commiserated with Simon on more than one occasion. Dunsberg had never married, though. It seemed the older man valued his bachelorhood more than most.

  “The odd thing is” – Stanley’s hawk-like gaze focused on Simon – “after all these years, you have finally returned to society in full force. Attended every event you’ve been invited to this Season, haven’t you, Trent?”

  “Thought he’d never come back after that.” Granger shook his head as he poured himself more port. “I wouldn’t’ve.”

  “You’d have been married thrice over if it’d happened to you,” Sir Thomas told Granger, smirking.

  “What are you driving at, Stanley?” Simon inquired politely of his host.

  “I think you’re on the hunt.”

  Simon fingered the rim of his glass with his thumb. “Before one hunts, one must assess the game and the potential for success.”

  “We all know hunting season is in its prime in the weeks after Easter, so you’ve had over a month to assess the game,” Stanley pointed out.

  “Indeed,” Simon said.

  Stanley smiled, showing the tobacco-stained whites of his teeth. “I think you’ve come to your conclusion. There is game in abundance but you shall bide your time until you decide upon a target.”

  “Surely the good duke will choose the plumpest, healthiest, most delectable bird to dress his table,” Sir Thomas said, his smirk still firmly intact.

  “Ah, you mean the London Season!” Granger proclaimed, the double entendre suddenly making sense to him. His eyes went wide as he turned to Simon. “Can it be true, old chap? You’re finally looking to be leg-shackled?”

  “Daresay it’s about time,” Sir Thomas said. “What are you now, Trent? Thirty? Go get yourself married, Your Grace, so the ladies of London will begin to pay attention to the rest of us.”

  “Twenty-nine,” Simon corrected. “And perhaps I will endeavor to shackle myself to some willing lady before the end of the Season. But only for the sake of my peers and their amour-propre.”

  Everyone laughed, and conversation wandered to other topics. But Lord Stanley remained quiet, his fingers templed under his chin, gazing at Simon.

  Assessing.

  Chapter Eight

  “Your Grace! Your Grace!”

  Simon sat up, instantly alert. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he called out, “What is it?”

  “It’s your brother, sir. Come quick!”

  “Which one?”

  But Simon knew. He always knew. Luke.

  As the man outside his door said, “It’s Lord Lukas,” Simon had already slung his robe over his shoulders and was striding toward the door. He opened it to find one of the footmen on his threshold.

  “What time is it, Tremaine?”

  “A little after four, Your Grace.”

  Simon sighed. They’d returned home from the Stanleys’ just before two. “Where is he?”

  Tremaine hurried down the corridor and led him toward the stairs. “Robert Johnston found him unconscious between the service door and the stable, and he informed me straightaway. I came directly to you.”

  Robert Johnston, the coachman. Simon frowned. He didn’t like the way that man looked at Sarah.

  A few moments later, Simon emerged outside and saw his brother curled on his side chin-to-knees against the iron handrail. Robert Johnston pushed himself off from the handrail when Simon approached. “Hasn’t moved an inch since I first saw him, Your Grace.”

  Simon sighed. “Help me bring him inside, will you?”

  The three men carried Luke inside. Not an entirely simple task, because Luke was as tall as Simon and deeply unconscious, a dead weight, awkward and flopping as they maneuvered him through the door and to the closest room with something comfortable for him to lie on – the drawing room. They laid him on the royal-blue silk sofa and stepped back, sweating, gazing down at him.

  He hadn’t budged, but his chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

  Simon passed a weary hand over his eyes. He had no idea if this was a drunken stupor or something worse, but he needed to find out.

  “Have someone wake Miss Osborne,” he told Tremaine. Out of all the people in his London household, Sarah had worked most closely with Mrs. Hope and therefore possessed the most medical knowledge.

  “Yes, sir.” The footman left, and Simon dismissed Robert Johnston, eliminating the possibility of the man seeing Sarah in any state of dishabille.

  When both men were gone, Simon stared down at his brother.

  “Damn it, Luke,” he muttered. He lowered himself onto the foot of the sofa and rested his head in his hands, waiting for Sarah to arrive or for Luke to awaken.

  Not surprisingly, Sarah came first. She hurried in, looking deliciously rumpled, her cheeks flushed as she fumbled with the tie on her robe. She took one look at Luke and her shoulders sagged.

  “Oh.” Her voice was flat as she came to a halt beside the sofa. She looked from Luke’s peaceful face to Simon’s no-doubt ragged one. “Are you all right?” she asked him softly.

  “No. Yes. I just…” Hell, he already felt a thousand times better since she’d walked through the door five seconds ago. He made a helpless gesture toward his brother.

  “How did he get here?”

  “Robert Johnston found him by the back door.”

  She knelt beside Luke to check his heartbeat and his pupils, then laid the backs of her hands on his cheeks.

  “Can you tell what’s wrong with him? Is he drunk?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Fool,” Simon growled.

  “He’s cold. There’s no telling how long he was out there. We must warm him.”

  They set Tremaine and the pair of maids who had awakened Sarah to work warming Luke with hot bricks and warm towels. After his pulse settled and his skin returned to a more normal temperature, Sarah turned assessing eyes on Simon. “You must be exhausted, Your Grace. You should go to bed.”

  “So should you,” he countered.

  The edge of her lips quirked up as she rose. “Very well, but only if you promise to get some rest as well.”

  He nodded and told one of the maids to fetch him as soon as his brother woke. Side by side, he and Sarah trudged upstairs.

  Sarah watched Simon closely. He looked – defeated. As if the appearance of his drunken brother had brought the weight of the world crashing down on his shoulders.

  They came to Simon’s bedchamber door first – her room was at the end of the corridor. She’d never walked with him upstairs before, and when Simon grasped the door handle, they both hesitated.

  She looked up into Simon’s face, into his haunted green eyes, and awareness flushed through her. Awareness… and a complex need that had everything inside her clenching tight.

  “May I come inside?” she whispered. “There’s something I wish to say.”

  His lips pressed together. His eyes scanned the dim corridor. It wasn’t yet five o’clock, and most of the household was still abed. Finding no one, he gave a tight nod and opened the door.

  She slipped inside the room. He followed, closing the door and l
ocking it before turning to her.

  She hadn’t ever been inside this bedchamber. It was a far larger space than hers, with a marble hearth opposite the bed flanked by two doors, one perhaps leading to a dressing room and the other to a bedchamber meant for the duke’s wife. A bedchamber, if the rumors were true, that would soon be occupied by the woman Simon chose to marry. The bed, still rumpled from him sleeping in it earlier, was simple, covered by a dark silk counterpane and matching covered pillows.

  She tore her gaze away from the bed and turned to Simon.

  Longing. Envy. Jealousy. Those were the emotions that had run rampant through her during the Stanleys’ dinner party last night. She’d watched Simon and Georgina Stanley conversing and laughing, and from her position way down at the end of the table with the lowliest of the guests, her heart had panged, heavy and sore in her chest. Every time Simon so much as smiled at the young lady, it was a painful reminder to Sarah of those deep, thick lines that society had drawn to keep them apart.

  It hurt. She wanted so badly to be the object of his public smiles. She wanted to be the one partnered with him at formal dinners. She wanted to be the one he proudly led to the dance floor before hundreds of onlookers.

  Society believed she was undeserving of all that, but she didn’t agree. She did deserve it – as much as anyone fortunate enough to be born into the position.

  This dangerous, brazen part of her had taken on a life of its own… It was running rampant, and she didn’t know how to control it.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around herself.

  Last night, when the men had remained in the dining room to drink their port, the women had gone into the drawing room. The main topic of conversation had been the rumor that Simon was at last intending to give up his bachelorhood. That this Season, he was finally on the hunt for the lucky young lady who would become his duchess.

  Afterward, while she was lying in bed in the earliest morning hours, Sarah had come to a realization. Once Simon chose his intended bride, there would be nothing left for her. He’d never, ever betray the woman he intended to marry. And she wouldn’t want him to.

  She knew she and Simon could never permanently breach the lines that divided them, but from the years of meeting him on the bench at Ironwood Park, from the three kisses they had shared, Sarah thought they might be able to temporarily breach them.

  Their time was limited. If she didn’t take control now, he’d marry, and she’d lose him before she even had a chance.

  Now, she looked up into his face and spoke quietly. “Let me soothe you, Your Grace.”

  He was very still. Then, slowly, he shook his head. But his eyes flashed, sparking to life again after they’d been so dull and hopeless as he’d gazed at his unconscious brother. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying.” She glanced down, then back up to meet his eyes, her resolve hardening. She untied her robe and let it slip from her shoulders. “I offer you care and comfort and love, to use in whatever way you see fit.”

  “No, Sarah,” he said thickly, but his eyes raked up and down her nightgown-clad body, and the heat in them stroked over her. “That is too great a gift.”

  “It is one I wish to give you.”

  “You deserve better than what I can offer you.”

  She sighed. “What if you were to stop worrying and just listen to your heart? What if you were to just consider what you want at this very moment? What if I were to promise you that, no matter what happens, I won’t have any regrets?”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.

  “I hear it always hurts, the first time,” she told him in a near whisper.

  “I don’t want to hurt you that way.” He stepped forward, reaching out to her. His hand moved to cover her heart, and he pressed down gently, his gaze moving to study her face. “But I don’t want to hurt you here, either.”

  She covered his hand with her own. “I know.”

  He gave a helpless shake of his head. “How can I prevent it?”

  “Whatever you choose to give, I will take it gladly and hold it close. I have no expectations, Your Grace. I promise. I just want to live for today. Enjoy today. Let’s, for once, worry about tomorrow when it comes.”

  “I don’t want you to have any regrets,” he said. “We have been friends for so long. This will change everything.”

  She thought back to all those times they’d met on the bench at Ironwood Park, of their late-night discussions about Napoleon and France and the United States and Spain. About the challenges he faced in Parliament. About their fears for Sam, who’d spent so much time on the Continent, for England, and for the world.

  He was right. This would change everything.

  “Listen to your heart, Your Grace,” she repeated. She reached up her free hand to cup his cheek. “I am willing to take that risk. Are you?”

  He hesitated a moment. Then the word emerged, gruff and low but absolutely clear: “Yes.”

  She began to untie the strings of her nightgown. His gaze riveted to her chest, where the edges of the fabric gaped, revealing the curve of one of her breasts.

  “No regrets, Your Grace. I offer you this with my eyes wide open. I know” – she took a deep breath – “our time together will be limited. But it can be for now. Just for now, we can offer each other comfort.”

  He was quiet.

  “Please,” she whispered. And then she did the bravest thing she’d ever done. She wrapped her arms around the Duke of Trent and pressed her lips to his.

  Despite his “yes,” his expression had still been infused with uncertainty. He was still waging that war within himself.

  She half expected him to push her away. But he didn’t.

  Instead, as surely as if she’d thrown a bucket of water over it, her kiss seemed to douse the part of him that had been struggling against touching her.

  With a small groan, he took her in his arms and pulled her tight against him. His mouth coaxed hers open, then his tongue flicked inside, licking at the inner flesh of her lips. One of his hands moved to her sleeve, yanking it downward and off her shoulder, and cool air whispered over her bare breast before it was engulfed by his hand.

  She gasped, tightening her arms around him as his taut back muscles flexed beneath her palms. His lips moved to her ear. “Sarah, tell me you want this. Tell me this is what you want.”

  She arched her back, pressing closer, tighter against him, feeling the increased pressure on her breast and trembling at the flash of pleasure that rushed through her. “Yes. Yes, Simon. I want” – she punctuated her words with little kisses to the rough side of his cheek and his earlobe – “this. This is all I want.”

  His robe puddled on the floor, and suddenly, his lips traveled down the slope of her neck, over her collar bones, and then his tongue stroked over her breast in scorching swipes.

  Oh, Lord. Her breasts felt heavy and needy, aching, wanting. His mouth brushed over her nipple, and sensation bolted through her, arching her body again. She grabbed onto his shoulders to steady herself. His arms locked around her lower back, her nightdress bunched in his hands.

  “Is this what you want, Sarah?”

  But then his lips closed around her nipple, and she couldn’t answer. Sharp, sweet pleasure burst through her. Through hazy eyes, she looked down at his hair, filtered her fingers through it at his nape. Her breasts seemed to throb – how was it possible such powerful sensation could come from one spot on her body? Her nipples tightened into sharp, aching points. He sucked, nibbled, licked. Her knees wobbled as the pleasure permeated her muscles. She stumbled, but he held her firm, not letting her fall.

  Keeping a tight hold on her, he straightened. His gaze met hers, his lips damp from his ministrations, his eyes the stormiest green she’d ever seen.

  “Touch me,” he rasped. “Feel what you do to me.”

  And, still holding her firmly, he guided her hand between his legs to cup the s
olid rod of his sex. Heat pulsed through the thin fabric of his drawers.

  “It hurts when it’s like this,” he whispered. “There’s only one way to soothe it. Is that what you want, Sarah?”

  Her heart was beating so fast, she could hardly breathe. She certainly couldn’t speak. But, holding his gaze – and tightening her fingers around him – she nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She managed to make the one word sound firm and final. Because she was sure. She’d wanted him for so long, and she wasn’t going to give up this opportunity to have him. Even if he were to find his duchess tomorrow, she would look back on this morning they’d shared with no regrets.

  He blew out a breath and removed her hand from his shaft. “More of that later, then. Not too fast, or it’ll be over before we even begin.”

  She had no idea what that meant, and she would have questioned him, but he took her hand and led her toward the bed. When they stood beside it, he said, “Take this off,” then pushed the other sleeve of her nightdress over her arms. She tugged the sleeves over her arms, and her nightdress slid to her ankles.

  “God,” he murmured, and she heard the shakiness in his breaths. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

  She stood still as his eyes devoured her, even though a whole life of training in the ways of demure behavior told her she must cover herself. But she wanted him to see her like this – raw, carnal, bared naked and wanting for him alone.

  Gently, he put his arms around her, then lifted her and set her on the edge of the bed. He took a step back, remaining standing, gazing at her. Heat and need and desire seemed to radiate from his every pore.

  “Have you ever shown your body to another man, Sarah?”

  She shook her head.

  “Another gift, then,” he said softly. “One I’ll be eternally grateful for.”

  Through her fluttering nerves, her lips quirked upward. “Perhaps you’d like to bestow the same gift upon me, Your Grace?”

  “Most definitely,” he replied. Then he gave her a wicked smile. “But not yet.”

  “Tease,” she whispered.