The Duchess Hunt

by Jennifer Haymore

  “We’ll talk about it later, then,” he said tiredly, rising to leave.

  For now, he had other concerns. Verifying Stanley’s proof. Proposing to Georgina Stanley.

  Telling Sarah.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sarah lay naked beside Simon in bed, her arms wrapped around him, sated and drowsy from their lovemaking but still awake.

  Something was wrong, she knew. Something had been wrong for almost a week now. She had tried to ignore it after that first time he’d told her he didn’t want to discuss it, but each time he’d come to her since that night – the night they’d made love for the first time – it had been present. A near palpable darkness that had seemed to hover behind him, press down on his shoulders. The heaviness of whatever it was pressed into her as well, a crushing heaviness on her heart.

  “Simon.” She drew back to look into his face. “Tell me what happened last week that weighs on you so.”

  He gazed at her, then sighed. “I have tried not to bring it here with me. I see that I have failed.”

  “Not exactly.” He’d never seemed distracted or anything but completely focused on her when they were together. “But I do sense a black cloud hanging over you. And it builds and grows more thunderous every day.”

  “I’d planned on telling you tonight.” He turned and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then looked back over his shoulder at her, his expression grim. “I’d still like to pretend it doesn’t exist, but you have to know.”

  She looked at him in rising terror, but he turned away, not meeting her eyes. “Dress. This will require clothing.”

  The pressure on her heart deepened as she obeyed him, slipping her nightgown over her head, then, even though it was warm enough without it, she pulled her robe on, wrapping the edges tightly around her body before cinching it closed with the belt.

  When she’d finished, he’d drawn on his trousers, and his long, white shirt was draped over his torso, making him look like a half-naked pirate, dangerously handsome with his tousled light brown hair and piercing green eyes.

  He dragged a chair next to the bed, then sat on the edge of the bed and gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

  She sat, looking at him warily, every nerve in her body brimming with trepidation.

  He stared at her for a long moment, his hands clenched in the mussed blankets. Then, he said, “We both knew this would happen. I’d just hoped it wouldn’t have to be so soon.”

  She stared at him, uncomprehending. Surely he couldn’t be talking about them. Their discovery of each other had only just begun.

  “After tonight… I can’t come to you anymore. What is happening between us must end. It is over.”

  “No.” It came out as a harsh whisper before she could stop it. A tidal wave of pain crashed through her, and she closed her eyes and clenched her fists to combat it.

  It struck her… she’d thought she loved Simon before. Now, since he’d started coming into her bed, she realized how much she truly did love him. How quickly he had become her universe.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. His gaze was stark, his hands still clenched. He didn’t want this, either.

  “Why?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  “Circumstances beyond my control are forcing me to offer marriage to… someone.”

  She blinked at him, the different scenarios running through her mind, all of them so uncharacteristic of Simon. She shook her head. “How…? Did you compromise her?”

  “No!” he choked out. “Sarah…” He slid off the bed and came to her, kneeling before her chair and looking up into her face, only open honesty showing in his. “There has been no one but you this spring, no one but you for a long time. It’s nothing like that. There are other compelling reasons – none that have anything to do with her or me or any prior relationship between us, but with my family’s reputation and my brothers’ and sister’s futures.”

  She shook her head, unable to make sense of his words. The dukedom wasn’t in financial peril – or was it? No, it couldn’t be. And why marry to protect a sibling’s future? Had Luke ruined some lady, and was Simon offering himself in lieu of another type of payment?

  It would be like Luke to make such a dire mistake. It would be like Simon to do whatever he could to save his brother… and the family name.

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked furiously to not allow them to spill. She was an expert at deceiving the world when it came to her feelings about Simon. She must continue to be so, now more than ever.

  He slid his hands up the outsides of her thighs and pressed his forehead to her knees. “Don’t… look at me like that,” he said brokenly.

  “Like what?”

  “Like the world is coming to an end.”

  My world is coming to an end, she thought.

  “We knew. I tried to warn you. Warn myself —”

  “Who is it?” she whispered, cutting off his words.

  He seemed to deflate a bit against her. “Georgina Stanley.” With seeming great effort, he pulled back and stared at her from his position on his knees.

  “Oh.”

  Beautiful, proper Miss Georgina Stanley. She was exactly the sort of lady Sarah had always thought Simon would marry. Until recently. Until he’d started coming into Sarah’s room at night and had somehow put ideas into her head that his wife would be more like… her.

  His lips were so tight their usual pale pink tinge had faded. “I don’t want this. I don’t want her. I want…” His voice faded, then he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he said softly. “It is what it is.”

  “When will you arrange for the betrothal?” It was astonishing how smooth and clear her voice sounded. How she could pretend that the sharp dagger of pain hadn’t stabbed a hole into her heart. How it was possible her lungs were still capable of drawing breath.

  She knew he wasn’t betrothed yet. Simon was the sort of man who wouldn’t go near a woman once he was bound to marry someone else.

  “Tomorrow.”

  She let out a little cry of pain before she could stop it.

  And he was drawing her off the chair, onto his lap, and cradling her close.

  Don’t cry. Do not cry. You will not cry in front of him, because you knew this was going to happen. You knew it, Sarah.

  This was the last time he’d ever hold her like this. It hurt. More than she could have ever comprehended it would.

  He held her face against his chest, pressed his own face into her hair.

  “I have to do this. For my family.” His words came to her, fractured and broken. “Please understand.”

  She did understand, or at least a part of her did.

  Mostly, she understood that her life loomed before her, a bleak and desolate wasteland without him.

  And then he was kissing her. Everywhere. His lips were frantic, his movements erratic, like he wanted to touch every part of her at once. One last time.

  That, she understood completely. Because she was kissing him, too, her movements equally jerky, equally fumbling. Everywhere. Her hands moved over his jaw, his night beard rasping against her palms. Down the front of his chest, then dipping beneath his shirt and moving up again until they reached his heart, hesitating there for seconds while she felt the frantic pounding beneath her fingertips. His fingers worked toward the hem of her nightgown, or her robe, or both, and her hands pressed around his sides.

  Unchecked tears ran freely down her cheeks now, and as he laid her on the carpet, he bent down and kissed them away. And then he pressed inside her, and she gasped at the rush of sensation.

  The trembling started in her core and spread in long fingers outward. She couldn’t control it. She was a mass of nerves, her skin more raw and sensitive than it had ever been, her heart speared open and laid bare.

  Simon’s mouth moved over her, furiously frantic. He collected her into his arms so that she was somehow cradled beneath him. His b
ody pressed firmly over hers, but he supported the majority of his weight on his forearms and knees. He was heavy and warm, but he trembled with her, his chest heaving with the harsh breaths he made with each deep plunge his body made into hers.

  She was lost, swirling in a chasm of pain and desire and ecstasy. Her shudders deepened, and then her womb contracted hard, and she cried out and arched beneath him, completely at the mercy of her body’s demands.

  He groaned, and somewhere from deep within the chasm, she heard his words as his seed spilled into her body.

  “Sarah. Sarah. It’s you I love. You.”

  Simon entered Baron Stanley’s London drawing room. Lord and Lady Stanley rose from their pink-upholstered chairs to greet him, along with Georgina. He greeted them all politely.

  The room was papered in pink, and a pink carpet blanketed the floor. Even the fire glowed pink, a garish reflection of the surrounding color.

  “And good afternoon to you, Your Grace,” Lady Stanley gushed. “A very good afternoon, indeed.”

  For her, perhaps.

  Ever since he’d told Sarah he’d need to end things last night, he’d felt rather as if he’d been skinned alive and was bleeding all over the place. This felt unreal, like some kind of nightmare he wished he could wake from. And he wished he’d wake in Sarah’s bed. Then, he’d turn to her, pull her tight against him, take comfort from her sweet smell, her sweet body…

  “Your Grace.” Miss Stanley gave him a very proper curtsy.

  He took her hand and squeezed it. “Miss Stanley. I’m so glad you are here.”

  He’d known she would be. He and Stanley had planned all this yesterday, when Stanley had called on him to hear his answer. Simon had neglected many of his duties in the past week to seek out Stanley’s proof. First, he and Sam had ridden to Croydon to seek out Fiona Atwood. They’d found her in a small hovel. The place reeked of cheap gin. And although Stanley had named the high price it had taken the duchess to buy Theo and Mark and assure no one in London would ever set eyes on Fiona Atwood again, it seemed the woman had squandered it in spirits and gambling.

  And still… beyond the smell of alcohol emanating from the overweight, wheezing woman as she told them her story, of how she didn’t want to give up her “dear boys” but the duchess had left her with no choice, Simon saw undeniable hints of his brothers in her. The brown eyes and the hair – which on this woman now hung gray and limp, but Simon could see the hints of the light brown curls it had once held.

  Sam had seen it too. In the end, both of them believed the woman was Theo’s and Mark’s mother.

  The next day, Simon had retrieved a copy of the agreement Stanley had signed regarding Luke, and he’d taken it to Prentiss, his solicitor. After giving Simon his heartfelt wishes that none of it had ever happened, Prentiss had verified the veracity of the agreement.

  Lukas Hawkins was the illegitimate son of Baron Stanley and the Duchess of Trent. The truth of it still sat like a sour pit in Simon’s stomach.

  Lady Stanley gestured to the table. “There is hot tea. And a peach marmalade, which is quite delightful. Georgina, dear, will you serve His Grace?”

  “Of course, Mama,” the young lady said demurely. She stood behind the tea service – a replica of the tea service at Ironwood Park, the one Sarah had served him from.

  Simon’s feet were rooted to the floor as images of Sarah, her smooth white body, her long limbs, her head thrown back in ecstasy, her hands roaming over his skin, whipped through him. Her bright smile, and those lovely blue eyes that had burrowed so deeply under his skin… The fresh, sunlit taste of her. The sweet smell of her…

  “Do sit down, Your Grace.”

  Stanley offered him a raised brow. “I’d perhaps offer you something a bit stronger, Trent. A nip of sherry, perhaps? I’d choose brandy, myself, but I know how much you despise spirits obtained in the manner in which I have obtained mine.”

  Simon didn’t answer.

  “Nonsense.” Lady Stanley gave Stanley a dark look. “Why, look, Georgina is already pouring the tea.”

  Miss Stanley remained focused on her task. Stanley cast his wife a look that was less than affectionate. This was all a touch surprising, but then again, while Simon had attended functions of theirs before, such as the dinner last month, he realized he’d never seen them actually communicate prior to this moment.

  And should he be surprised? Stanley had admitted to Simon that he’d shared a mistress with Simon’s father. And Fiona Atwood probably wasn’t the only one. Simon’s stomach soured even more, and he wondered if he’d be able to manage even the tea.

  “Tea will be fine, thank you,” he said brusquely, meeting Stanley’s blue hawk’s eyes. Luke’s eyes.

  Stanley gave a short nod. “Well, then, Charlotte. I’ve some correspondence to attend to, and I believe you have a scheduled meeting with the housekeeper. Shall we leave the two young people alone?”

  Simon fought not to cringe. The situation was so fabricated, it was almost laughable. He cut a glance at Miss Stanley. She was looking at her parents wide-eyed, the expression on her face bordering on panic. Not for the first time, Simon wondered how much she knew about her father’s plan.

  Lord and Lady Stanley bustled out, leaving him and Miss Stanley in utter silence. Finally, she handed him his tea, looking up at him with eyes that reminded Simon of her father… and of Luke. But at least they were not so jaded – they held a far greater degree of purity of expression.

  “Thank you,” he said, and took a sip of tea.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what’s got into them.” She gestured toward the door. “They certainly aren’t prone to disappearing like that when a guest arrives.”

  Simon wondered whether he should trust her act of innocence. Then he decided he should. Distrusting his future wife from the beginning did not bode well for a happy marriage.

  Happy marriage. What a joke, he thought bitterly.

  “They know why I have come to your home today,” he told her in a low voice. “I believe that’s why they made such a hasty departure.”

  “Oh? But why have you come here today, Your Grace?”

  Hell. He didn’t want to do this.

  He took another sip of tea to hide his hesitation, and then he looked up at her, setting the teacup and saucer aside. He was no coward. He wouldn’t be one today.

  “Miss Stanley, you have honored me with the pleasure of your company at many events this Season.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap. “I do enjoy your company immensely, Your Grace. Every moment of it.”

  “I am glad.”

  He gazed at her. She wore a light blue silk that brought out the color of her eyes. A white sash was tied high on her waist, and a white vine was embroidered in a twisting fashion around the skirt. Surprisingly, she wore no gloves or jewelry, but the lack of both made her look younger – perhaps that had been a deliberate choice to make her appearance more appealing to him.

  Her hair was swept up to show multiple hues of blond, and tendrils curled around her face. Her lips were quite pink and bowed, and she seemed to have a permanent flush on her cheeks as well as a dark rim around her eyes that brought out their size and shape. Her lashes and brows were several shades darker than her hair. Her skin was porcelain-pale except for the blush that spread over her cheekbones.

  She looked like a blushing bride. Exactly how a young duchess should look. No one would deny she was lovely.

  She did absolutely nothing for him.

  “You would make a fine Duchess of Trent,” he said in a low voice, not breaking his gaze from hers. It was the truth. Her reputation was spotless. She was a much sought-after young lady, talented in drawing and music, trained to run a household, and came from a family with money and connections.

  A fine Duchess of Trent.

  She stiffened. Her pink lips parted, but she didn’t speak.

  It was completely up to him, then.

  “Your father has given his permission,” he said qui
etly. “And now I ask for yours. Miss Georgina Stanley, will you be my wife?”

  For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then the slender column of her throat moved as she swallowed. She pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.” Her voice was modulated low and wasn’t quite even. In that moment, Simon truly believed she hadn’t been part of the plan that had set this proposal in motion.

  He forced himself to smile, because any woman who’d just accepted a proposal of marriage deserved at least a smile. He stood, went to her, then reached out for her hand, helping her up. She wasn’t as tall as Sarah, nor as hardy. He looked down at her, this delicate porcelain doll, and tightened his fingers over hers.

  She gazed up at him, blinking her blue eyes. Brighter eyes than Sarah’s, but they seemed glassy and transparent in comparison.

  He had spent several nights this week staring into Sarah’s eyes, falling into the complex facets of her soul.

  God help him. He’d just proposed to another woman. He shouldn’t be thinking of Sarah now. But still, her image swam in his mind, transposing itself over Georgina Stanley’s face.

  Trying to shake it off, he raised her hand, turned it over, and pressed a kiss to her bare palm.

  “Miss Stanley. You have made me the happiest of men,” he lied.

  “Georgina,” she whispered. “You must call me Georgina, now that we are engaged to be married, Your Grace.”

  She gazed up at him, pink-cheeked and shiny-eyed, and he knew what was expected of him.

  “Georgina,” he confirmed. “And you must call me… Trent.”

  Not Simon. No one but Sarah called him Simon. She was the only one with that right.

  He shook himself. No, not even Sarah would call him Simon anymore. He’d taken that from her last night.

  “Very well… Trent.”

  She looked up at him, tilting her head. Oh, God. She was angling for a kiss.

  He stepped back, still keeping hold of her hand. He couldn’t kiss her. Not now. Not yet.

  He twisted his lips into a smile. “Well, then. Shall we find your parents and tell them the happy news?”