The Duchess Hunt Read online

  Dark promise entered his eyes. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  And then he sat beside her. And he touched her. Everywhere. His lips and hands moved all over her, and she remembered what he’d told her on the bench by the stream at Ironwood Park:… all I can think about is putting my hands all over you. Tasting you all over again.

  He did just that. He left no part of her free of the soft press of his lips or the gentle caress of his hands. And then he slid his fingers between her legs. She was so sensitive there, she gave a little jump and squeak, and he met her gaze. “It’s time for me to give you a gift of my own,” he told her. “A gift of pleasure. Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly. She did trust him. She knew with all her heart that he would never purposefully hurt her, that fear of hurting her was what had kept him away from her for so long.

  “Then open for me.” He laid his hand on her knee, nudging it, and she understood. Slowly, she parted her knees, baring the most private part of herself to his view.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. And then he gathered her against him in a one-armed embrace, and began to stroke her.

  Sarah gasped, leaned against him, held on for dear life. She’d never experienced anything like this – such intense pleasure she felt like squirming out of her skin.

  And then he pressed a finger inside her.

  She had never considered such a thing. Had never dreamed that it was something anyone would ever conceive of doing.

  And yet… it was heavenly. His fingers were hot on her and inside her, caressing and pressing in a place that was so sensitive, she felt as if a sweet-hot inferno were building within her, tightening, sending licks of sensation under her skin and through her limbs.

  One finger stroked inside her, then two, his thumb pressing just above, circling the place that made her want to thrust against his hand and cry out at the blissful torture at the same time. His other hand remained around her, holding her firm around her hip, keeping her from squirming away, from jumping out of her skin. Keeping her anchored.

  She thrust her hands into his light brown hair, its silky texture caressing her fingers. Her back arched, and she whimpered as his fingers stroked an oh-so-sensitive spot inside her. A finger circled that hot, needy place.

  His breath whispered hot against her ear, his teeth bit gently down on her lobe, and he was saying all sorts of wicked things. The Duke of Trent was telling her she was beautiful. That she was so slick and hot. That he wanted to take her, to be inside her. To make her scream.

  Her body began to shake as licks of heat shot down through her limbs, tightening her muscles. His hand around her firmed, keeping her still, keeping her somehow attached to the earth. Her eyes closed, because it required too much energy to keep them open. There was only the sensation, the absolute pleasure building within her.

  And then… release. All of a sudden, the coalescing ball of heat within her expanded, sending white-hot pleasure shooting through every inch of her body. She gasped, then released a low moan, her body undulating unchecked in the circle of his embrace.

  Simon’s lips pressed against hers. He kept moving his fingers inside her and over her, but his movements gentled as the powerful spasms that wracked her body receded. And when she finally slumped, boneless and replete, he caught her in his arms. Ever so gently, he laid her on the bed, adjusting her limp limbs into a comfortable position, then lying down beside her and drawing her close against him.

  She stroked his arm, feeling light and careless, as free as a bird coasting on the wind. Smiling, she said in complete honesty, “Thank you. That wasn’t what I expected.”

  His chest rumbled in a low chuckle, his arousal moving against her. “No? Did you expect me to lay you down, hike up your skirt and simply take you?”

  “I thought that was how it was done,” she admitted. “I’d no idea that a woman could be… could be pleasured to… well, to such an extent.”

  “I’m glad to be the one to enlighten you,” he murmured.

  “I’m glad you were the one to enlighten me, too.” She gave a blissful sigh. Every muscle in her body felt full, relaxed, satisfied.

  “We’re not finished yet.” To punctuate that statement, he pushed himself gently against her so she could feel his erection pressing between her legs.

  “I know,” she whispered. “Now it’s my turn to pleasure you. Will you teach me how to do that?”

  Smiling, he bent forward to kiss her lips.

  “I will, love.”

  Pleasure flushed through her all over again. He’d called her “love.”

  “But touch me instead,” he said. “Wrap your fingers around me.”

  “Like this?” She reached down to take his shaft in her hand again.

  “Not exactly. Something’s in the way.” He turned away for a moment to shimmy off his drawers. “There. Try again.”

  This time when she held him, she could feel the heat of him, the softness of the skin covering the solid length of his erection.

  He curled his fingers around hers. “Yes. And stroke it, like this.”

  He moved his hands up and down, and Sarah was fascinated by the texture of him, how the velvety softness covered such solid strength.

  His eyelids grew heavy. “Yes, that’s it, a little harder, love. Press your thumb over me when you reach the top.”

  She continued, feeling her own body growing impossibly needy and hot and wanting again as she stroked him. She tried to think about what it would be like for him to be inside her, but she couldn’t even begin to imagine it. Still, her core grew warm and wet in anticipation as he began to thrust into her hand. She kept her eyes closed, kissed him as she learned about him, about every bump and contour. How was it possible that something this large could fit inside her? And yet she knew that it would. She was made for him, after all.

  A sharp rap sounded at the door. Simon froze, and so did she, her hand still on him. Then he touched his lips to hers, gently disentangled himself from her, and turned his head toward the door.

  “Yes?” he called.

  “Your Grace,” came the muffled voice from outside the door. “Lord Lukas is stirring.”

  With a hearty sigh, Simon moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “Go down and keep an eye on him, Tremaine. I’ll be right there.”

  “Yes sir.”

  They sat still, listening to the sound of Tremaine’s retreating footsteps.

  Then, Simon turned to face her, his face filled with regret. “We’d best go down. I don’t want him running off before I get a chance to tell him about our mother.”

  “Oh, Your Grace,” she murmured, scooting closer to him to cup his face in her hand, “are you sure?”

  He leaned in and kissed her again, this one long and slow and hot, his mouth claiming her lips, possessive and sure. When he pulled back, he murmured, “Soon, Sarah. Soon, I’ll make you mine.”

  With her body still warm and sated from her release, her heart full, and her mind at peace, she knew, without a doubt, that she was already irrevocably his.

  Chapter Nine

  Luke was stirring when Simon walked into the drawing room with Sarah on his heels. Simon held back as Sarah hurried toward him and checked his pulse and temperature. Luke’s eyelids flickered, then he squinted at Sarah.

  “Pretty,” he croaked.

  “Good morning, Lord Lukas,” she said gravely. “How are you feeling?”

  He gave a low groan. “Like hell.”

  “No doubt.” She glanced at Simon, then back down to Luke.

  “Sarah, is that you? Where am I?” Luke struggled up on his elbows and looked around the room. “Aw, damn. Trent House.” He spat the words. “How the hell’d I end up in this bloody mausoleum?”

  “Watch your language,” Simon growled, stalking toward the sofa.

  Luke sneered up at him. “Well, if it isn’t my sainted brother.”

  “Hush, my lord,” Sarah said, her voice warm but stern. “As to how you came to
be here, I imagine you brought yourself. We found you unconscious at the back door.”

  “My mistake, then. I’ll be going now.” He struggled to rise.

  “No,” Simon announced. “You will stay.”

  Luke gained his feet, swaying a bit. “You’ve no right to order me about, Trent. Now get out of my way.”

  Sarah laid a hand on Simon’s arm. “Stay awhile, my lord. You’re not well.”

  It was true. Luke’s eyes were bloodshot and his skin held a sickly tinge of yellow.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” he snapped. “Healthy as a damn ox.”

  Simon clenched his hands into fists. In his life, no one had ever been more capable of raising his ire than Luke.

  “You’re not fine,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “And there are things we need to discuss. You will stay here if I have to lash you to the sofa.”

  Luke raised a brow. “Ooh. Sounds ominous, brother.”

  Simon cast a frustrated glance toward Sarah.

  She took in a deep breath. “Why don’t we have some breakfast.” It was a command – to both of them – not a suggestion.

  “Not hungry,” Luke muttered. Raising his hand, he held his head as if in an attempt to keep it attached to his neck.

  She patted his arm. “Food will do you good. Trust me.”

  He gave her a crooked grin. “I’d laugh at anyone else who told me that, Sarah. But you… very well. I’ll trust you.”

  She gave him one of those smiles that made Simon’s gut clench. Bright and sunny. A touch of heaven in the curve of her lips. He couldn’t wait to take her back to bed. As soon as this business with Luke was over…

  Luke frowned at her. “You’re here. In London. Why the devil are you in this cesspool? London isn’t worthy of you, Sarah. You belong at Ironwood Park.”

  She chuckled. “Well, that’s a long story, my lord. If you wish, I can tell it to you while you’re eating breakfast.”

  “Very well, then.” Luke gallantly gestured for her to lead the way to the dining room, and he walked behind her, his steps decidedly unsteady. Simon followed his brother in case he needed to rescue any of the ancient Greek pottery in the corridor should Luke feel compelled to sway into it.

  Sarah bustled them inside the dining room and had them both sit while she sent the servants off for hot food, poured coffee, and buttered toast. All the while, Simon and Luke sat, staring at each other in stony silence.

  She set a plate of toast down in front of Luke. “Eat.” Her tone brooked no argument, and with a negligent shrug, Luke began to eat.

  Finally, she sat down, too, and told Luke about how she was now working as Esme’s companion.

  “A well-deserved rise in status for you,” Luke said between bites of toast. “Congratulations.”

  Simon checked for any sarcasm or disingenuousness in his brother’s expression or tone. He found none.

  But then Luke scowled. “So I suppose that means Esme’s here in London, too?”

  “She is,” Sarah confirmed.

  Luke narrowed his eyes at Simon. “Why? Why would you bring her here? Why would you do that to her?”

  Just like Luke, to question every damn decision he made.

  “It was for the best,” he said shortly, “considering the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  Simon braced himself for what would come next. “Luke, have you been in residence in your townhouse at all?”

  “Now and then. Why?”

  “I sent you a message on the fourteenth of April, summoning you home.”

  Luke’s blue eyes narrowed. “You did?”

  “I did.”

  Luke snorted, then waved his hand dismissively. “For God’s sake, Trent. You cannot expect me to come running at your every summons.”

  Simon ground his teeth and was about to open his mouth and inform Luke that he was not only a fool but also an ass… and then he felt it. The soothing hand on his thigh. Sarah’s hand. But this was not an invitation – though his cock responded instantly to the proximity of her gentle touch – this was a plea for temperance.

  So he sucked in a breath and took a second to loosen the tension that had knotted in his shoulders. “I summoned you, along with Sam, Mark, and Theo, to Ironwood Park for a reason. Did you even read the letter?”

  Luke moved crumbs around on his plate, making it a point to look bored. “Can’t recall.”

  After a few more seconds of tooth-grinding, Simon said, “Our mother is missing. She’s been gone for almost six weeks.”

  Silence. No one moved. Then Luke looked up at him. “What?”

  “Our mother. The Duchess of Trent. Has been missing. For over a month,” Simon repeated. “No one knows where she is. We have been searching, but we have very few clues to work with. She simply disappeared, along with her servants. No one knows where they are.”

  “Well,” Luke sputtered, “she probably just went to visit her sisters.”

  “No. We’ve checked.”

  “Her houses in London and the Lake District?”

  “She hasn’t been in residence at either one in over a year.”

  “So you’re saying what? She was kidnapped?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Luke’s blue eyes widened. “Murdered?”

  Simon paused, then nodded. “Also possible.”

  Fury reddened Luke’s face. “Who knows of this?”

  The thin thread of control Simon had kept wound around his patience finally snapped. “For God’s sake, Luke, the whole damn world knows it.”

  Luke smacked his hands down on the table. “And you didn’t tell me.”

  “Lord Lukas, His Grace tried to tell you. He sent you a letter —” Sarah began.

  “I didn’t read the damn letter!” Luke roared.

  Simon snapped to his feet. “You will not raise your voice to Sarah.”

  Luke jumped up, too, his narrowed gaze fixed on Simon. “Our mother is missing.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “She could be dead.”

  Luke was the first person who’d said that aloud. The word hit Simon in the chest like a shard of glass. “Yes,” he said coldly. “It is possible. But we —”

  “And you didn’t tell me. You sent me a damn summons you knew I wouldn’t bother reading, but you didn’t come by to tell me in person.”

  “We assumed that you weren’t at home since you didn’t respond to the letter. No one had any idea where you’d gone.”

  “Did you even look?”

  “You mean, conduct a thorough search inside your whorehouses and gambling hells, Luke?” Simon’s lips curled. “No, I didn’t look. I have been too busy looking for our mother.”

  “It’s as it always is, then. I am less of a brother, less of a son. I don’t bloody matter, do I?”

  What the hell? Luke always thought this way, and Simon never had the faintest idea why. He was the second son, the “spare,” and he had been Simon’s heir since their father had died. He had been treated as such by everyone, both in the family and outside it. He had always been given the honor and respect the position entitled him to, and yet he did everything he could to squander it. If anyone had the right to be bitter and resentful, it was their half brother, Sam. But Sam had never been this way.

  “I sent everyone the same letter!” Simon shouted. “You, Sam, Mark, and Theo all received the exact same message. But Sam, Mark, and Theo read it. They cared enough to read it, and they cared enough to come.”

  “Please, both of you, stop!” Sarah exclaimed. Simon looked over at her to see that she was standing too, the color high in her cheeks. They all stood around the circular table, glaring at one another.

  “My lord… please. The fact of the matter is that we didn’t tell you, and perhaps” – she slid a look toward Simon – “we should have taken more pains to ensure you were informed. But now you know. And now you can help us find the duchess.”

  Luke crossed his arms over his chest, still glaring
. He looked yellower than ever, and rather like he was about to keel over. The shouting hadn’t done him any good.

  Sarah saw it, too. “Please sit down.” She walked around the table to urge him back into his seat. He didn’t argue, just sat heavily and put his head in his hands.

  Simon laid his palms flat on the table. “In your cups every night again, Luke? Is that what this is?”

  “What’s it to you?” Luke muttered.

  Suddenly the energy left him, and Simon slid back into his chair, too. Sarah remained standing, watching them both. They stayed in their places for long moments, not speaking, not eating. And then there was a knock at the door.

  It was Tremaine. “Your Grace, a George Turner is at the door insisting to see you.”

  Simon straightened in his chair. “Show him in. Right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Tremaine left, Sarah asked, “George Turner – is that the boy who’s looking for Mr. Woodrow?”

  “Yes.”

  Luke stared at him with a blank expression.

  “We discovered this man – Woodrow – had sold our mother’s amethyst necklace to a jeweler in Jermyn Street. We’ve been waiting for him to appear at his residence in the East End in order to question him.”

  Luke gave a tightlipped nod.

  Just then, George rushed in. He was a plump boy, with a round face and red apples for cheeks. The tall, thin Tremaine hovered over him.

  “Yer Grace! He’s home! Mr. Woodrow’s come home!”

  Simon and Luke went to the East End together, Simon filling Luke in on every facet of the situation regarding their mother’s disappearance. Sarah had been right – food had seemed to strengthen Luke’s constitution. That and sheer force of will, Simon thought, were what kept him standing.

  Outside John Woodrow’s house, Simon paid George Turner and sent him away. He didn’t want the boy making enemies in his own neighborhood. Feeling the comforting weight of his pistol in his coat, and knowing his brother was similarly armed, Simon knocked on Woodrow’s door.

  The man who answered was huge. Tall and burly, the muscles in his arms straining against the dirt-stained linen of his shirt. Seeing the two gentlemen at his door, he raised bushy brown brows. “Wot’s this?”