The Duchess Hunt Page 15

  “Such actions aren’t consistent with Binnie’s character.”

  “It could have been an elaborate ruse. Someone on the outside could have planned it and brought her in.” Luke was quiet for a moment. His voice was firm when he spoke again. “We should return to Hillingdon. Question the inhabitants of the area. Search for any clues that might lead to her murderer. We should also delve more deeply into Binnie’s background. Question her friends and her family. As well as the family of the male servant – what was his name?”

  “James.”

  “James, too.”

  “James has no family, as far as we’ve been able to tell.” Simon’s head hurt. The deeper they dug into the mire that was his mother’s disappearance, the murkier it became. He gave a great sigh. He wanted to go home.

  He had the sudden fantasy of Sarah waiting in his bed for him. Naked. Warming his sheets with her silky skin. He’d climb into bed, draw her soft body into his arms. Then, as promised, he’d make her his.

  Peace. Heaven.

  They rode on in silence, concentrating on the road in front of them. Then Luke said in a low voice, “So, what is it with Sarah Osborne, Trent?”

  Startled by the question, Simon glanced over at his brother. It was like the man had read his mind. “We discussed this. She was the best choice for Esme’s companion.”

  Luke snorted. “If you weren’t you, I’d be warning you about the repercussions of dallying with servants.”

  Simon stiffened. Looking straight ahead at the shadowy road, he said, “Well, I am me, so I expect warnings aren’t necessary.” Although if they were, Luke would be the proper person to issue them. Five years ago, Luke had engaged in a dalliance with one of the maids at Ironwood Park. Simon had managed to contain the scandal, but Luke had thoroughly compromised the young woman, who’d been sent back to her parents in Worcester in disgrace.

  “Right. Of course, I would have no such qualms. To me, a beautiful woman is a beautiful woman, queen or housemaid. But you, Trent? You and I both know that your snobbishness has no bounds. You’d never sully yourself with a girl like Sarah.”

  Heat rose within Simon, boiling in his chest and rising to spread through his shoulders, neck, and face. His muscles tautened into iron bands across his shoulders and back.

  Luke was doing this on purpose, Simon knew. Deliberately trying to raise his ire.

  “Still,” Luke continued, musing, “she’s a pretty piece. She adores you – oh, I’ve seen the way she looks at you – so she’d be an easy conquest. And, knowing Sarah, she wouldn’t make a peep of noise about it afterward. Not like —” He hesitated, then said, “Well, as dallying with servants goes, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea, after all.”

  Simon was silent. He clenched his hands hard on the reins to keep them from wrapping around Luke’s neck.

  Luke laughed, the sound grating along Simon’s nerves. “Come, now, Trent. I know you’ve thought about it. And I don’t blame you. The woman has curves a man can’t help but admire. Soft, luscious curves that would fit nicely into a man’s hand. And a mouth meant to close over his —”

  In one smooth motion, Simon had halted his horse and dismounted, lowering his lantern onto the ground beside him.

  Luke stopped his horse a few paces ahead and looked back at Simon. “What?”

  Simon wasn’t sure he could speak. He’d never been so irate. He was shaking. Sweat broke out in hot pinpricks over his forehead.

  He managed to growl out, “Get off the damn horse.”

  Luke stared at him, then slowly raised his eyebrows. The corners of his lips twitched upward.

  “Get off the horse,” Simon repeated.

  Turning his horse around, Luke just shook his head. “What a sight. My brother and his oh-so-righteous fury. I’m so sick of it.”

  But Luke’s earlier words keep hammering in Simon’s skull. “Easy conquest.” “Pretty piece.” “Dallying with servants.”

  Worst of all: “You’d never sully yourself with a girl like Sarah.”

  He stared up at Luke, red crowding at the fringes of his vision.

  “… a girl like Sarah…”

  No more. He wouldn’t have anyone speaking of Sarah – his Sarah – that way. No one. Not even his brother, who he’d forgiven years of drinking and gambling and whores.

  “Get down,” Simon growled.

  Luke shook his head. “You know, brother, I think this is where we must part ways. You see, you’re heading home, back to the pretense of being a moral, respectable duke while you secretly lust after your housemaid. I have no desire to bear witness to that hypocrisy. I’m going to remain right here. First thing I intend to do is locate the closest pub, and after that, I intend to return to Hillingdon and get to the bottom of my mother’s disappearance.”

  “Get out of my sight, then.” Bitterness welled in Simon’s voice. He couldn’t count on Luke to find their mother. He couldn’t count on Luke for anything except to get drunk, to offend everyone he cared about, and to find ways to besmirch their family name.

  “Gladly.” Luke turned in the direction from which they’d come, dug his heels into the horse’s sides, and sent the animal into a gallop – recklessly dangerous this time of night, but wasn’t that just like Luke to risk his horse?

  Simon stood there for long minutes after the sound of hoofbeats faded into the night.

  It was for the best that Luke was gone.

  At least, he tried to convince himself of that.

  Chapter Eleven

  Simon paced the upstairs corridor of Trent House.

  By the time he’d returned from Hillingdon, the household was dark, everyone abed, Sarah included. She must be asleep. He didn’t want to rouse her. It would be selfish to do so, and none of the news he had to impart was good.

  Simon went into his bedchamber and stared at his bed for long moments, but it looked so unappealing and uninviting, so cold, that he flung off the cravat he’d been untying and let it pile in a snowy heap on the floor, knowing Burton, his valet, would have fits about its wrinkles in the morning.

  Simon turned on his heel and strode out of the prison-like confinement of his bedchamber. And then he paced. The corridor on the first floor was long and narrow. He didn’t know why he didn’t go downstairs, except for the fact that the ground floor provided a layout far less amenable to the task at hand, which involved striding down to one end, swiveling about, then repeating the process again and again.

  Plus, up here, he was closer to Sarah. He could walk by her door and think about her lying in bed, her face peaceful in sleep. That thought brought him a bit of peace, too.

  So he paced, avoiding the two floorboards he knew would creak if he stepped on them. He was silent and stealthy, a caged lion on the prowl. His mind would not settle. He couldn’t stop thinking about the argument he’d had with Luke.

  Was he being a hypocrite, as Luke had implied? When Luke had compromised that young maid, Simon had been furious. He’d railed at his brother, called him a stupid, selfish fool who couldn’t keep his cock in his breeches.

  And now he was engaging in the type of liaison he’d previously been so outspoken against.

  Suddenly, her door opened behind him. He turned around, a part of him knowing that this was what he’d secretly wanted.

  She stepped into the doorframe, wrapping a thin white cotton robe about her slender body. When she saw him, the tension in her face dissolved in relief. “Oh,” she said in a small voice, “I’m so glad you’re home safe.”

  “May I come in?”

  She recognized his intent, for a blush instantly rose to suffuse her cheeks. “Yes,” she said, but her voice now sounded scratchy and low.

  She stepped aside and let him pass, and he entered her room, turning to her as the door snicked shut behind them.

  “What happened with Mr. Woodrow?” she whispered.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. He couldn’t get the words out. Turning away from her, he went to the window.
Parting the curtains, he rested his hands on the sill and leaned his forehead against the cold glass.

  After a moment, she came up behind him. She slid her arms around him and laid her cheek on his back. “Tell me it isn’t the duchess. Tell me you didn’t discover something horrible has happened to her.”

  “No, not my mother.” He took a breath. “It was Binnie. She’s dead, Sarah.”

  Sarah gave a little gasp, and he turned and took her into his arms. She held on to his shoulders, looking at him with wild eyes. “What happened?” she cried.

  “She was found murdered outside London. She had the amethyst necklace in her possession, and it was taken from her. No one involved could give us any information about the whereabouts of my mother, or of James.”

  That was enough. He didn’t need to tell her that Binnie’s throat had been slit, nor of that nasty business with the grave-robber.

  “Oh God,” Sarah moaned. She buried her face in his shirt, and he felt her back move with silent sobs. Simon knew that Sarah and Binnie had never been close friends, but Sarah cared deeply about everyone who resided at Ironwood Park. Just as he did.

  He’d had no idea how to comfort his sister when she’d sobbed in fear for their mother in the parlor at Ironwood Park, but now he knew exactly how to comfort Sarah. He held her tight, rubbing gentle circles into her back, throwing all the tenderness and compassion he could into his touch.

  After a long moment, she looked up at him, her face streaked with tears. “Why? What could Binnie have ever done to deserve such a fate?”

  He shook his head hopelessly. “I don’t know, love.”

  She sank back against his chest, and he stood there holding her, wishing desperately that there was something else he could do to ease her pain, until her tears subsided.

  Finally she looked at him. Reaching up a finger, she gently traced the lines around his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes shining, her eyelashes matted with tears.

  He shook his head, confused. “Sorry for what?”

  “That you had to make such a discovery today.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” The image of Binnie’s cold, naked body flashed in his mind, and he closed his eyes against it. “No one ever wishes to encounter death, but when it is the death of someone who has been a part of your existence for so long…”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “Exactly.” After a long pause, she asked, “Is Lord Lukas all right?”

  How to answer that question? Honestly, he supposed. “No, not really.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He returned to the town where Binnie was discovered. He wants to see if he can discover anything else.”

  “Oh,” she murmured. “And you, Your Grace?”

  He shook his head. “I just wanted to come home,” he said simply. “To you.”

  Her arms tightened around him. She stared up at him with those big blue eyes, her lips parted. He had to kiss her. So he did just that, taking her face in his hands and tilting it up, then touching his lips to hers.

  She was so pliant and willing in his arms. His body, which had been tense and prickly and generally out of sorts all day and all night, now roared to life. It commanded him to take her, to make her his in every sense of the word.

  But no. Not yet. Not tonight, when she’d just heard about Binnie. When he finally took her, he wanted it to be special and memorable, not weighted down by tragedy and loss.

  He pulled back, hooked a hand behind her knees, and lifted her. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Looking down into her face, her lips plump and pink from his kiss, her eyes still shining with tears, he whispered, “Sarah, let me love you.”

  She gazed up at him, utterly trusting, utterly accepting, and nodded.

  She’d made her decision – she would accept whatever he wished to give. He knew Sarah well enough to know she wouldn’t change her mind.

  He walked to her bed – the sheets were still pulled back from when she’d left it to investigate who was making noise in the corridor – laid her gently upon it, and sat on the edge of the mattress.

  “When we are alone from now on, will you call me Simon?” No one called him Simon anymore, but it was how he thought of himself – Trent was just the shell he inhabited – and he wanted her to think of him that way, too.

  She smiled up at him, one of her wide, beautiful smiles that made his heart stutter, even though her eyes were still filled with tears. “In my mind, that has always been who you are.”

  “Then I would hear it from your lips, too,” he said.

  “Simon,” she whispered, and the sound of his name in her voice sent a shudder through him and made his cock stir.

  He bent over her and kissed her again, letting his hand move to explore the soft curve of her breast. He slipped beneath the opening of her robe, cupped the small mound, and thumbed her nipple, his shaft lengthening and pushing against the falls of his pantaloons as the tip of her breast puckered under his touch.

  She squirmed a bit, releasing a sweet gasp into his mouth. He’d learned how very sensitive her breasts were; how responsive she was when he touched her here. He swallowed her gasp and kissed her harder, stroking her nipple to make her wiggle and gasp again and again before moving to the other side and giving it the same treatment.

  He straightened to focus on untying the belt of her robe, then he separated the two edges and pulled them apart. She wore the same plain white nightgown she’d worn last night. It silhouetted her body in a way that nearly made him groan, outlining the slim shapes of her legs, the gentle rise of her mound, the curve of her waist, and the taut peaks of her nipples.

  He kicked off his shoes and slipped into bed beside her, drawing her into his arms, pressing his own body against hers so she would have no doubt as to the level of his arousal.

  More brazen than last night, her hands explored his back over his shirt, then his torso. He sucked in a breath when her fingertips passed over his nipples, and she pulled back in surprise.

  “It feels good,” he explained. “No doubt similar to how it feels when I touch you there.”

  Her lips curved. Seductive, even wicked. After one night, she’d already grown adventurous. Once she knew what she was about, she would be a spitfire in bed.

  He ran his lips over her jaw, nuzzling her. “God, how I want you.”

  “And I,” she said as her fingertips passed over his chest again, “want you.”

  If she kept doing that, he’d lose his mind in no time. So he took a handful of her nightgown in his fist and pulled upward until he could touch the silky skin of her thigh.

  He trailed his fingers up her leg, reveling in the soft and smooth but muscled contours, getting near her most private place, testing and then retreating.

  Ever so gently, he cupped his hand over her mound. She stilled. Her only movement was in the quick rise and fall of her chest with each short, jerky breath. When he slipped his finger between her lips, she gave a shuddering moan.

  She was slick with desire, just like she’d been last night. She clutched the back of his shirt, bunching the fabric there, thrusting against his hand as he stroked her again then pushed a finger inside her.

  He drew back a little to look at her face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open in a rapturous O.

  His cock was a solid pike, aching to take the place of his finger. But he didn’t allow it to rule him. Sarah’s pleasure was what mattered. He wanted to make her forget.

  He stroked her, caressing her inner walls and pressing the heel of his hand over the nub above. He worked her, first with the one finger and then adding a second, until she was gasping, squirming, arching and begging him in sweet little pants. “Please. Please. Please.”

  God. He needed a taste. He crawled down her body, trailing kisses over her nightgown, taking time as he passed over her breasts, suckling each nipple over the thin cotton even as he kept working his fingers into her. Then he nudged her nightgown up her legs, pausing over the scar on her knee.

>   A lump formed in his throat as he realized that she’d received that scar the day he’d met her. He kissed the little raised half-moon-shaped scar tenderly, then moved upward to press his lips to the area just about the V-shaped triangle of hair that hid her womanhood.

  Again, she stilled. “What are you…?” Her voice trailed off.

  “Tonight,” he murmured between kisses, “I’m going to enlighten you on another way a woman can be pleasured.” He withdrew his hand from her center and nudged her thighs apart, settling into position between them.

  Her thighs trembled, and she was so wet. She was already hovering on the precipice, so close to losing all control. He wanted her to come, to plummet over the edge, to lose herself to pleasure.

  He kissed over her mound, then used his tongue to lick between her lips, drinking in the singular taste of her, fresh and sweet, with that hint of meadow grasses. Essential Sarah.

  Her legs shook around him, and he sensed rather than saw her hands scrambling for purchase. He reached up and grasped her hand, settling her. Her fingers curled hard over his, and he licked over her nub, sending a jolt through her body that resonated through his own.

  Holding the outside of her thigh with his other hand, he pressed his lips over her, thrust his tongue into her. And then he focused on the nub, feeling the jolt of sensation spear through her whenever he caressed it with his lips or tongue.

  Her fingers gripped his hand tighter; her legs clamped around his shoulders. As he kissed and licked, taking her sweetness into himself, she tightened, her muscles taut and straining, tighter and tighter. And then she found her release, her body undulating around him, her gasps harsh in the quiet of the night.

  And, God help him, he nearly came against the bedclothes. But he held on to his control and coaxed her through it, keeping his firm, grounding grip on her hand.

  When she emerged on the other side, he kissed his way back up her body, tugging down her nightgown over her legs as he nuzzled her neck and jaw and finally ended with a gentle kiss on her lips. Then he drew back to look at her.

  He smiled. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lips soft and pliant, a dewy sheen on her cheeks.