The Duchess Hunt Read online

  Miss Stanley had been present at almost every event he’d attended in London since the beginning of the year. By now, he knew the feel of her hands as they clasped over his, how her waist curved beneath his fingers.

  Yet she still didn’t know him. For that matter, he didn’t know her. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.

  She was lovely – her beauty, frankly, was unsurpassed in society circles. She was the belle of the Season. She was also a daughter of an aristocratic family with money and connections. The Barony of Stanley was an old and respected one. She would make a man a fine wife someday.

  But she isn’t Sarah…

  He smiled down at her as he led her in another turn and thrust that thought from his mind.

  The truth was, no one could compare to Sarah. He couldn’t expect to find another Sarah from the pool of eligible ladies in London. Sarah was one in a million.

  The thought depressed him. God knew he didn’t want a marriage like the one his mother and father had subsisted in.

  No, that would never happen. He’d never be like his father. Or his mother, for that matter. Both of them had indulged in affairs – several affairs, in the case of his father. He’d kept mistresses in Town while Mother had been left on her own at Ironwood Park.

  Many of his peers kept mistresses secreted away, to be brought forward when a man was bored or in need of sensual companionship a wife could not or would not provide.

  Simon had observed his mother’s misery more than once. Long ago, he’d resolved to never do that to his own wife.

  Holding both Miss Stanley’s delicate gloved hands in his own, he looked down into her bright blue eyes and thought about a life with a woman like her. She was beautiful and virtuous and gregarious… all important components of a respectable duchess.

  The music ended, and he bowed to Miss Stanley and then to the lady to his left. Turning back to Miss Stanley, he led her back to her mama, responding to her chatter but scarcely hearing it. When they reached Lady Stanley, he asked Miss Stanley to accompany him to the supper, which she accepted with pleasure.

  She did seem to enjoy his company, but he was no fool – he knew most of the time it was his title that held the allure. That was why he could count his true friends – those he was sure liked him for him – on one hand. Sarah, of course, was among those.

  Leaving Miss Stanley with her mother, he sought out Esme and Sarah… and with an inward cringe, he remembered his sister’s awkwardness. Why did she struggle with social gatherings? He didn’t understand it. She’d been raised to shine in such settings, and yet she simply… didn’t.

  Whitworth had taken Esme for their dance, so he found Sarah sitting alone, watching the beginning strains of the country dance. He slid into the chair beside her, gazing out over the ballroom floor.

  “Where are they?” he asked her softly.

  “Near the potted palm.”

  Esme stood beside Whitworth, who gazed at her with a small, encouraging smile on his face. Good man, Whitworth.

  Simon had been present at her final ball last summer. It had been a disaster. Not only had she fallen, sprawled over the wood floor, but two other people had tripped over her, causing the most unseemly pile of silk and wool and human limbs on the dance floor. He had protected Esme from seeing it, but there had been a very unflattering caricature of her in the scandal sheets the following day.

  Glancing around, he saw they were still whispering about it. Several ladies scattered throughout the ballroom were pointing at Esme and giggling behind their fans.

  In his mind, he catalogued the identities of those who laughed at his sister. He wouldn’t make a scene, not here or anywhere, but he’d remember.

  “She’s so brave,” Sarah whispered.

  He glanced at her, wondering if she knew what had happened last year.

  Sarah kept her gaze fastened on Esme, her eyes glassy, and Simon wished he could dance with her. He wanted her in his arms. He wanted her to be the one smiling up at him, looking at him with those honest blue eyes.

  But a duke did not ask his sister’s companion to dance.

  He remembered the first time he’d seen Sarah dance, in the parlor at Ironwood Park. Miss Farnshaw had been pounding out a minuet on the pianoforte, and Sarah and Esme had been practicing in the center of the room. Hovering near the door, Simon had observed them, unnoticed.

  Sarah had been seventeen years of age, and on that day, his gaze had been riveted to her. Watching the way she’d helped his twelve-year-old sister, her laughter, and her exuberance as she’d danced, Simon had felt the first stirrings of lust for Sarah Osborne.

  It hadn’t been three years ago, after all. It had started long before then, and over the years had grown into this powerful, pulsing need he felt for her now.

  Esme began the country dance, not looking at Whitworth but at her feet, as if willing them to follow her commands. And her performance was, if not admirable, then adequate. No falls. Not even a trip. Through it all, Sarah studied her, and between speaking to people who came up to greet him, Simon covertly studied Sarah, taking in her profile, the lively expressions that crossed her face, her scent so fresh compared to the press of bodily sweat and heat that surrounded them.

  She truly cared about Esme, that much was evident in the careful way she observed her, swaying gently to the music, then releasing little puffs of relief when Esme successfully executed a step.

  At the end, Esme went so far as to smile at Whitworth for a moment before her shyness overcame her once again. Whitworth escorted her to Simon and Sarah and thanked her for the dance before disappearing into the crowd.

  Sarah gave Esme a brilliant smile, and the two women shared something silent between them that Simon found impossible to interpret. He was glad that Sarah was proving to be such a fine companion for his sister.

  It was time for the supper, for Simon to escort the Stanleys to the dining room. As he walked away, he felt the residual caress of Sarah’s smooth voice washing over him.

  Desire welled up within him. Desire to ignore Lady and Miss Stanley and escort Sarah to the supper instead, then spend the rest of the evening dancing with her. He wanted to push away the heavy societal burdens that had weighed on him for so long. The sudden longing to throw off the mantle of responsibility and, for once, do what he really wanted burned inside him.

  Plastering a smile on his face, he doggedly approached the Stanley women instead.

  Chapter Six

  They returned from the ball in the earliest hours of the morning. After seeing an exhausted Esme to bed, Sarah couldn’t sleep. She wasn’t tired. Her mind was too actively parsing out what had happened tonight, all the new things she’d learned, not only about London and society but about Simon and Esme.

  Throwing her cotton robe over her chemise, Sarah left her room and tiptoed downstairs, making certain not to disturb any of the other members of the household. In the corridor outside the library, where she was intending to find a dull book to read to help her fall asleep, she stopped short. There was a line of light along the bottom of the door. Someone was inside.

  It had to be Simon. Who else would still be awake at this hour?

  Before she could think, before she could talk herself out of it, she’d knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Simon sat on a chair by the hearth at the far end of the long, narrow room, which was sparsely furnished except for the rows of bookshelves along the walls and two carved wooden chairs and a table near the hearth. He looked toward the door with a bemused expression that relaxed when he saw her hovering on the threshold. “Sarah. Come in,” he repeated, setting his full glass on a side table and rising to greet her.

  “It’s not necessary to stand, Your Grace.”

  “Yes, it is, Miss Osborne.”

  She couldn’t help the pull of a smile on her lips at the way he addressed her.

  Simon wasn’t wearing his coats. Only his shirt, open at the top and showing a vee of golden flesh, and the br
eeches he’d worn to the ball. Instantly, a tingling flush rose to Sarah’s cheeks.

  Tearing her gaze away from the sight of him so… undressed, she moved across the room toward the chair he was gesturing to, inhaling the pleasant essences of leather and cigar smoke. Simon had told her that his father had the habit of smoking cheroots in this room, and the smell had permeated into the walls and never faded away. He resumed his seat when she lowered herself into hers.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted.

  “Nor I.”

  “We both should sleep,” she said. Their schedules were busy tomorrow.

  He gave a soft laugh. “Probably.”

  She stared at the hearth, but feeling his gaze on her, she glanced at him. “Did you enjoy the evening?”

  He’d danced with six different young ladies – twice with Miss Stanley. She’d counted.

  His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “It was… acceptable.”

  She cocked a brow at him, but only said, “Ah.”

  They sat in comfortable silence. Simon retrieved his glass from the table and took a few sips of the amber liquid. Sarah soaked up the heat of the fire and basked in the luxury of having Simon close to her without the presence of others.

  “Lady Esme —” she finally began. Lord, how to finish that sentence? “She… struggled.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t been sure he’d noticed his sister’s extreme discomfort tonight, but she was glad he had. Sarah gave him a sidelong glance. “And…?”

  He fingered the rim of his glass. “I think her reticence is due to her being sheltered in the country. The more she is exposed to such gatherings, the more comfortable she’ll become.”

  “Do you truly believe that?”

  “I do.”

  “Perhaps your theory will prove true,” she conceded after a minute. “In the meantime… she tried so very hard tonight.”

  “She performed…” he hesitated, then said, “adequately. Better than her last ball, by far.”

  Sarah didn’t want to know what had transpired at Esme’s last ball if this showing had been far better.

  “She wants so desperately to please you.”

  He frowned. “Please me? Why?”

  Sarah laughed. “How can you not know, Your Grace? You are her older brother, the head of the family. You are the Duke of Trent. Everyone wishes to please you, but probably no one more than Esme.”

  Except Sarah herself, of course.

  Now it was Simon who stared into the flames. “I am just her brother. Just someone who wants the best for her. We’ll keep trying. She’ll continue to improve.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I have thought more than once tonight that her improvement was due to having you at her side.”

  “Oh, no. Your mother was at her side last year, and the duchess is a far more formidable ally than I.”

  “She is that, but she is also quite social and had a tendency to ignore my sister. Leaving her to the wolves, so to speak.”

  “Oh.” Sarah’s heart clenched. It made sense. The duchess knew everyone, spoke to everyone, was the most gregarious soul Sarah had ever known. She could see the older woman flitting from person to person, leaving poor Esme to fend for herself.

  “But you remained by her side,” Simon said.

  “It is my duty to do so.”

  “Still – I wish you would have danced.”

  “What?”

  His eyes met hers, held her steady in his gaze. “I would have liked to see you dance. I would have liked to dance with you.”

  “I do not stand at Lady Esme’s side as her equal, Your Grace,” she reminded him gently. As Lady Esme’s companion, she could not encourage invitations to dance. Her duty was to be an observer, a protector of her lady’s interests.

  He was quiet for a moment, staring down into the liquid he swirled in his glass. “I know Miss Farnshaw taught you how. I watched you once, years ago.”

  “Did you?” she breathed.

  “I did.” He raised his gaze, met her eyes. “I watched you dance a minuet in the parlor.”

  “Oh.” Something about the way he was looking at her sent a soft heat flushing through her from the inside out.

  “I wanted to dance with you then. I wanted to dance with you tonight, too. Did you not wish you had danced this evening?”

  She considered this. She would have liked to dance, yes, to take the place of Miss Stanley on Simon’s arm. But how could she tell him that?

  Suddenly, firmly, he set the glass on the side table and rose. He held out his hand to her.

  She stood without thinking, reached out to take his hand. Like when he’d helped her into the carriage earlier, his grasp was warm and strong, but now was different. Now she touched his bare skin, felt the roughness of his fingertips under the sensitive flesh of her palm. His hand was warm and dry. Intoxicating. Touching him like this, skin to skin, was a heady feeling, indeed.

  “A minuet,” he murmured. “Dance with me, Sarah.”

  He stepped back and bowed formally to her. Entranced, she curtsied back. They both took a step, and he swept up her right hand once more in his firm grip. They turned to face the closed door at the other end of the room, and as he hummed the notes, they danced forward then began the figures and turns of the minuet. Throughout it all, Simon’s lips pressed together, humming the notes in a low tenor, and his eyes never left hers.

  In the minuet, the couple came in contact with each other infrequently, and when they were separated and dancing to the corners of the room or turning to complete their figures, Sarah ached for the moment when they would come together again, only their hands connecting, those strong fingers curving around her palm.

  It was the slightest touch, the rarest contact between the two of them. But with his green eyes focused solely on her, his bare hand touching nothing but her, Sarah had never felt anything so erotic. Each time her skin connected with his, a deep shudder ran through her.

  Finally he gathered both her hands in his, and as they turned, Sarah realized this was the end. The humming notes stopped, and he let her go, stepping back once more to bow.

  She curtsied, and he straightened as she rose.

  They stood there, in the center of the room, staring at each other. The depths of his dark green eyes held her in his thrall, so heavy with the weight of the world, and at that moment, she wanted to wipe it all away – the pressures of Parliament and government and his position. Worries about his sister… and his mother.

  “I wished it had been me,” she said softly. “When you were dancing with Miss Stanley and the others. I wished you were dancing with me.”

  He gazed at her unspeaking for a moment. Then he said, “I did, too.”

  He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pressed his lips to hers.

  The feel of him, of their lips gliding against each other, sent fireworks exploding through her. She dragged him harder against her, heard his ragged whisper, “Sarah.”

  Their lips moved in a hot, sensual slide. His hand rubbed tight circles over her lower back… and lower, until he cupped her bottom, pulling her against him so the hard ridge of his arousal pressed against her abdomen. The feel of it, of that most primitive, masculine part of him, sent a carnal shudder racing through her.

  His mouth moved down her chin, and she kissed his rough cheek, then tilted her neck as he moved her braid aside with his free hand to kiss her there.

  His lips pressed against her jaw, then caressed the shell of her ear before kissing their way back to her mouth, seeking, exploring.

  Sensation washed over her. Not only in the places his mouth touched, but all over and through her. Deep yearning. Longing. Need.

  She gave a small whimper, clutched him tighter, kissed his bare, warm skin wherever her mouth could reach him. She wanted more. So much more.

  His arousal grew, pressed against her lower belly, so hard and so hot she could feel the heat between the l
ayers of their clothes.

  His hand moved from her neck to the opening in her robe, cupping her breast over her nightgown, his thumb running over her nipple, hardening it into a sensitized nub that strained against the fabric of her chemise.

  She pressed her body tighter against him, blindly seeking his lips with her own.

  She caught them, moving against him in a brazen kiss that she hadn’t known she was capable of. He tasted like man and desire. Cedar and spice. So delicious. She didn’t know how she’d ever get enough.

  Suddenly his hands moved from her buttocks and breast to her upper arms. With a low groan, he pushed her back.

  “Stop.”

  She gazed at him, clawing through the haze of desire that had overcome her. “No, Simon.”

  He blinked at the use of the familiar name and, from a part of her deep inside, she froze.

  Reality crashed in. Forcing her frozen neck to move, she swung her head away.

  “Sarah, look at me.” He cupped her hands in his palms, and warmth instantly flushed through her, combating the cold.

  “I… Sarah, I want you. But I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not the kind of man who… uses women.”

  “I know you’re not.” One of the reasons she adored him.

  “So you see why we can’t, why I can’t…?”

  “I’m not a fool, Your Grace,” she said softly. Sarah knew that no matter what happened between them, no matter what power he had over her, Simon would never take advantage of her. “I know what I am doing. What I want.”

  Simon flinched. “I don’t want to ruin you.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But sometimes I wish you did.”

  With that, and with a huge force of will, she turned and left the room.

  On Tuesday afternoon, nearly a week after Lady Bellingham’s ball, Esme and Sarah were sitting comfortably in the drawing room at Trent House when Lady Stanley and her daughter arrived for an unexpected visit.

  Esme stared at the footman who’d announced them for a long moment. Then, she closed her notebook – she’d been working on one of the fanciful stories she loved to write – laid her pen on the mahogany side table, and said, “Please show them in.”