Trapping a Duchess (20 page)

Chapter Eleven

Sophie struggled to keep control while blood coursed through her veins like molten fire. Breasts full and achy, her nipples pushed against her chemise in a manner that both abraded and aroused. She fought against the pleasure, against the knee weakening desire he was awakening with every expert stroke. Then he angled his head and deepened the kiss, and her wits scattered like dandelions in the wind. His hands molded over the curves of her body, his firm grip warming her from the top of her head to the tips of her slippered toes. His tongue stroked against hers, a silken, tantalizing caress that sent fire raging between her thighs. Strong hands drifted to the small of her back where his fingers splayed, momentarily, before continuing their journey downward and firming around her bottom. He backed her against the trellis wall, trapping her hands behind her and as he stared deep into her eyes.

“Christ, Sophie,” he rasped through uneven breaths.

The blaspheme was disregarded when he leaned forward and nibbled her earlobe, bringing pleasure-filled goose bumps to her arms. The buds of her nipples pulled painfully tight. She hadn’t the slightest idea of how to ease their ache, knew only that her body was desperate for more touching, more kissing, more of him pressed against her.
Everywhere
.

“If you won’t tell me what you want, then let’s start with what you like.” He took her hands in his, raising them above her head and clasping both her wrists in one of his. His fingers ran down her throat to her scooped neckline, toying with the thin material. “For example, do you like this,” he asked, dipping inside. He rolled her nipple between his fingertips, spearing threads of pleasure through her. The sensation made her feel wanton, wicked and wonderful.

And tongue-tied as a half-wit, apparently
. Unable to voice her affirmation, she nodded.

“Mm, I thought you might.” His hand drifted lower, long fingers tugging up her gown before skimming along her knee and past her garters. The sensitive junction between her legs throbbed and she arched against him, desperate to relieve the ache.

“What about this?” He found her, touched her intimately, parting the folds of her flesh with skillful fingers.

A gasp tore from her throat, equal parts excitement and embarrassment. Once, when she was younger, she overheard one of the maids talking about the pleasure to be had from a man's touch, but Sophie never considered what it would actually feel like. The description the maid gave was full of words like
good
and
tender
. What Sophie was experiencing was ineffable.

He slid a finger inside of her and the breath she was holding rushed out with a moan. “Ah,” he said, sounding pleased by her response. “I see.” He pulled his finger out, flicking it against that wicked spot hidden beneath her thatch of hair. She was going to explode if he did not do something to ease the tension he was building. He feathered biting kisses along her jaw as he continued caressing her then stopped, breathing his next words into her ear. “Ask me, Sophie.” She whimpered, grinding against his hand shamelessly. He pulled back, refusing her imploring body the release for which it begged.

“Please,” she said, feeling like she might die if he did not resume his touch.

“Please what, love?”

“More,” she whispered, consumed by the word and the pleasure it promised. His hands moved to her bottom, pulling her close as he thrust his hips. The hard length of him ground against her, driving her need to a fever pitch. His hips rolled over and over again, until she was panting and gripping his shoulders in desperation. She was close, so close, to reaching the explosive top of the volcano of need he had created. He moaned against her mouth and she toppled over, sensations pulsing through her body with such intensity that she wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time.

Overwhelmed, she clung to him, trying to anchor her body against the onslaught. As her wits made their slow return, she was unable to summon even an iota of the anger and disappointment she knew she should be feeling. After all, despite her plans to the contrary, she had once again landed in another of his well-planned moments. Even worse, this time she had encouraged it. She should be furious. Instead, she felt boneless, weightless, the usual steel in her spine as malleable as butter.

“It's okay.” He pulled her close as she shook with the aftershocks of pleasure. “Let it go.” Several moments later, the intensity dimmed, leaving behind a level of contentment she’d never dreamed existed. Weak-kneed and shivering, she burrowed against him. She was dizzy, deliriously so, by the time he released her hands. “You are lovely like this,” he said with a devilish smirk.

Sophie couldn’t catch her breath, could barely form a coherent thought as she willed her body to cool, beckoned the remainder of her wits to return. After what seemed like forever, she stopped shaking.

“Come,” he said softly, offering his arm. “We have been gone too long already.” She nodded, but said nothing and continued in that vein the entire walk back. She had no idea what he was thinking, and thus, had no idea what to say. She wasn’t entirely convinced she would end up doing more than flapping her lips insipidly, anyway. He slanted her a sideways glance as they arrived at the bottom of the portico steps. The journey back in the cool night air worked wonders in clearing her head, though her body still felt like a limp rag. “You go in. I am going to stay here for a bit.”

Acknowledging his request with a shaky nod, she made for the safety of the ballroom with as much outward grace as she could. And inwardly as though her life depended on it.

* * * *

Andrew watched until she was inside, then went to the front of the house and ordered his carriage. Ten minutes later, he headed home, his control depleted. His body ached with a need so great he felt short of breath and completely cramped in his clothes. He had planned on seducing Sophie but had not counted on the price the endeavor would cost him. Leaning back against the comfortable seats, he willed his body to relax. He would need to bind his needs in a cocoon of control before their next encounter, though he was not entirely convinced he could control anything, especially when she ground against him. The woman was completely unaware of the eroticism in her unpracticed movements.

He closed his eyes on a groan, his cock stirring to life with the image. Clearly, he needed to redirect his thoughts. Perhaps a long ride or a stiff drink would help. A deep chuckle escaped him. He could not stand up right now if he tried. The last thing he needed was something stiff.

Christ
, he thought with a shudder,
what you really need is an ice-cold bath at a monastery on the other end of the Earth
.

Chapter Twelve

Two frustrating days later, Andrew sat in his study watching as the rain ran down the window in hazy ribbons. Bolts of lightning ripped through the sky, revealing clouds as black as his mood. Roxford’s house party started over a day ago. Andrew had been packed and set to travel with Alexandra and their aunt when he received an urgent letter from his business partner Charles, Viscount of Winterley. The note announced his impending arrival in London and requested an audience upon his return.

The ambiguous tenor of the missive baffled Andrew. Charles was usually succinct when relaying news of a business nature, which meant that whatever he needed to discuss was personal. Andrew informed his aunt and Alexandra that he would be unable to join them, offering the first excuse which came to mind, a fallen tree on their country estate. Thin thought it sounded, even to his ears, the women accepted his reason without question. He doubted Sophie would do the same.

As he considered the storm raging outside, he hoped it would not delay his friend’s arrival. The letter was franked a fortnight prior in Germany, an occurrence Andrew did not find suspicious. The two men had business interests there. Yet, three days had passed since he had received the missive and no other information had been forthcoming. The wait had long since begun to get to him.

Finishing his brandy, he leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrest as he steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. He wondered what Sophie was doing at that moment. With little time to inform Alexandra that he would not be joining them, he was forced to rely on her to explain his absence to Sophie. As his sister had no idea what had happened between them, he was certain she would pass along the excuse of the fallen tree. To his mind it sounded like a hasty retreat, a happening sure to set him back a step. Worse than that, he was missing out on the opportunity afforded by a lack of scrutiny. There was something about being ensconced in the country which seemed to loosen the reins of propriety. The scandals born during these extended holidays should have made them a concern for chaperones, but as many of said scandals turned into proper marriages, they paid no heed.

He sighed, leaning his head back as his eyes drifted closed. Sophie’s face filled the darkness, filled with desire that transformed her blue eyes to cobalt. The transitory color remained with her, even as she tried to cool down. He could smell and taste the sweetness of her body as if she were sitting in his lap. As if to remind him of her absence, another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, rattling the windows with the force of its thunder. Standing, he moved his neck from side to side, stretching his arms and legs. He needed sleep. Entering the hall, cleared his throat. His trusty butler appeared immediately.

“May I be of service, Your Grace?”

“No, Weston. I believe I’m for bed. You should do the same. Storm looks like it might be here for hours.”

The butler bowed. “Very well, Your Grace. Good evening.”

Andrew had just reached the bottom of the staircase when he heard the sound of an approaching carriage. “What the devil?” he said, returning quickly back to the door. In an instant, he’d reached it and pulled it open, revealing Charles as he took the portico steps three at a time.

“Oh, good,” he said, skidding to a stop as he shielded his eyes from the deluge. “You’re awake.”

“And you’re soaked through,” Andrew noted with a frown. “What the hell persuaded you to head out here in this tempest?”

Charles met his gaze with a grave expression. “It’s Gabriel.”

Andrew was down the steps and to the carriage before his heart had time to beat again. Yanking the door open, he peered inside, heedless of the downpour chilling him through to his bones. His younger brother lay against the seat, face colored in an astonishing display of bruises, his right arm in a sling. He looked as if he’d been nearly stomped to death by an elephant. Gabriel offered a grin, or at least Andrew thought he meant to. His lips were so swollen and cut up that the motion may as well have been a grimace. He climbed inside and sat on the seat next to him. Charles followed, taking the seat opposite as he reached out to close the door.

“What the hell happened, Gabe?” Andrew asked, his voice a desperate combination of fear and irritation.

“Not quite the welco’ ho’ I had en’isioned,” Gabe said, wincing.

“Well, this is bloody well not the sight I expected for your homecoming, either,” Andrew shot back before he could stop himself. He was taking his anger out on the wrong person.

“We need to move him inside,” Charles broke in. “He’ll catch his death surrounded by all this damp air. We’ve been dealing with storms like this for days.” The two men helped Gabriel out of the carriage and to the bedchamber that had remained his even after he’d taken his position with Whitehall. Later, Andrew went to check on him, but Gabriel, once ensconced in the safety of his bed, had fallen asleep.

Charles stood when Andrew entered the study. “How is he?”

“Asleep, thank god,” Andrew said, moving to the liquor cabinet. He filled his snifter to the top. “Would you like one?”

Charles chuckled. “Already helped myself,” he said, indicating the half-filled drink on the desk. Both men sipped in silence for a long moment.

“How did you happen by him?”

Charles reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a tattered piece of paper. “I received this,” he said, handing the note to him, “at a ball in Cherbourg. I was there after the close of the Haufstein deal and was approached by a young woman.”

Andrew opened it, quickly scanning through the scrawled address. “Do you remember what she looked like?” he asked, inspecting the handwriting more closely. Had he not know it belonged to a woman, he never would have guessed. She must have been in a rush.

Charles shook his head. “Violet eyes, brown hair. That’s all I can remember. It was a masked ball. We shared a drink and flirtatious conversation before she handed that to me and left. I assumed she wanted me to meet her there after the ball. So, I did.” His expression darkened.

Andrew nodded. “And found Gabe. How long ago was this?”

“Just over a fortnight. When I arrived. . .” Charles stared into his snifter. “You can imagine my shock.”

“He was tortured,” he said frankly.

Charles nodded. “And left for dead. God only knows how long he had been there. He says he doesn’t remember.”

“Or doesn’t want to say.” His brother had a mind as sharp as a rapier and Andrew thought it more likely that he remembered every torturous moment of his ordeal. “Did the lady give a name?”

“Miss Glennie Pope.” He glanced up, his pale eyes shining with disappointment.