Trapping a Duchess (6 page)

“Oh, fiddlesticks. Aunt Clara's summoning me. Shall we go?”

Lady Winfield, Alexandra's aunt, was harmless when alone, but when surrounded by her bosom beaus, she became the dreaded monster of every up-and-coming spinster's nightmares—a matchmaker. “Not a chance. That's my mother two seats down, chatting with the Dowager Countess of Loth. She is probably plotting my engagement to half of the men in attendance. If I go anywhere close to them, I'll be stuck.”

Alexandra let out a defeated sigh. “Because I adore you, I will sacrifice myself on your behalf. If I am not back in a moment, however, I expect you to create a scene so I can slip away.”

Sophie breathed a sigh of relief and offered a grateful smile. “You're a peach, Lexie.”

“Remember that next time I need a favor,” she said with a grin. “Lord Roxford, would you please escort me to my aunt?”

“With pleasure,” he said, offering his arm with a roguish smile and over-exaggerated flourish.

Sophie watched Alex go, feeling increasingly irritated. For heaven's sake, she could not even enjoy a simple ball without being plagued by thoughts of marriage. Stifling her annoyance, she tried focusing on the discussion of the season's offerings, but couldn’t. Moments later, she excused herself and wandered off to find a glass of champagne. Surely, in a crush like this, they would be plentiful.

After ten minutes of pushing through the throng of guests, though, she gave up and wandered into the card room. Simon was there, leaning against the fireplace mantle, a glass of brandy in hand and a beautiful widow on his arm. With an inward roll of her eyes, Sophie made her way to his side. “What a shock to find you out of the ballroom, Simon,” she said, by way of a greeting. “Good evening, Lady Forrester.”

“Lady Sophia,” the viscountess said, her voice mellifluous amid the masculine din. Lady Forrester was around thirty with shining black hair and intense, catlike green eyes. Widowed young, she enjoyed the freedom the tragedy had afforded her. In truth, she was as close to a hero as Sophie had ever found.

“May I have a word, brother?” Sophie asked, deciding to take the opportunity to ask him about the waltz he'd reserved.

He made no move to grant her the privacy she requested. “What is it?”

Sophie considered his terse response and wondered if she had interrupted a private conversation. She would never have approached if she knew it would get his back up. “I was just wondering if you had seen mother since we arrived?”

“I saw her into the ballroom. After that. . .” he shrugged and lifted a brow, which Sophie understood to mean he neither knew nor cared.

“I'll look for her there, then,” she said, nodding once again to Lady Forrester before withdrawing from the room. She wandered back into the crowded ballroom, keeping to the perimeter as much as possible to avoid being seen, and thus summoned, by the woman in question. She spotted Alex standing with lords Roxford and Thomas. Sophie made her way over with haste and slid in to Alex's left. “I hope mother did not badger you overly much,” she said with a quiet laugh.

Alex looked at her, widened eyes focused just beyond Sophie’s shoulder. She shook her head, pressed her lips together.

“Is something wrong?” Sophie asked, turning.

“My dance, I believe,” a low voice said, reversing her momentum.

Even without benefit of sight, Sophie recognized the voice instantly. The sound shut out all other noise in the room save her suddenly wild heartbeat. A shudder teased her nerves, even as her muscles tensed. With a closed expression, she turned around, coming face to face with Andrew and his outstretched hand. Wits lagging, she did nothing more than glance at it.

“This is our waltz, my lady,” Lord Bottley said, offering his arm to Alexandra. She took it hesitantly, and with an apologetic expression.

Clearly, Alexandra had not lied when she said the duke did not plan to come. Yet there he was, standing before Sophie, asking her to dance. Like everything else about him, his hands were beautiful. Their wicked combination of grace and strength promised a gentle, but firm touch.
Pity his manners leave so much to be desired
.

“Take my hand,” he said
sotto voce
, his infamous half-smile playing on his lips. Her body leaped into action as her heart beat in triple time. With nimble fingers, he placed her hand on his coat sleeve.

As they made their way to the dance floor, Sophie’s shock shifted into irritation. After the boorish way he treated her, expecting a dance was inexcusable.
No, not expecting. . .demanding
. For it wasn't as if she could refuse him. She allowed frustration to spark in her eyes, laying her feelings towards him bare even as she pasted the requisite smile on her face. When she placed her hand on his shoulder, heat spiraled through her and she tensed, bracing herself. The firm yet gentle grip of his hand on her waist was at once thrilling and infuriating.

“Breathe in, Lady Sophia, this will be over soon.” The sound of her name sent a rush of icy belligerence through her already uptight body, even as the tenor of his voice warmed something inside of her.

Staring into his eyes, she donned a mask of politeness—and reminded herself to breathe. Forcing a gracious smile took every ounce of good breeding she had. If she wasn't standing less than three inches away, she might have believed his unaffected mien, but up close, she could see that his smile was brittle around the edges. His gaze held a definite warning. His debonair expression would deceive those watching from a distance, but Sophie knew the truth. He wasn’t just angry, he was furious.

The waltz began and he set them in motion. Thankfully, she did not have to concentrate on the dance itself. Andrew's natural grace complimented hers to a tee. Waltzing was the one thing they had always done well together, her height and slender frame a complement to his tall, powerful one. Still, they spent the first half of the set moving around the floor in silence. She was engrossed in maintaining her composure when he suddenly spoke, his cultured tones sending waves of pleasure rolling through her traitorous body.

“Simon mentioned that your mother has recently returned from Bath,” he said as they made their way down the room.

She did not give him the courtesy of an immediate answer, instead waiting two silent turns to say, “She returned on Saturday, Your Grace.” At her use of his honorific, his jaw tensed. Reverting to his title was petty, yet she could not stop herself from doing so. Staying within the bounds of propriety was her way to a level playing field. If he insisted on an unemotional approach to reconciliation, or whatever this was, she would give it to him. Any other lady of mere acquaintance would address him with the respect demanded by his lofty status.

After his rude rejection, she refused to grovel. Whether or not he accepted, she had offered an apology. The waltz itself was a declaration of forgiveness. If he chose to feel different inwardly than his outward actions showed, it was his problem and his alone.

“I trust she enjoyed taking the waters?” he asked as they continued moving down the room.

“Yes, Your Grace, I believe she did,” she said, pleased when he shot her a dark look.

“And what of your aunt?” he asked, gaze focused somewhere beyond her shoulder.

“She is in good health as well, Your Grace,” Sophie answered, her smile genuine. Every change in his expression was a boost to her confidence, every subtle reaction, a victory.

His brow furrowed as his fingers dug into her waist. “Stop that,” he said, drawing her closer.

“Stop what, Your Grace?” she asked, pulling back to negate the distance he had erased.

“Stop calling me ‘Your Grace.’ Stop responding to my questions with ridiculous, closed ended answers. And for God’s sake, stop pulling away from me as if I have the plague.”

Pursing her lips, Sophie widened her eyes and offered a practiced grin filled with as much artificial courtesy she could muster. To those watching from the perimeter, she would appear to be teasing, but Andrew would see the truth. “What shall we discuss, then, Your Grace?” she asked, fighting the urge to stop waltzing altogether and laugh in his too-handsome face. Her performance thus far had been convincing, as confirmed by the nods of approval from those watching from the perimeter. “Shall we talk about the weather? Or perhaps my family? Though I'm not sure why we would, since you have already inquired as to the health of my aunt and mother and have clearly spoken with my brother.”

He responded with a growl, but his expression did not falter. He guided her down the room, his arms hard as granite.

“A feral response may work when scaring peasants into compliance, Your Grace, but you will not find me so easily intimidated. Did you really believe this little ambush would work in your favor?” He did not answer, nor was there a need. The guilt on his face told her everything. As the waltz drew to a close, Sophie struggled against another wave of anger. He muttered a nearly inaudible curse as he looked away. “Your answer, Your Grace?” She offered a smile that coated the question in false innocence.

The music crashed to a crescendo and they held their positions. Stepping out of his arms, she dipped a shallow curtsy. He bowed, but did not break eye contact. His stare was piercing, intense. A heartbeat later, he blinked, and his irritation seemed to fall away. He offered his arm, once again all outward charm.

Sophie could practically feel their nerves thrumming against each other. He placed his hand over hers and led them to the perimeter of the ballroom, slowing just before they reached her circle of friends. “Come to the terrace once the next set begins.” As before, his was not a request.

She tossed him an annoyed sideways glance, but his gaze remained focused straight ahead. “I do not think—”

“The next dance,” he said, releasing her arm. He leaned in, his lips close enough that his next words were for her ears only. “I will not wait for you this time.” With that, he nodded to the group and walked away. The moment he left, Alex linked her arm through Sophie’s and excused them.

“What was that all about?” she asked in a hushed voice as they strolled.

Sophie watched as the duke ambled through the crowded room, stopping to chat with his usual charisma. The man looked as if nothing had happened, which went a long way in hoisting Sophie’s temper. “An ambush,” Sophie said, the furious words muttered through clenched teeth.

Alex shook her head. “At least now it is over. He has shown his forgiveness and you may now go about your business,” she said with a wry smile.

“He ordered me to appear on the terrace at the start of the next set,” Sophie said quietly.

“Will you go?”

Sophie frowned. “I do not believe I have a choice in the matter. He said he will not wait for me this time. I assume he means that if I refuse, he will wash his hands of me entirely. As much as I want to deny him, I cannot risk his censure.”

Alex’s eyes grew wide and she sounded uneasy. “No, I do not believe that was what he was implying.”

“What do you think he meant, then?”

Alex pitched her voice low. “I believe he means that this time he will come after you.”

The words hit Sophie low in the stomach. She swallowed convulsively.
Come after her? But why, when he wanted nothing to do with her?
As the orchestra prepared for next set, she glanced again at the terrace doors, but before she could move that direction, Lord Thomas came to claim her. With a small curtsy, she took his arm, forcing her trepidation down as they headed to the ballroom floor.

Chapter Four

Andrew watched from outside the terrace window as Lord Thomas escorted Sophie to the ballroom floor, anger beginning a slow roll through his veins. He made his way down the stone steps and into the garden, working to get his temper under control.

She was stubborn and foolish enough to deny him, even though he had made his request clear. Demanding an audience with her was unusually high-handed, but he didn’t feel he had any other choice. Calling on her at her home would invite gossip. The matters they needed to discuss—the state of things between them and his intentions for the future—were not topics he could risk broaching in a public setting. Simply by waltzing with her, he invited speculation.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he made his way back up the steps. He refused to let the night pass without talking with her. To his surprise, she stood just outside the terrace doors, her silk gown settling from rushed movement. Moonlight draped her in an ethereal hue, but her eyes sparked with defiance. “I don’t have a lot of time, so whatever you need to say, make it quick.”

Her brusque greeting caught him off guard. He offered his arm. “Walk with me.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“It never is with you, is it?”

Reaching her in two long strides, he tucked her arm through his. “Come.” The contact pricked his nerves, bypassed his muscles and settled low in his groin. Steeling himself, he guided her down the stairs.

“What do you think you are doing?” she balked in a hurried whisper, glancing around as her body transformed into a wall of tension.

He turned them left, around the side of the house towards a gate which led to the street. “I think we need to talk.”

Snatching her hand away, she tried to swivel back around. With nimble fingers, he grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her back towards the gate.