Trusting the Rogue (4 page)

She inhaled and raised her eyes to him, where he offered a chaste smile. “I must thank you for the time you are spending with Harold. He is rather besotted with you, sir.”

He nodded fondly. “He is a good lad. It saddens me that he has missed out on what I prized most as a boy, and what he seems to enjoy so much.”

“Indeed. Riding was a favourite pastime in my youth, also,” she offered.

Her butler entered and set the tea service down before departing. Hannah proceeded to pour.

“Your Grace, I wonder if I can be rather forward in this conversation,” Sir Andrew offered as he took his teacup from her.

She frowned up at him, but gave a nod. “Oh?”

“Yes. I fear that while I am quite fond of your son, and do not seek his friendship for malicious reasoning, it is really you who I wish to know more.”

Hannah spilt her tea, a small splash landing in her saucer as she sat back and stared at the man before her. “So you
do
trifle with his affections,” she stated, her tone cold.

He sat forward on the settee, his gaze piercing into her eyes. “I do not, nor will I. Your son is a charming lad and if you cast my friendship aside, I will understand. I would still like to visit with Harold, as it gives him and I so much pleasure. However, I would like to develop a different form of relationship with you.”

Hannah stared at the man for a moment longer, scrambling to understand. She didn’t.

“Anna told me you visit”—she paused before forcing the name out—“Goodrich Hall?” A place where lust and fornication roamed free, with no thought to what was considered proper. The mere idea of it sent chills down her spine.

Sir Andrew settled back in his seat, his eyes never leaving hers. His expression seemed curious. “I do. Am I correct in assuming you have never attended an event there?”

She scoffed. “You would be correct in that assumption. The ideals that operate inside its walls do not endear me to it, either.” Fornication with complete strangers was hardly an event that one should discuss over tea. Her cheeks heated.

He gave a nod and picked up his cup, then took a sip of the jasmine blend that filled the room with its alluring scent. “I am glad.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “And what do you mean by that?”

The ting of the saucer as he returned his cup to the table distracted her for a moment before her eyes again found his.

“Simply that I am glad. I do not warm to the thought of you attending such an event,” he mused out loud. “In truth, I attended last night, but I found the sight of the women…uninspiring.”

Hannah’s mind stumbled in confusion. He no longer liked women? She had almost arrived at the conclusion that he sought her company for a scandalous undertaking. Perhaps she had been mistaken. “I do not understand. I thought you implied moments ago that you sought me out for a different type of relationship to friendship?”

“I did. Those wishes have not changed.”

Hannah raised a hand to her forehead before she pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I do not understand any of this conversation, Sir Andrew. I simply know that you are wasting your time concerning any type of liaison with me.”

It was now time for his brow to lower in consideration. “How so?”

She looked to the door and once she saw no servants hovered, she leaned towards Sir Andrew and whispered, “I am not like other widows in society, sir. I hold no desire to rush into the arms of a companion. The fornication of a man and a woman is not something that appeals to me.”

A snippet of hilarity lifted the corners of his lips as his eyes twinkled. “Then you have clearly not experienced it, thus far, with the right partner.”

He came into clear focus as her eyes widened and shock took hold of her breath for an instant. “I will have you know that is of no consequence, and the idea of a loveless tryst brings me nothing but disgust.”

“I was not proposing we engage in a tryst, Hannah.”

The wind fell out of her sails at his softly spoken words. Hannah sat there staring at the stunningly handsome man before her who had just addressed her with such familiarity—yet he did not want to bed her? A wave of shame at her assumption swept over her. What kind of relationship did he want from her, then? How foolish of her to think this man would want her in his bed when her husband clearly hadn’t wanted her, either. She did not understand the gist of this conversation one bit, and it was all becoming rather overwhelming.

Heat still warmed her cheeks. “I am sorry for arriving at the apparent wrong conclusion, sir.” A lump of disappointment welled inside her.

Sir Andrew rose and came to sit beside her. Hannah reeled back, a little startled, as he grasped her hands gently in his own, sitting beside her, their legs touching.

“I have not made myself very clear at all, and you do not understand what I am proposing,” Sir Andrew said with a soft smile, squeezing her hands gently.

Hannah gazed into his caramel eyes, the thick, creamy colour of them warming her insides like rich cocoa, but his strong and alluring scent was what lulled her into calmness. A purely male aroma, with a hint of wind, rain and leather from their ride, wafted about her nose. She inhaled deeply, with no control over the action. She felt her fingers tighten around his. A slow burn flowed through her body like a tender caress, one which had her nipples hardening in her corset.

Hannah knew she needed to put an end to this madness, but seemed unable to do anything other than bask in his presence. Moreover, he was hardly touching her and her body was reacting with such fire. She must have the fever.

“Hannah,” he whispered, his face closer to hers. “I want to offer you a gift.”

“A gift?” she mumbled, her attention on his full lips.

He moved closer. The warmth of his breath caressed her cheek before his heated lips gently touched her blushing skin.

Hannah let out a breath she had not realised she’d been holding as Sir Andrew nibbled down her jaw and neck, coming to rest at the indent of her collarbone, his mouth opening to allow his tongue to emerge. A soft sigh escaped her suddenly parched lips as her previously stunted exhalations now emerged in deep, heated breaths, her breasts rising and falling with each intake.

Too soon, Sir Andrew withdrew from the hollow of her neck and looked to her. Hannah forced herself to focus, pulling her muddled mind out of the misty shadow of the fog that had surrounded it moments ago.

His gaze was heavy as it studied her, his eyes a churning pot of melted chocolate.

“Pleasure comes in many shapes and forms. That, Hannah, was merely a taste of the delicacies to be had.”

Hannah took a shuddering breath. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, needing desperately to understand what was happening to her.

He raised their joined hands, taking hers to his lips. “I don’t know. All I know is that I want to pleasure you, show you that there is an art to making love, a dance, a feeling that is unimaginable to those who have yet to experience it. I would offer my soul to be the one to take you there.”

Hannah’s mind had cleared enough to see through the insanity to which this man had exposed her. She pulled her hand from his and rose, then moved over to the window overlooking the courtyard.

“Your soul is safe, Sir Andrew,” Hannah forced herself to utter as she tugged the bell-pull.

Morris arrived within moments. “Please inform his Grace that our guest is leaving.”

“Very well, your Grace,” Morris said, as he backed out of the room.

“What is it that holds you back, Hannah? Is it fear of the unknown, or worse yet, fear of me?” he asked her turned back, his voice closer than she had expected.

Harold’s eager tread sounded as he ran down the stairs. She forced herself to smile and turn to face Sir Andrew, whose sharp eyes were inches from her own face. “It is hardly fear, Sir Andrew,” Hannah said, just before Harold ran into the room.

It was self-preservation.

Chapter Three

The flames of the dying fire moved in and out of focus. Andrew narrowed his eyes at the flickering orange, but considered the action too demanding and returned his attention to the brandy in his hand. The glistening crystal captured the reflection of the dwindling embers as Andrew drained the last of the liquid from the canister.

“Dropson!” he called into the darkened house.

The butler soon arrived with a fresh canister in hand. “More brandy, sir?”

Andrew gave a drunken nod while the man filled his glass and replaced the empty canister on the study’s desk.

“Do you fear me, Dropson?” Andrew found himself asking the long-time servant in a slightly slurred voice.

The man paused in his task for a moment before he carried on. “Why, no, sir. I do not.”

“Hmm, met a lady that thinks it. She said she does not, but I know it,” Andrew slurred, with a pointed finger at his man.

Dropson frowned slightly. “Perhaps she simply does not know your true character, sir.”

“No, she thinks me a randy dandy, Dropson. I would give up all the pussy in London to sample her fine honey. Turned me down, though.” He paused and looked up. “Do you think me a randy dandy?”

Dropson warily watched his master and Andrew knew he never normally spoke so plainly to the man, but he needed confirmation. He was a good man, wasn’t he? Hmm, maybe he was a wee bit randy, too…

“Perhaps you simply need some time to show her your true self, not public opinion,” Dropson finally said.

Andrew slumped in his chair and snorted to his man as he left the room. Public opinion? The public opinion of him was that he was a rich, lower-ranking noble. He was a man who was a wizard at investing and a genius beneath the bedcovers. Pity the duchess did not want to find that out for herself.

A smile graced his previously gloomy features. Oh, yes, she did want to find out, but she was simply scared.
Pity, indeed.

His slumbering cock twitched in interest as Andrew’s imagination moved to the duchess—her moans of pleasure as his mouth feasted on the rosy buds of her breasts, her rounded hips shaped by his oversized hands and the smell of her arousal as he took her to her peak.

Andrew groaned loudly, his mind bringing visions of her sprawled against his pillows, her soft hair in disarray after their lovemaking. Her sinful, yet sweet smile of fulfilment while they lay in each other’s arms afterwards.

His nose crinkled.
Lay in each other’s arms?
When had he ever wanted that? Was he not the first to leave after a tryst, thus the reason he never allowed women in his house, his own bed?

He glared at the coals.

She was different. He knew it. The one woman he wanted and she did not want him.
Just my luck.

It was only as Andrew reached down for his drink that he noticed his butler had taken not only the full canister of brandy—leaving the empty one—but his glass as well.

* * * *

Hannah tossed in her bed for the umpteenth time. Her once cool sheets were warm from her fighting the lack of sleep. It was not the noise of the semi-quiet road below that kept her from her slumber—no, it was the persistent thoughts of Sir Andrew that plagued her exhausted mind.

With a defeated sigh, Hannah tossed the covers back and slid from her confinement, reaching for her dressing gown. She hopped from rug to rug, avoiding contact with the cool wooden floor below, and soon stood before the window. Peering through the drapes and the open shutters, Hannah noted little from her vantage point. Her room faced onto the stables and the small garden. The shimmering beams of light reflected on the small fountain below caused her gaze to rise to the sky. She could see few stars, but the quarter moon shone bright through the clouds that tried to hide it. Yet no matter how hard they seemed to try, the moon refused to remain hidden.

She linked her hands together in reaction to the cool breeze that slid through the shutters, unable to help but recall the way her hands had felt in Sir Andrew’s. The soft caress of his gentle, yet commanding fingers had brought her a sense of comfort during the oddity of his affection towards her in the parlour today. His lips on her skin had been not at all an unpleasant experience, as the late duke’s affections had been—rare as they had once been.

The late duke had squeezed her breasts as if testing for firmness before his manhood had sliced into her core. Thankfully, he had quickly spilt his seed so he could depart and allow her to bleed in peace after each visit. Hannah had often thought it a blessing she had grown with child so soon after their marriage. But the late duke had never kissed her. His lips had never once touched her body with any inkling of affection, as Sir Andrew’s had.

A shudder raced the length of her spine as she recalled the heated look in his eyes, before and after he had kissed her flesh. He had barely touched her, yet her skin had simmered from it, radiated an afterglow that she regretted seeing diminish.

How could one man’s touch be so different from another’s? How could a man who was not her husband arouse such feelings within? It was wrong and downright sinful. Yet she wanted his touch again—no matter how much she wished otherwise. Call her daft, but it was what she truly wanted.

* * * *

Her magazine pages seemed to hold as little of interest within their folds as they had the day before. Hannah closed the printed parchment and placed it beside her on the dining table, then turned her attention to her favourite blend of jasmine tea.

“Mama, is Andrew going to call on us today?” Harold asked from across the table, referring to the man with a little too much familiarity for her liking.

A good question, though. Would Andrew maintain his vow to her son and call, or had her rejection of him been enough for him to pass such a promise over? As Harold looked up at her with his innocent eyes, she sincerely hoped not.

Hannah gave a small shrug and smiled at her son. “He is a very busy man, but I hope, if he has the time spare, he will pay us a call.”

Harold nodded, seeming pleased with her response.