The Duchess Hunt (11 page)

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 breeches 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 layers 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.”