The Duchess Hunt (15 page)

Oh, Lord. Her breasts felt heavy and
needy, aching, wanting. His mouth brushed over her nipple, and sensation bolted
through her, arching her body again. She grabbed onto his shoulders to steady
herself. His arms locked around her lower back, her nightdress bunched in his
hands.

“Is this what you want, Sarah?”

But then his lips closed around her
nipple, and she couldn’t answer. Sharp, sweet pleasure burst through her.
Through hazy eyes, she looked down at his hair, filtered her fingers through it
at his nape. Her breasts seemed to throb – how was it possible such powerful
sensation could come from one spot on her body? Her nipples tightened into
sharp, aching points. He sucked, nibbled, licked. Her knees wobbled as the
pleasure permeated her muscles. She stumbled, but he held her firm, not letting
her fall.

Keeping a tight hold on her, he
straightened. His gaze met hers, his lips damp from his ministrations, his eyes
the stormiest green she’d ever seen.

“Touch me,” he rasped. “Feel what you do
to me.”

And, still holding her firmly, he guided
her hand between his legs to cup the solid rod of his sex. Heat pulsed through
the thin fabric of his drawers.

“It hurts when it’s like this,” he
whispered. “There’s only one way to soothe it. Is that what you want, Sarah?”

Her heart was beating so fast, she could
hardly breathe. She certainly couldn’t speak. But, holding his gaze – and
tightening her fingers around him – she nodded.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She managed to make the one word
sound firm and final. Because she
was
sure. She’d wanted him for so long, and she wasn’t going to give
up this opportunity to have him. Even if he were to find his duchess tomorrow,
she would look back on this morning they’d shared with no regrets.

He blew out a breath and removed her hand
from his shaft. “More of that later, then. Not too fast, or it’ll be over
before we even begin.”

She had no idea what that meant, and she
would have questioned him, but he took her hand and led her toward the bed.
When they stood beside it, he said, “Take this off,” then pushed the other
sleeve of her nightdress over her arms. She tugged the sleeves over her arms,
and her nightdress slid to her ankles.

“God,” he murmured, and she heard the
shakiness in his breaths. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

She stood still as his eyes devoured her,
even though a whole life of training in the ways of demure behavior told her
she must cover herself. But she wanted him to see her like this – raw, carnal,
bared naked and wanting for him alone.

Gently, he put his arms around her, then
lifted her and set her on the edge of the bed. He took a step back, remaining
standing, gazing at her. Heat and need and desire seemed to radiate from his
every pore.

“Have you ever shown your body to another
man, Sarah?”

She shook her head.

“Another gift, then,” he said softly. “One
I’ll be eternally grateful for.”

Through her fluttering nerves, her lips
quirked upward. “Perhaps you’d like to bestow the same gift upon me, Your
Grace?”

“Most definitely,” he replied. Then he
gave her a wicked smile. “But not yet.”

“Tease,” she whispered.

Dark promise entered his eyes. “You
haven’t seen anything yet.”

And then he sat beside her. And he touched
her. Everywhere. His lips and hands moved all over her, and she remembered what
he’d told her on the bench by the stream at Ironwood Park:…
all I can think about is putting my hands
all over you. Tasting you all over again.

He did just that. He left no part of her
free of the soft press of his lips or the gentle caress of his hands. And then
he slid his fingers between her legs. She was so sensitive there, she gave a
little jump and squeak, and he met her gaze. “It’s time for me to give you a
gift of my own,” he told her. “A gift of pleasure. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. She did
trust him. She knew with all her heart that he would never purposefully hurt
her, that fear of hurting her was what had kept him away from her for so long.

“Then open for me.” He laid his hand on
her knee, nudging it, and she understood. Slowly, she parted her knees, baring
the most private part of herself to his view.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. And then he
gathered her against him in a one-armed embrace, and began to stroke her.

Sarah gasped, leaned against him, held on
for dear life. She’d never experienced anything like this – such intense
pleasure she felt like squirming out of her skin.

And then he pressed a finger inside her.

She had never considered such a thing. Had
never dreamed that it was something anyone would ever conceive of doing.

And yet… it was heavenly. His fingers were
hot on her and inside her, caressing and pressing in a place that was so
sensitive, she felt as if a sweet-hot inferno were building within her,
tightening, sending licks of sensation under her skin and through her limbs.

One finger stroked inside her, then two,
his thumb pressing just above, circling the place that made her want to thrust
against his hand and cry out at the blissful torture at the same time. His other
hand remained around her, holding her firm around her hip, keeping her from
squirming away, from jumping out of her skin. Keeping her anchored.

She thrust her hands into his light brown
hair, its silky texture caressing her fingers. Her back arched, and she
whimpered as his fingers stroked an oh-so-sensitive spot inside her. A finger
circled that hot, needy place.

His breath whispered hot against her ear,
his teeth bit gently down on her lobe, and he was saying all sorts of wicked
things. The Duke of Trent was telling her she was beautiful. That she was so
slick and hot. That he wanted to take her, to be inside her. To make her
scream.

Her body began to shake as licks of heat
shot down through her limbs, tightening her muscles. His hand around her firmed,
keeping her still, keeping her somehow attached to the earth. Her eyes closed,
because it required too much energy to keep them open. There was only the
sensation, the absolute pleasure building within her.

And then… release. All of a sudden, the coalescing
ball of heat within her expanded, sending white-hot pleasure shooting through
every inch of her body. She gasped, then released a low moan, her body
undulating unchecked in the circle of his embrace.

Simon’s lips pressed against hers. He kept
moving his fingers inside her and over her, but his movements gentled as the
powerful spasms that wracked her body receded. And when she finally slumped,
boneless and replete, he caught her in his arms. Ever so gently, he laid her on
the bed, adjusting her limp limbs into a comfortable position, then lying down
beside her and drawing her close against him.

She stroked his arm, feeling light and
careless, as free as a bird coasting on the wind. Smiling, she said in complete
honesty, “Thank you. That wasn’t what I expected.”

His chest rumbled in a low chuckle, his
arousal moving against her. “No? Did you expect me to lay you down, hike up
your skirt and simply take you?”

“I thought that was how it was done,” she
admitted. “I’d no idea that a woman could be… could be pleasured to… well, to
such an extent.”

“I’m glad to be the one to enlighten you,”
he murmured.

“I’m glad you were the one to enlighten
me, too.” She gave a blissful sigh. Every muscle in her body felt full,
relaxed, satisfied.

“We’re not finished yet.” To punctuate
that statement, he pushed himself gently against her so she could feel his
erection pressing between her legs.

“I know,” she whispered. “Now it’s my turn
to pleasure you. Will you teach me how to do that?”

Smiling, he bent forward to kiss her lips.

“I will, love.”

Pleasure flushed through her all over
again. He’d called her “love.”

“But touch me instead,” he said. “Wrap
your fingers around me.”

“Like this?” She reached down to take his
shaft in her hand again.

“Not exactly. Something’s in the way.” He
turned away for a moment to shimmy off his drawers. “There. Try again.”

This time when she held him, she could
feel the heat of him, the softness of the skin covering the solid length of his
erection.

He curled his fingers around hers. “Yes. And
stroke it, like this.”

He moved his hands up and down, and Sarah
was fascinated by the texture of him, how the velvety softness covered such
solid strength.

His eyelids grew heavy. “Yes, that’s it, a
little harder, love. Press your thumb over me when you reach the top.”

She continued, feeling her own body
growing impossibly needy and hot and wanting again as she stroked him. She
tried to think about what it would be like for him to be inside her, but she
couldn’t even begin to imagine it. Still, her core grew warm and wet in
anticipation as he began to thrust into her hand. She kept her eyes closed,
kissed him as she learned about him, about every bump and contour. How was it
possible that something this large could fit inside her? And yet she knew that it
would. She was made for him, after all.

A sharp rap sounded at the door. Simon
froze, and so did she, her hand still on him. Then he touched his lips to hers,
gently disentangled himself from her, and turned his head toward the door.

“Yes?” he called.

“Your Grace,” came the muffled voice from
outside the door. “Lord Lukas is stirring.”

With a hearty sigh, Simon moved to sit on
the edge of the bed. “Go down and keep an eye on him, Tremaine. I’ll be right
there.”

“Yes sir.”

They sat still, listening to the sound of
Tremaine’s retreating footsteps.

Then, Simon turned to face her, his face
filled with regret. “We’d best go down. I don’t want him running off before I
get a chance to tell him about our mother.”

“Oh, Your Grace,” she murmured, scooting
closer to him to cup his face in her hand, “are you sure?”

He leaned in and kissed her again, this
one long and slow and hot, his mouth claiming her lips, possessive and sure.
When he pulled back, he murmured, “Soon, Sarah. Soon, I’ll make you mine.”

With her body still warm and sated from
her release, her heart full, and her mind at peace, she knew, without a doubt,
that she was already irrevocably his.

Chapter
Nine

Luke was stirring when Simon walked into
the drawing room with Sarah on his heels. Simon held back as Sarah hurried
toward him and checked his pulse and temperature. Luke’s eyelids flickered,
then he squinted at Sarah.

“Pretty,” he croaked.

“Good morning, Lord Lukas,” she said
gravely. “How are you feeling?”

He gave a low groan. “Like hell.”

“No doubt.” She glanced at Simon, then
back down to Luke.

“Sarah, is that you? Where am I?” Luke
struggled up on his elbows and looked around the room. “Aw, damn. Trent House.”
He spat the words. “How the hell’d I end up in this bloody mausoleum?”

“Watch your language,” Simon growled,
stalking toward the sofa.

Luke sneered up at him. “Well, if it isn’t
my sainted brother.”

“Hush, my lord,” Sarah said, her voice
warm but stern. “As to how you came to be here, I imagine you brought yourself.
We found you unconscious at the back door.”

“My mistake, then. I’ll be going now.” He
struggled to rise.

“No,” Simon announced. “You will stay.”

Luke gained his feet, swaying a bit. “You’ve
no right to order me about, Trent. Now get out of my way.”

Sarah laid a hand on Simon’s arm. “Stay
awhile, my lord. You’re not well.”

It was true. Luke’s eyes were bloodshot
and his skin held a sickly tinge of yellow.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he snapped. “Healthy
as a damn ox.”

Simon clenched his hands into fists. In
his life, no one had ever been more capable of raising his ire than Luke.

“You’re not fine,” he bit out through
clenched teeth. “And there are things we need to discuss. You will stay here if
I have to lash you to the sofa.”

Luke raised a brow. “Ooh. Sounds ominous,
brother.”

Simon cast a frustrated glance toward
Sarah.

She took in a deep breath. “Why don’t we
have some breakfast.” It was a command – to both of them – not a suggestion.

“Not hungry,” Luke muttered. Raising his
hand, he held his head as if in an attempt to keep it attached to his neck.

She patted his arm. “Food will do you
good. Trust me.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “I’d laugh at
anyone else who told me that, Sarah. But you… very well. I’ll trust you.”

She gave him one of those smiles that made
Simon’s gut clench. Bright and sunny. A touch of heaven in the curve of her
lips. He couldn’t wait to take her back to bed. As soon as this business with
Luke was over…

Luke frowned at her. “You’re
here
. In London. Why the devil are you in this
cesspool? London isn’t worthy of you, Sarah. You belong at Ironwood Park.”

She chuckled. “Well, that’s a long story,
my lord. If you wish, I can tell it to you while you’re eating breakfast.”

“Very well, then.” Luke gallantly gestured
for her to lead the way to the dining room, and he walked behind her, his steps
decidedly unsteady. Simon followed his brother in case he needed to rescue any
of the ancient Greek pottery in the corridor should Luke feel compelled to sway
into it.

Sarah bustled them inside the dining room
and had them both sit while she sent the servants off for hot food, poured
coffee, and buttered toast. All the while, Simon and Luke sat, staring at each
other in stony silence.

She set a plate of toast down in front of
Luke. “Eat.” Her tone brooked no argument, and with a negligent shrug, Luke
began to eat.

Finally, she sat down, too, and told Luke
about how she was now working as Esme’s companion.

“A well-deserved rise in status for you,”
Luke said between bites of toast. “Congratulations.”

Simon checked for any sarcasm or
disingenuousness in his brother’s expression or tone. He found none.

But then Luke scowled. “So I suppose that
means Esme’s here in London, too?”

“She is,” Sarah confirmed.

Luke narrowed his eyes at Simon. “Why? Why
would you bring her here? Why would you do that to her?”

Just like Luke, to question every damn
decision he made.

“It was for the best,” he said shortly,
“considering the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

Simon braced himself for what would come
next. “Luke, have you been in residence in your townhouse at all?”

“Now and then. Why?”

“I sent you a message on the fourteenth of
April, summoning you home.”

Luke’s blue eyes narrowed. “You did?”

“I did.”

Luke snorted, then waved his hand
dismissively. “For God’s sake, Trent. You cannot expect me to come running at
your every summons.”

Simon ground his teeth and was about to
open his mouth and inform Luke that he was not only a fool but also an ass… and
then he felt it. The soothing hand on his thigh. Sarah’s hand. But this was not
an invitation – though his cock responded instantly to the proximity of her
gentle touch – this was a plea for temperance.

So he sucked in a breath and took a second
to loosen the tension that had knotted in his shoulders. “I summoned you, along
with Sam, Mark, and Theo, to Ironwood Park for a reason. Did you even read the
letter?”

Luke moved crumbs around on his plate,
making it a point to look bored. “Can’t recall.”

After a few more seconds of
tooth-grinding, Simon said, “Our mother is missing. She’s been gone for almost
six weeks.”

Silence. No one moved. Then Luke looked up
at him. “What?”

“Our mother. The Duchess of Trent. Has
been missing. For over a month,” Simon repeated. “No one knows where she is. We
have been searching, but we have very few clues to work with. She simply
disappeared, along with her servants. No one knows where they are.”

“Well,” Luke sputtered, “she probably just
went to visit her sisters.”

“No. We’ve checked.”

“Her houses in London and the Lake
District?”

“She hasn’t been in residence at either
one in over a year.”

“So you’re saying what? She was
kidnapped?”

“It’s possible.”

Luke’s blue eyes widened. “Murdered?”

Simon paused, then nodded. “Also
possible.”

Fury reddened Luke’s face. “Who knows of
this?”

The thin thread of control Simon had kept
wound around his patience finally snapped. “For God’s sake, Luke, the whole
damn world knows it.”

Luke smacked his hands down on the table.
“And you didn’t tell me.”

“Lord Lukas, His Grace tried to tell you.
He sent you a letter —” Sarah began.

“I didn’t read the damn letter!” Luke
roared.

Simon snapped to his feet. “You will not
raise your voice to Sarah.”

Luke jumped up, too, his narrowed gaze
fixed on Simon. “Our mother is missing.”

“Yes, she is.”

“She could be
dead
.”

Luke was the first person who’d said that
aloud. The word hit Simon in the chest like a shard of glass. “Yes,” he said
coldly. “It is possible. But we —”

“And you didn’t tell me. You sent me a
damn summons you knew I wouldn’t bother reading, but you didn’t come by to tell
me in person.”

“We assumed that you weren’t at home since
you didn’t respond to the letter. No one had any idea where you’d gone.”

“Did you even look?”

“You mean, conduct a thorough search inside
your whorehouses and gambling hells, Luke?” Simon’s lips curled. “No, I didn’t
look. I have been too busy looking for our
mother
.”

“It’s as it always is, then. I am less of
a brother, less of a son. I don’t bloody matter, do I?”

What the hell? Luke always thought this
way, and Simon never had the faintest idea why. He was the second son, the
“spare,” and he had been Simon’s heir since their father had died. He had been
treated as such by everyone, both in the family and outside it. He had always
been given the honor and respect the position entitled him to, and yet he did
everything he could to squander it. If anyone had the right to be bitter and
resentful, it was their half brother, Sam. But Sam had never been this way.

“I sent everyone the same letter!” Simon
shouted. “You, Sam, Mark, and Theo all received the exact same message. But
Sam, Mark, and Theo
read
it. They cared enough to read it, and they cared enough to come.”

“Please, both of you, stop!” Sarah
exclaimed. Simon looked over at her to see that she was standing too, the color
high in her cheeks. They all stood around the circular table, glaring at one
another.

“My lord… please. The fact of the matter
is that we didn’t tell you, and perhaps” – she slid a look toward Simon – “we
should have taken more pains to ensure you were informed. But now you know. And
now you can help us find the duchess.”

Luke crossed his arms over his chest,
still glaring. He looked yellower than ever, and rather like he was about to
keel over. The shouting hadn’t done him any good.

Sarah saw it, too. “Please sit down.” She
walked around the table to urge him back into his seat. He didn’t argue, just
sat heavily and put his head in his hands.

Simon laid his palms flat on the table.
“In your cups every night again, Luke? Is that what this is?”

“What’s it to you?” Luke muttered.

Suddenly the energy left him, and Simon
slid back into his chair, too. Sarah remained standing, watching them both.
They stayed in their places for long moments, not speaking, not eating. And then
there was a knock at the door.

It was Tremaine. “Your Grace, a George
Turner is at the door insisting to see you.”

Simon straightened in his chair. “Show him
in. Right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Tremaine left, Sarah asked, “George
Turner – is that the boy who’s looking for Mr. Woodrow?”

“Yes.”

Luke stared at him with a blank
expression.

“We discovered this man – Woodrow – had
sold our mother’s amethyst necklace to a jeweler in Jermyn Street. We’ve been
waiting for him to appear at his residence in the East End in order to question
him.”

Luke gave a tightlipped nod.

Just then, George rushed in. He was a
plump boy, with a round face and red apples for cheeks. The tall, thin Tremaine
hovered over him.

“Yer Grace! He’s home! Mr. Woodrow’s come
home!”

Simon and Luke went to the East End
together, Simon filling Luke in on every facet of the situation regarding their
mother’s disappearance. Sarah had been right – food had seemed to strengthen
Luke’s constitution. That and sheer force of will, Simon thought, were what
kept him standing.

Outside John Woodrow’s house, Simon paid
George Turner and sent him away. He didn’t want the boy making enemies in his
own neighborhood. Feeling the comforting weight of his pistol in his coat, and
knowing his brother was similarly armed, Simon knocked on Woodrow’s door.

The man who answered was huge. Tall and
burly, the muscles in his arms straining against the dirt-stained linen of his
shirt. Seeing the two gentlemen at his door, he raised bushy brown brows.
“Wot’s this?”

“I am the Duke of Trent. This is my
brother, Lord Lukas Hawkins. May we come in?”

The man blinked stupidly at him, then
stepped back to let them in. “Oh, aye, to be sure, yer lordships.”

It had been a while since Simon had been
called “your lordship.” Clearly this man wasn’t acquainted with many dukes and
was unfamiliar with the correct form of address.

The apartment consisted of one room ripe
with the scent of desiccated fish emanating from the plate of half-eaten food
that the man must have been partaking of when they’d arrived.

“We’re here to inquire —”