The Duchess Hunt (17 page)

In one smooth motion, Simon had halted his
horse and dismounted, lowering his lantern onto the ground beside him.

Luke stopped his horse a few paces ahead
and looked back at Simon. “What?”

Simon wasn’t sure he could speak. He’d
never been so irate. He was shaking. Sweat broke out in hot pinpricks over his
forehead.

He managed to growl out, “Get off the damn
horse.”

Luke stared at him, then slowly raised his
eyebrows. The corners of his lips twitched upward.

“Get off the horse,” Simon repeated.

Turning his horse around, Luke just shook
his head. “What a sight. My brother and his oh-so-righteous fury. I’m so sick
of it.”

But Luke’s earlier words keep hammering in
Simon’s skull.
“Easy conquest.” “Pretty
piece.” “Dallying with servants.”

Worst of all:
“You’d never sully yourself with a girl
like Sarah.”

He stared up at Luke, red crowding at the
fringes of his vision.

“…
a girl like Sarah…”

No more. He wouldn’t have anyone speaking
of Sarah – his Sarah – that way. No one. Not even his brother, who he’d
forgiven years of drinking and gambling and whores.

“Get down,” Simon growled.

Luke shook his head. “You know, brother, I
think this is where we must part ways. You see, you’re heading home, back to
the pretense of being a moral, respectable duke while you secretly lust after
your housemaid. I have no desire to bear witness to that hypocrisy. I’m going
to remain right here. First thing I intend to do is locate the closest pub, and
after that, I intend to return to Hillingdon and get to the bottom of my
mother’s disappearance.”

“Get out of my sight, then.” Bitterness
welled in Simon’s voice. He couldn’t count on Luke to find their mother. He
couldn’t count on Luke for anything except to get drunk, to offend everyone he
cared about, and to find ways to besmirch their family name.

“Gladly.” Luke turned in the direction
from which they’d come, dug his heels into the horse’s sides, and sent the
animal into a gallop – recklessly dangerous this time of night, but wasn’t that
just like Luke to risk his horse?

Simon stood there for long minutes after
the sound of hoofbeats faded into the night.

It was for the best that Luke was gone.

At least, he tried to convince himself of
that.

Chapter
Eleven

Simon paced the upstairs corridor of Trent
House.

By the time he’d returned from Hillingdon,
the household was dark, everyone abed, Sarah included. She must be asleep. He
didn’t want to rouse her. It would be selfish to do so, and none of the news he
had to impart was good.

Simon went into his bedchamber and stared
at his bed for long moments, but it looked so unappealing and uninviting, so
cold, that he flung off the cravat he’d been untying and let it pile in a snowy
heap on the floor, knowing Burton, his valet, would have fits about its
wrinkles in the morning.

Simon turned on his heel and strode out of
the prison-like confinement of his bedchamber. And then he paced. The corridor
on the first floor was long and narrow. He didn’t know why he didn’t go
downstairs, except for the fact that the ground floor provided a layout far
less amenable to the task at hand, which involved striding down to one end,
swiveling about, then repeating the process again and again.

Plus, up here, he was closer to Sarah. He
could walk by her door and think about her lying in bed, her face peaceful in
sleep. That thought brought him a bit of peace, too.

So he paced, avoiding the two floorboards
he knew would creak if he stepped on them. He was silent and stealthy, a caged
lion on the prowl. His mind would not settle. He couldn’t stop thinking about
the argument he’d had with Luke.

Was he being a hypocrite, as Luke had
implied? When Luke had compromised that young maid, Simon had been furious.
He’d railed at his brother, called him a stupid, selfish fool who couldn’t keep
his cock in his breeches.

And now he was engaging in the type of
liaison he’d previously been so outspoken against.

Suddenly, her door opened behind him. He
turned around, a part of him knowing that this was what he’d secretly wanted.

She stepped into the doorframe, wrapping a
thin white cotton robe about her slender body. When she saw him, the tension in
her face dissolved in relief. “Oh,” she said in a small voice, “I’m so glad
you’re home safe.”

“May I come in?”

She recognized his intent, for a blush
instantly rose to suffuse her cheeks. “Yes,” she said, but her voice now
sounded scratchy and low.

She stepped aside and let him pass, and he
entered her room, turning to her as the door snicked shut behind them.

“What happened with Mr. Woodrow?” she
whispered.

They stared at each other for a long
moment. He couldn’t get the words out. Turning away from her, he went to the
window. Parting the curtains, he rested his hands on the sill and leaned his
forehead against the cold glass.

After a moment, she came up behind him.
She slid her arms around him and laid her cheek on his back. “Tell me it isn’t
the duchess. Tell me you didn’t discover something horrible has happened to
her.”

“No, not my mother.” He took a breath. “It
was Binnie. She’s dead, Sarah.”

Sarah gave a little gasp, and he turned
and took her into his arms. She held on to his shoulders, looking at him with
wild eyes. “What happened?” she cried.

“She was found murdered outside London.
She had the amethyst necklace in her possession, and it was taken from her. No
one involved could give us any information about the whereabouts of my mother,
or of James.”

That was enough. He didn’t need to tell
her that Binnie’s throat had been slit, nor of that nasty business with the grave-robber.

“Oh God,” Sarah moaned. She buried her
face in his shirt, and he felt her back move with silent sobs. Simon knew that
Sarah and Binnie had never been close friends, but Sarah cared deeply about
everyone who resided at Ironwood Park. Just as he did.

He’d had no idea how to comfort his sister
when she’d sobbed in fear for their mother in the parlor at Ironwood Park, but
now he knew exactly how to comfort Sarah. He held her tight, rubbing gentle
circles into her back, throwing all the tenderness and compassion he could into
his touch.

After a long moment, she looked up at him,
her face streaked with tears. “Why? What could Binnie have ever done to deserve
such a fate?”

He shook his head hopelessly. “I don’t
know, love.”

She sank back against his chest, and he
stood there holding her, wishing desperately that there was something else he
could do to ease her pain, until her tears subsided.

Finally she looked at him. Reaching up a
finger, she gently traced the lines around his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered,
her eyes shining, her eyelashes matted with tears.

He shook his head, confused. “Sorry for
what?”

“That you had to make such a discovery
today.”

“I’m sorry, too.” The image of Binnie’s
cold, naked body flashed in his mind, and he closed his eyes against it. “No
one ever wishes to encounter death, but when it is the death of someone who has
been a part of your existence for so long…”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Exactly.” After
a long pause, she asked, “Is Lord Lukas all right?”

How to answer that question? Honestly, he
supposed. “No, not really.”

“Where is he?”

“He returned to the town where Binnie was
discovered. He wants to see if he can discover anything else.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “And you, Your Grace?”

He shook his head. “I just wanted to come
home,” he said simply. “To you.”

Her arms tightened around him. She stared
up at him with those big blue eyes, her lips parted. He had to kiss her. So he
did just that, taking her face in his hands and tilting it up, then touching
his lips to hers.

She was so pliant and willing in his arms.
His body, which had been tense and prickly and generally out of sorts all day
and all night, now roared to life. It commanded him to take her, to make her
his in every sense of the word.

But no. Not yet. Not tonight, when she’d
just heard about Binnie. When he finally took her, he wanted it to be special
and memorable, not weighted down by tragedy and loss.

He pulled back, hooked a hand behind her
knees, and lifted her. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Looking down into
her face, her lips plump and pink from his kiss, her eyes still shining with
tears, he whispered, “Sarah, let me love you.”

She gazed up at him, utterly trusting,
utterly accepting, and nodded.

She’d made her decision – she would accept
whatever he wished to give. He knew Sarah well enough to know she wouldn’t
change her mind.

He walked to her bed – the sheets were
still pulled back from when she’d left it to investigate who was making noise
in the corridor – laid her gently upon it, and sat on the edge of the mattress.

“When we are alone from now on, will you
call me Simon?” No one called him Simon anymore, but it was how he thought of
himself – Trent was just the shell he inhabited – and he wanted her to think of
him that way, too.

She smiled up at him, one of her wide,
beautiful smiles that made his heart stutter, even though her eyes were still
filled with tears. “In my mind, that has always been who you are.”

“Then I would hear it from your lips,
too,” he said.

“Simon,” she whispered, and the sound of
his name in her voice sent a shudder through him and made his cock stir.

He bent over her and kissed her again,
letting his hand move to explore the soft curve of her breast. He slipped
beneath the opening of her robe, cupped the small mound, and thumbed her
nipple, his shaft lengthening and pushing against the falls of his pantaloons
as the tip of her breast puckered under his touch.

She squirmed a bit, releasing a sweet gasp
into his mouth. He’d learned how very sensitive her breasts were; how
responsive she was when he touched her here. He swallowed her gasp and kissed
her harder, stroking her nipple to make her wiggle and gasp again and again
before moving to the other side and giving it the same treatment.

He straightened to focus on untying the
belt of her robe, then he separated the two edges and pulled them apart. She
wore the same plain white nightgown she’d worn last night. It silhouetted her
body in a way that nearly made him groan, outlining the slim shapes of her
legs, the gentle rise of her mound, the curve of her waist, and the taut peaks
of her nipples.

He kicked off his shoes and slipped into
bed beside her, drawing her into his arms, pressing his own body against hers
so she would have no doubt as to the level of his arousal.

More brazen than last night, her hands
explored his back over his shirt, then his torso. He sucked in a breath when
her fingertips passed over his nipples, and she pulled back in surprise.

“It feels good,” he explained. “No doubt
similar to how it feels when I touch you there.”

Her lips curved. Seductive, even wicked.
After one night, she’d already grown adventurous. Once she knew what she was
about, she would be a spitfire in bed.

He ran his lips over her jaw, nuzzling
her. “God, how I want you.”

“And I,” she said as her fingertips passed
over his chest again, “want you.”

If she kept doing that, he’d lose his mind
in no time. So he took a handful of her nightgown in his fist and pulled upward
until he could touch the silky skin of her thigh.

He trailed his fingers up her leg,
reveling in the soft and smooth but muscled contours, getting near her most
private place, testing and then retreating.

Ever so gently, he cupped his hand over
her mound. She stilled. Her only movement was in the quick rise and fall of her
chest with each short, jerky breath. When he slipped his finger between her
lips, she gave a shuddering moan.

She was slick with desire, just like she’d
been last night. She clutched the back of his shirt, bunching the fabric there,
thrusting against his hand as he stroked her again then pushed a finger inside
her.

He drew back a little to look at her face.
Her eyes were closed, her mouth open in a rapturous O.

His cock was a solid pike, aching to take
the place of his finger. But he didn’t allow it to rule him. Sarah’s pleasure
was what mattered. He wanted to make her forget.

He stroked her, caressing her inner walls
and pressing the heel of his hand over the nub above. He worked her, first with
the one finger and then adding a second, until she was gasping, squirming,
arching and begging him in sweet little pants. “Please. Please. Please.”

God. He needed a taste. He crawled down
her body, trailing kisses over her nightgown, taking time as he passed over her
breasts, suckling each nipple over the thin cotton even as he kept working his
fingers into her. Then he nudged her nightgown up her legs, pausing over the
scar on her knee.

A lump formed in his throat as he realized
that she’d received that scar the day he’d met her. He kissed the little raised
half-moon-shaped scar tenderly, then moved upward to press his lips to the area
just about the V-shaped triangle of hair that hid her womanhood.

Again, she stilled. “What are you…?” Her
voice trailed off.

“Tonight,” he murmured between kisses,
“I’m going to enlighten you on another way a woman can be pleasured.” He
withdrew his hand from her center and nudged her thighs apart, settling into
position between them.

Her thighs trembled, and she was so wet.
She was already hovering on the precipice, so close to losing all control. He
wanted her to come, to plummet over the edge, to lose herself to pleasure.

He kissed over her mound, then used his
tongue to lick between her lips, drinking in the singular taste of her, fresh
and sweet, with that hint of meadow grasses. Essential Sarah.

Her legs shook around him, and he sensed
rather than saw her hands scrambling for purchase. He reached up and grasped
her hand, settling her. Her fingers curled hard over his, and he licked over
her nub, sending a jolt through her body that resonated through his own.

Holding the outside of her thigh with his
other hand, he pressed his lips over her, thrust his tongue into her. And then
he focused on the nub, feeling the jolt of sensation spear through her whenever
he caressed it with his lips or tongue.