The Duchess Hunt (18 page)

Her fingers gripped his hand tighter; her
legs clamped around his shoulders. As he kissed and licked, taking her sweetness
into himself, she tightened, her muscles taut and straining, tighter and
tighter. And then she found her release, her body undulating around him, her
gasps harsh in the quiet of the night.

And, God help him, he nearly came against
the bedclothes. But he held on to his control and coaxed her through it,
keeping his firm, grounding grip on her hand.

When she emerged on the other side, he
kissed his way back up her body, tugging down her nightgown over her legs as he
nuzzled her neck and jaw and finally ended with a gentle kiss on her lips. Then
he drew back to look at her.

He smiled. Her eyes were half-lidded, her
lips soft and pliant, a dewy sheen on her cheeks.

“You look like a woman well-pleasured.”

“Do I?”

He nodded.

She reached up, her arms wrapping around
him. “Now I must pleasure you.”

He pressed another kiss to her lips. “No,
Sarah. Not tonight.”

A frown furrowed her brows. “Why not?”

“Because tonight was for you.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me to
pleasure you? Isn’t that what women do?”

He chuckled softly. “What do you know of
what men want and what women do?”

“Mistresses please their men. That is what
they’re compensated for.”

“Do you wish to be compensated?” he asked,
bemused.

Her eyes went wide. “No!”

“Because I’d be happy to.” He pressed a
light kiss to her nose. “Whatever your heart desires.” Although he knew she
wasn’t much of one for material possessions.

“No,” she repeated, more firmly this time.
“It’s not like that between us, is it?”

“You know it isn’t.”

He didn’t like comparing her to a
mistress. Although, he realized, with a sick feeling twisting in his gut, that
was essentially what she’d become.

“Simon,” she murmured. “Let me try. I
probably will be inept and stupid, but I want to try…”

“Not tonight,” he told her gently. “This is
enough for tonight. I like to see a woman pleasured. I like to see
you
pleasured.”

“But I want to…”

“What? What is it you wish to do?”

Her gaze wandered low, in the direction of
his cock.

She bit her lip and looked back up into
his face. “I want to please you,” she whispered.

“You already have, love.”

Whore.

Sarah lay in bed the next morning,
thinking of that word. Of how, if all the people in London had known how she’d
behaved last night and the night before, they’d label her with that awful word.

And yet, she did not feel like a whore. No
bolt of lightning had struck her down where she slept. No pang of conscience
had overtaken her. She was still Sarah Osborne. Her feelings about the world
hadn’t changed. Only her feelings about Simon had grown stronger.

No regrets. She’d told Simon she’d have
none, and she didn’t.

She’d lain in his arms in the darkest
hours of morning. He’d held her through her grief about Binnie, made her feel
comforted. Protected. Even cherished.

No one had ever cherished her before.

She’d fallen into a deep sleep with the
weight of his arm over her. Just before dawn had begun to lighten the sky, he’d
shifted away from her, then his lips had nuzzled into her hair.

“I must go,” he’d murmured. “Sleep, love.”

And she’d slept again. Deep and
comfortable, warm, the languor from his lovemaking infusing her bones even
hours later. Now, she could tell by the level of light in the bedchamber that
she’d slept far past the hour at which she normally rose. But that didn’t
matter. She slipped out of bed, feeling warm and content.

Simon would be long gone, so she wouldn’t
be able to take her usual pleasure from breakfasting with him. She sat at her
dressing table and gazed at herself. Her blue eyes were bright in the mirror,
but there were dark smudges beneath that would tell the world that she’d been
crying.

Poor Binnie.

She combed her hair with shaky hands,
remembering the solidity of Simon’s arms around her as she’d wept. Today would
be a difficult day. She’d have to tell Esme and the household, and they’d have
to write to Mrs. Hope and to Binnie’s family.

But she’d get through it. The memory of
Simon’s embrace would sustain her.

Chapter
Twelve

Simon sat alone in his drawing room,
awaiting the arrival of Lord Stanley. The ladies were out shopping – they had
no idea that Simon was here, because he rarely showed his face at home in the
early afternoon hours. However, at Almack’s last week after Simon had finished
his second dance with Miss Stanley, her father had asked for a private meeting.
Simon had accepted, though he’d no doubt as to what Stanley intended to ask
him.

He wanted Simon to marry his daughter.

Simon had agreed to the meeting out of
politeness, and because he wanted to clarify to Stanley that while Simon found
his daughter lovely and an excellent dancer and dinner companion, he had no
intention of taking things further than that.

Another time, another year, Simon might
have given Miss Stanley serious consideration. She’d make a more than adequate
wife for a duke; it was as if she’d been groomed to play the role. She probably
had, come to think of it. But after a few days of visiting Sarah’s bed, Simon’s
plans had changed. Simon had no intention of shackling himself to anyone – at
least not this Season. He was enjoying this time he had with Sarah too much to
put an end to it.

A knock sounded on the door and Tremaine
informed him that Baron Stanley had arrived.

He rose to greet Stanley and offered him a
drink. When they were both seated in the royal-blue upholstered chairs with
brandy glasses in hand, he got straight to the point. “What is it you wished to
see me about?”

Stanley took his time before answering,
taking a slow sip of brandy, holding it in his mouth as if savoring its fine
taste. When he swallowed, he gazed at the contents of his glass and said,
“Thought you were against French spirits.”

“Only those obtained illegally. This
brandy is from the stores owned by my father before the war.”

“Ah. I wasn’t aware the old duke possessed
such a keen sense of forethought.”

Simon didn’t answer. There was a full
minute of silence. Then, Stanley carefully set down his glass on the round
mahogany table beside his chair.

“I’m here regarding my daughter,
Georgina.”

Simon tilted his head in question and
pasted a subtly concerned look on his face. “Oh?”

Stanley’s gaze sharpened, his hawk’s eyes
keen as he studied Simon. “Despite your paltry attendance at the events every
Season before this one, when you are present, you have always given my daughter
a significant fraction of your attentions.”

Simon sipped his drink. “Miss Stanley
always seemed to be in attendance at whatever function at which I chose to make
an appearance. It is encouraging to see a familiar face in the crowd.”

“Encouraging, eh?” Stanley gave a
humorless laugh, and those narrow eyes glinted a steely blue. “No doubt. A
familiar
beautiful
face, too. Do you fancy my daughter?”

Simon chose his words carefully. “She
possesses a fair countenance, and she is a pleasant conversationalist. You have
done a fine job with her, Stanley. She should make some gentleman an excellent
match someday.”

Stanley sat back in his chair. “So you
make your intentions clear.”

Simon raised a brow. “I assure you, I have
no intentions regarding Miss Stanley. None at all, beyond neighborly
friendship, of course.”

“I see.” Stanley studied him for a long
moment, then spoke softly. “Georgina would benefit – indeed, our entire family
would benefit – from an alliance with you, Trent.”

Simon didn’t say anything, because they
both knew Stanley’s words were very true. Stanley was a landed and moneyed
baron, but the position Simon occupied was wedged into the very highest echelon
of society, and Stanley’s barony only permitted him partial admittance to that
select bit of humanity that had the power to sway kings. Stanley had always
wanted it, Simon knew this well. Hell, anyone would know it, just from looking
at the man. His ambition was written all over his face. And if his daughter
married Simon, that would give him – and his heir – greater access to all that
power and privilege.

“But I think you would benefit from an
alliance with us as well.”

Simon didn’t ask how. There was no point.
Whatever “benefit” Stanley might see in it for him had no bearing, because
Simon had no intention of marrying his daughter regardless. “That might be
true,” he said instead. “Believe me, I am honored that you’d consider me for
your daughter. I know how fond you are of her.” He didn’t know that at all, but
he assumed most fathers were fond of their daughters. “As I said before, she
will make someone a fine wife. I am sure she will ultimately make a very good
match that will benefit all parties involved.”

Stanley heaved out a sigh. “That is
unfortunate.”

Simon gave the other man a tight smile. “I
am sure the opposite is true. In the interests of her happiness, a match with
me would not be ideal.”

Stanley’s brows arched into brown peaks.
“Oh? Are you saying you’d make my daughter unhappy?”

“Not deliberately,” Simon said, “but she
doesn’t care for me, Stanley. Surely you can see that.”

“Not at all. When you are together, I see
just the opposite. She is utterly taken with you.”

Simon frowned.
No.
She was attentive and flirtatious – sometimes overly so. But Simon
had always viewed that as an act, one that he’d seen duplicated by countless
young ladies of her caliber. Surely Stanley couldn’t believe that that behavior
represented true affection.

Simon knew what it felt like to be really
cared for – Sarah had shown him that.

Something in his gut clenched tight as
thoughts and images of Sarah barreled through him in the midst of this talk of
marrying Georgina Stanley.

Stanley leaned slightly forward, his hands
clasped over his flat stomach. “Tell me true, Trent. Can I harbor some hope
that your feelings might change? Must I return home to my daughter and dash all
her dreams?”

Dash her dreams? Good God, had it really
come to that?

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Stanley.”
He meant it.

“As am I.” Stanley reached over to his
glass and took a long drink of his brandy, his lids lowered. When he set down
his glass and raised his eyes to Simon again, Simon didn’t at all like the look
on his face. “I am sorry for what I must do now.”

“What do you mean?” Simon asked.

“I simply refuse to dash my daughter’s
dreams. Therefore, I fear I must take extreme measures.”

Simon’s hands tightened over the armrests
of his chair. His cravat suddenly felt very tight. “Are you threatening me,
Stanley? In my own home?” His voice was quiet. Dangerous.

“Not exactly threatening,” Stanley said.
“However, I fear I’m preparing to tell you something you’ll not at all enjoy
hearing.”

For a second, Simon’s thoughts seemed to
scramble. Could Stanley know what had happened to Simon’s mother? Was he about
to confirm her death? But what did any of that have to do with Georgina Stanley
and the reason Stanley had come to see him today?

Simon waited, his knuckles whitening over
the chair arms.

“It has to do with your family. Your
brothers, in particular.” Stanley hesitated, then cocked his head, his eyes
narrowing, both his hands clasped around his now-empty glass. “You see, I know
the truth.”

Simon waited for him to elaborate, but
when several seconds had passed and he hadn’t, he asked, “What truth?”

“About your brothers.”

If it was possible to grow any tenser,
Simon did at that moment. “What about them?”

Stanley’s head tilted farther to the side.
His lips parted, a light breath whooshed out, and then he said in a very low
voice, “You don’t know.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Stanley drew back, his steely eyes slowly
widening in true shock. “You don’t know. My God. She kept it from you, all
these years. Astonishing.”

“Kept what from me?” Simon rose to his
feet.

Stanley just stared up at him as Simon
stepped closer.

“Tell me what the hell you’re talking
about, Stanley.”

“I should have known. Ever so wily were
the Duke and Duchess of Trent. Of course they wouldn’t tell you. They knew
better.”

“Tell me
what
?”

Stanley still gazed at him, as if seeing
him for the first time. “The prodigal son,” he murmured. “So different from his
parents.”

Simon clenched his hands at his sides. If
this man didn’t get to the point soon, he wasn’t going to be able to stop
himself from throttling him.

Stanley raised his glass. “Another?”

His jaw working, Simon took the glass from
him and stalked to the sideboard to replenish the brandy. He took the time with
his back to Stanley to inhale several deep breaths and to calm himself. When he
returned, handing the glass to the other man, he remained standing. “What I’d
like to know, Stanley, is if you intend to ever inform me what this is about.”

Stanley took a deep drink, and when he
lowered the glass from his lips, it was already half empty. “Since you clearly
have no idea, I suppose I should start from the beginning. Sit down, Trent.
You’ll need to be seated for this.”

Without a word, Simon resumed his seat.

“Your older brother, Samson, is a
bastard,” Stanley announced. “It is widely known that he is the illegitimate
son of your mother and some unknown man.”

Simon crossed his arms over his chest. He
generally didn’t tolerate people calling Sam a bastard – usually, no one dared
use that word in his presence. Sam was his older brother by two years, and he
was a man Simon admired and respected. Their mother had never stood for anyone
speaking ill of Sam, either.

“It was surprising to most of England at
the time, but your father still wanted your mother, even after her well-known
indiscretion. Before you were born, they were touted as the wild duke and his
whore.”

Simon stared coldly at the older man. He
knew all this, of course. He had spent most of his life attempting to clear the
Hawkins family name of all that scandal his mother and father had thrived on.

“Shortly after you were born, the duke
grew bored of your mother,” Stanley continued. “He took a mistress in Town.” He
paused to take another sip of brandy.

Simon’s lips tightened. His mother and
father’s relationship had been extremely complicated and difficult for his
youthful self to understand. By the time Theo was born, however, they had
seemed to come to some sort of arrangement that allowed them to live in peace –
not as husband and wife, per se, but at least they could reside in the same
country and even the same house at times – without the screaming and violent
arguments he remembered from when he was younger.

“I know all this,” he growled out. “Get to
the point.”

“Patience, boy.” Stanley lowered his
glass. “Your mother was distraught by your father’s inattention. She turned
elsewhere for comfort.”

Simon didn’t like the way Stanley placed
emphasis on the word “comfort.”

“She turned to
me
,” Stanley announced. He gave time for
Simon to absorb that, then continued, “I was young and unmarried at that time.
A neighbor. A friend. We had a brief, torrid affair that consisted of many
furtive, sweaty encounters in the pastures bordering Ironwood Park and my
lands.” He paused for a moment, then he added, “Alas, Trent, your brother, Lord
Lukas Hawkins, isn’t really a Hawkins at all. He is a Stanley.”

Every word Stanley spoke seemed to
compress Simon’s lungs more. “You’re lying,” he choked out.

“Oh, I assure you, I am not.”

“Then I don’t believe you.”

“You should.” Now Stanley’s voice was low
and dangerous. The balance of power had switched to his side, and he knew it.
“I’ve proof.”

“Where?” Simon asked.

“Written documents,” Stanley said. “An
agreement witnessed by the Trent solicitor wherein I agreed that I would make
no claim on the boy for as long as the old Duke of Trent was alive.”