About Sophie Barnes
Born in Denmark, SOPHIE BARNES has spent her youth traveling with her parents to wonderful places all around the world. She’s lived in five different countries, on three different continents, and speaks Danish, English, French, Spanish, and Romanian. She has studied design in Paris and New York and has a bachelor’s degree from Parson’s The New School For Design, but most impressive of all—she’s been married to the same man three times, in three different countries and in three different dresses.
While living in Africa, Sophie turned to her lifelong passion—writing. When she’s not busy dreaming up her next romance novel, Sophie enjoys spending time with her family, swimming, cooking, gardening, watching romantic comedies and, of course, reading. She currently lives on the East Coast.
Visit Sophie Barnes’s Web site at www.sophiebarnes.com. You can also find her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter at @BarnesSophie.
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His Perfect Gift
KAREN ERICKSON
Chapter One
SHE WORE A ribbon around her neck.
Lady Eleanor Fitzsimmons, eldest daughter of the poorest earl in all of England, had not a jewel on her person this evening. Nor was she in possession of any sort of precious gems any evening. Just a single thin ribbon wound about her elegant throat, usually matching the color of her gown.
Her three-seasons-old, faded, and well-mended gown, it should be added. Everyone knew she hadn’t donned anything fashionable since her debut.
Not that her lack of fashion detracted from her beauty, oh no. The gentlemen still swarmed. The ladies still gossiped. And the younger debutantes still wished Lady Eleanor to find a husband posthaste, so she could be eliminated once and for all from the marriageable ladies’ list. They mocked her family’s well-known poverty, both behind her back and directly to her face. Her father’s gambling habits were legendary—as his losses were spectacularly grand.
Throughout it all, she wore a polite smile. Nothing fazed her.
Ever.
His gaze went unerringly to the elegant length of her neck, not a stray dark brown tendril daring to mar such creamy perfection. The damned ribbon drew him in, brought all his attention to that singular spot, the strand of peach-colored silk resting just above where her pulse fluttered. He’d paid plenty of attention to her throughout the years. Sometimes it was slow and even, with the gentle beat of life that no doubt flowed within her like a lazy, meandering river on a summer’s day.
But other times her pulse beat madly, as if she were agitated. Or achingly aware—for more than once she’d caught him staring though she never acknowledged it. Nay, Lady Eleanor never confronted him, for it would be unseemly. Above all else, she practiced a decorum he supposed he should admire.
He didn’t. How he wished he could see Lady Eleanor Fitzsimmons at her rawest, in those most intimate moments when her every flaw, her every vulnerability was revealed. Where she couldn’t hide behind the fan she kept clutched in her hand or the serene expression she wore like a mask on her pretty face.
Only that delicate pulse at the base of her neck gave her true emotions away.
Ashton leaned against the wall, one hand in his pocket, rubbing his thumb and index finger against the gold ring he carried with him. The simple band had been in his family for generations, his mother had worn it last. She’d given it to him recently, begging him to find his future duchess.
He’d made his choice once. Long, long ago, when he’d been a different man, living a much different life. And she rejected him.
He watched her now. Yearned for her.
Funny thing, that. How much he still wanted her, yet she didn’t want him. How she turned down his proposal her first season, hoping for a better prospect, he supposed. After all, he’d been the mere second son of a duke when he’d made that most eager marriage offer. Utterly besotted with her too, which made it all the more humiliating when she rejected him so smartly, all of nineteen, letting down a man well into his twenties in a gentle sort of way that belied her young age.
He’d made a fool of himself over her and vowed then and there he would never do so again. Held up that vow too, with his notorious reputation as an elusive bachelor amongst the ton. His father had died soon after the humiliating rejection, leaving his elder brother to take over the dukedom, at which he’d been an absolute failure.
Henry had then become a rabid topic of gossip when his foolish drunken duke of a brother had died just over a year ago. Falling off his horse in the slums of London after deftly escaping from a particular house of ill repute, avoiding the gentleman who’d come to collect the funds Robert so foolishly owed him from a gambling debt.
His brother had lost his life all over a few pounds. Money he had, a debt he could’ve paid easily. Ashton wondered if it was the thrill of getting away with something that had driven Robert to do such a stupid thing.
Something he contemplated quite often during those long nights when he couldn’t fall asleep.
So he was the Duke of Ashton. He, plain old Lord Henry William Stuart for the majority of his nine-and-twenty years, had become the ninth duke and was expected to carry out all the duties he’d never been groomed for. If he was doing a poor job of it—which he was, he knew this for an absolute fact—then how could it be his fault?
You must marry and soon. Find a young chit, wed her, and bed her. Gain that heir you so desperately need, the duchess had told him one evening not a fortnight ago, pressing the cold, thin ring into his hand. Her voice quivering in that way it did when she was trying her best to be firm, convincing.
Yet no ladies interested him. Oh, he’d had his share of women, many of them widowed, a few of them older, wiser, not interested in anything beyond a dalliance, a brief affair. Truthfully, he hadn’t indulged since his brother’s death. Becoming the duke had turned him celibate.
The pressure, the duty that came with the title, took everything out of him. So much blessed work and so little time to accomplish it all. Not to mention the eager mamas who besieged him at every social event he attended, pushing their fresh-faced debutante daughters upon him like a gift. Gifts he didn’t want, for there wasn’t a single lady amongst all of London society he to marry.
Well. Save one particular Lady Eleanor. And she despised the very ground he walked on.
A young man approached her, slobbering over her hand, all moony-eyed and tripping over his feet like a gangly puppy. She greeted him politely, inclining her head, offering Ashton a most fascinating view of the back of her neck, how her spine bent with the movement. A short, curling bit of hair fell from her coiffure, tickling her delicate skin, and how he wished he could go to her, tuck that errant hair back where it belonged, bury his nose in those fragrant tresses, and inhale deep.
He hadn’t forgotten her intoxicating scent. Or the silky feel of her hair. The memories were burned indelibly on his brain.
Her slim shoulders stiffened, and she lifted her head, her nose in the air as if she scented something amiss. Turning her head slowly, she looked to her left. The movement was subtle, no one would detect it except for him. He couldn’t not notice. She merely had to enter a room, and she became its universe when he was near.
It was both that simple, and that complicated.
She glanced over her shoulder, her lids lifting, revealing those dark brown eyes that haunted his thoughts, his dreams. Her gaze met and held his for a long, aching moment. He stopped breathing, stopped thinking, focused solely on her, then she did something so unbelievable he was sure his eyes were playing tricks on him.
Lady Eleanor inclined her head and gave it a little jerk, indicating . . . what? That she wanted him to approach? That she wanted him to follow her? So they could go somewhere private and illicit, where he could finally put his hands all over her delectable body again?
Either suggestion was laughable not but a second ago. Hell, they were still laughabl
e.
She indicated with a quick flick of her fingers, a little wave that said he should come to her, and without thought, he went like a well-trained dog, his feet moving of their own accord.
Finally, he’d broken through that impenetrable shield she’d erected around herself. Sweet triumph surged through him when he stopped to stand beside her, his arm brushing against her shoulder. The brief contact sent a jolt through him, and he inhaled sharply, desperate for control.
It wouldn’t do to make a complete ass of himself in front of the ton again. Once was more than enough.
“Your Grace.” Her sweet, throaty voice brought to mind images of tangled limbs, damp skin, and swollen lips. “Might I ask you a question?”
“Absolutely, my lady. Anything you wish to know, I shall tell you.” Well, perhaps not anything she wished to know. A man had his secrets, after all.
She turned to face him, those velvety brown eyes seeming to see right through him. “If you wish to make a mockery of me in front of all of society, then I beg of you, please get it over with and quick. I’ve grown rather tired, knowing you’re always lurking about. Plotting and planning my social demise as if I’m blissfully unaware of your presence.”
His jaw dropped, the denial lodged in his throat. So she had noticed him. He had truly believed her blissfully unaware of his presence.
That tiny admission caused hope to flicker to life deep within him.
“Don’t look so shocked,” she chastised, pointing her finger in his face. “As if I wouldn’t notice you. You’ve watched me for what feels like an age, ever since you inherited your poor brother’s title, God rest his weary soul. I know you’re still angry with me for rejecting your suit.”
Ah. Now it was becoming clearer. She wasn’t too far off though his plans never included humiliating her amongst society. Making her his though, most definitely.
“And don’t try to deny it either,” she said when he opened his mouth. “I’m sure you’ve already had quite a laugh over it all. You suffered through my rejection only to become a duke. At this very moment, I could’ve been your duchess, probably have given you at least your precious heir and been plump with the second. Looking forward to another holiday season with our growing family surrounding us and all that pleasant nonsense.”
Ashton clamped his lips shut, his mind awhirl. She spoke as if she’d thought about this quite often. As if she regretted turning him down. But was it only because he was a bloody duke? Or could it be something more?
He was more determined than ever to find out.
Chapter Two
“LADY ELEANOR.” HE bowed before her, magnificent in his black evening clothes. His dark brown hair pushed away from his forehead though it curled appealingly about his nape. His face was clean-shaven, his cheeks and jaw smooth, revealing every vividly stunning feature. He was so terribly handsome it was hard not to stare.
She refused to, chose instead to focus on a point just above his left shoulder. She should hate this man for how he followed her about. How he made her feel, so full of wanting and wishing and regret she grew near overwhelmed with it all.
Yet she couldn’t hate him, no matter how much she tried.
“I must say, I’m rather shocked by your accusations.” He paused, letting his words sink in as he watched her with those intense blue-green eyes. “You truly believe I wish to have my revenge on you?”
“Of course,” she offered stiffly, holding her breath when he moved closer to her. Inappropriately close. She breathed in his familiar scent, let it wash over her, and she turned her head. Watching instead the dancing couples who swirled by as she desperately tried to calm her wildly beating heart.
“Then you must think incredibly little of me to believe I would do such a thing.”
She had no answer for him. This man she’d once known and cared for. This man she’d believed for a very short time she would marry . . .
He studied her as if he wished to take her apart, she could feel his heated gaze upon her. Not that she could blame him. What she’d done three years ago had been cruel. Foolish. Dreadfully naïve. Her ultimate mistake? She’d listened to her father, who’d convinced her someone better would come along. A titled gent with plenty of wealth who’d take care of her family—and her father’s notorious gambling habits—for the rest of their days.
She’d believed him. Silly, considering that the Earl of Cochrane was a known liar. Even to his eldest daughter. His falsehoods knew no bounds. The man would lie about the weather, what he ate for luncheon, whom he was with the evening prior . . .
Lady Eleanor frowned. Well, her father had reason to lie about whom he spent his evenings with. He certainly never spent them at home with his wife and daughters.
“You’re especially beautiful tonight.” He murmured the words close to her ear, shocking her from her thoughts, and she purposely kept her head averted.
“Thank you.” She dragged her formality to the surface, using it as a sort of shield, desperate not to reveal how much he affected her.
Despite the so-called intimate party at which they were both in attendance this evening, there were still well over one hundred members of London society within the cavernous ballroom. Most of them converged on the dance floor though quite a few milled about. Some of them stared pointedly at her and Ashton.
The gossips would discuss their conversation gleefully, of this Lady Eleanor was sure. Everyone knew that after she rejected him, they’d avoided each other.
“Your accusations.” His deep, slightly rough voice invaded her mind, invaded her very soul, and she jerked her head up to meet his gaze. “They startled me, Lady Eleanor. That you would think so low of me . . .”
“I’m assuming the feeling is mutual.” She sniffed, straightened her shoulders. She sounded like an insolent brat, but the man seemed to bring out the worst in her.
“I’ll confess I wasn’t pleased with the turn of events three years ago.” He took a step closer, so close he brushed against her side, sending a current of tingles washing over her skin. “But I could never hate you, my lady. On the contrary, I find myself rather fascinated by you.”
She stepped away from him, his nearness far too distracting. He smelled of leather and sandalwood, a dash of tobacco. And he was so blessedly warm. Hot, even. All that scented heat drew her in. Made her want things she should never, ever consider again.
Like him.
“Fascinated as in wishing to see my societal demise?” She took a deep, fortifying breath. “I can assure you, that moment is most likely drawing near.”
He frowned, which didn’t detract from his masculine beauty whatsoever. More like emphasized his impossibly good looks. That firm jaw, his full lips, the patrician nose . . . no one could deny that Ashton was a handsome man.
“I’m referring to the fact that everyone will see us conversing,” she explained when he didn’t reply.
“And why should they care?”
Irritation flashed through her. Was the man dense? “We are enemies,” she whispered.
“We are?” A single eyebrow rose at this particular remark. His voice full of amused doubt, he looked ready to laugh. At her.
She stood straighter, her spine painfully stiff. “Of course we are. We haven’t spoken since that . . . that dreadful night.”
“When you so soundly rejected me?” His voice boomed; surely someone heard that pointed remark.
He smiled, and she had to look away. There were many within the ballroom who watched them with unabashed curiosity. “People are staring.”
“Let them stare.” He touched her, sending a jolt of pure sensation throughout her entire body. He drew his finger down the side of her neck, toying with the slender thread of peach silk she’d tied there earlier. “What is this?”
“I own no jewels. I thought to adorn myself with a bit of ribbon that matched the color of my gown.” Her throat ached with a whimper that wanted to escape as his finger followed the curve of silk to her nape. “You do realize
you’re touching me in a rather improperly intimate manner.”
“I have touched you in far more intimate manners, Lady Eleanor. Or have you forgotten?” Gooseflesh spread all over her skin at his murmured reminder. She’d avoided him all this time so she would forget. Not that she truly could.
The memories of her brief time with Lord Henry Stuart, now the Duke of Ashton, were burned upon her mind.
He rubbed the ribbon’s bow between his thumb and index finger. “If you were mine, I would give you all the jewels you could ever want.”
“I don’t want anything from you, and I especially don’t want to be yours.” Liar. As if she could forget the time they had spent together. The devastation that had overtaken her when her father had told her she couldn’t marry him. Henry had been her first choice, her only choice, and she’d been forced to turn him away.
All to do what was best for her family. For her father.
She nearly choked on the bitterness that wound through her.
“You have nothing to say?” He chuckled, and his finger fell away from her neck. “My incessant pursuit of you isn’t working, then?”
“No.” She kept her gaze trained on the dance floor. “You are wasting your time, Your Grace.”
It was best. He was a duke. Above her station and though her heart wished he was serious, her mind warned that he merely toyed with her. His unusual behavior was all part of some long-overdue revenge he wished to seek upon her.
“I wish you would call me Henry. As you did once before.”
She turned to look at him, saw all the heat and passion and want for her in the depths of his gaze. She refused to believe it. “We can never go back to how we were before. I’ve changed. You’ve changed.”
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