“I…I feel the same,” she said, or rather, whispered. Suddenly, her normal tone of voice seemed far too loud.
The Duke smiled at her, but it was a pained smile, a forced one, and then he took his hands away from her ankles and stood up.
The heat, the desire, all those liquid feelings that had flooded her only moments ago vanished as he stepped away from her.
“I must go, then, I think,” he said. The look on his face told her that leaving was both the first and last thing he wanted to do at that moment. He looked torn between staying and going, wanting to do both with equal fervency.
“But—” Sophia started, but the Duke shook his head with such fervor that any words of protest died in her throat.
“Please, My Lady. This is a mistake. A mistake that could ruin us both. I cannot in good conscience remain alone with you without a chaperone.”
Before Sophia could respond, the Duke turned and rushed out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Sophia’s mouth hung open in shock, or rather bemusement. She did not know what to do, how to react.
I am already ruined. For you.
Chapter 10
It had been three days since Lord Stilton’s ball and Wesley was so busy he hardly had time to sit down. There was so much business to attend to now that he was Duke.
He needed to meet with Berkeley to review investments and review ledgers. The property in Dorset also needed a new roof, and the gardener at the cottage in Cornwall had just quit. The butler there was insisting they hire someone from London this time, as the last three gardeners from the area had done apparently awful things with the shrubbery.
In addition, there was the business of his marriage. Which his mother was convinced could be expedited by his attendance at each and every ball that was being thrown in the vicinity of London.
Lord Stilton’s was his sixth since the will was read. He had been so nervous at the first ball, unsure if he would remember the appropriate things to say and steps to dance. But it had all come back to him. The right things to say, the right ways to move. And with them had returned his absolute hatred for balls as well.
Or rather, most balls. Lord Stilton’s was the exception. That had perhaps been the single best event of his entire life.
Not in his mother’s opinion, however. Any ball Wesley returned from that had him still single and without a wife was a dismal disappointment. She sent him off to each one praying, he knew, that this would be the event where he found his wife.
Indeed, his mother had thrown herself into the task of finding his wife with such fervency that she was even involving God in the mission now.
“Anything to keep that dullard of a cousin of yours from inheriting half of everything,” she often told him with a sharp nod.
Wesley was not entirely sure it was just his father’s threat that had his mother so motivated, however.
Wesley was beginning to realize that the majority of his mother’s life had been spent doing absolutely nothing. She had been married to the most organized gentleman in England, which meant that she did not have to lift a finger to ensure their life ran smoothly. She had planned one ball per year, and otherwise spent her time doing, well, seemingly nothing.
Therefore, Wesley suspected she was relishing the opportunity to finally be in charge of something. She was no longer being shoved into the background, asked to keep quiet while the Duke handled everything. No, now she was useful.
And she loves it.
The smile that had graced her face that day in the carriage on the way back from Mr. Tennant’s had hardly left her face this past week and a half.
She grinned like a mad lady at every meal, practically jumping for joy when the newspapers arrived each day and she was able to read the latest gossip. She kept a list of all the eligible ladies of the ton in her pocket, and each morning she would consult the gossip pages and make the necessary adjustments to her list. She would check off who was engaged, who had severed ties, and who had their reputation dragged through the dirt.
And always looks positively gleeful by the end.
She had so wholly embraced her role as leader of the charge for Wesley to find a wife that she was even dictating his wardrobe.
Currently, she was trying to convince Wesley that he was in need of another three coats and two waistcoats, since his current wardrobe was not “embellished” enough for a gentleman of his new station.
“You are the Duke now, my dear. There is more pressure upon you to look a certain way, act a certain way. The latter you are more than accomplished at—you have always been so well behaved, if a little quiet, though you seem to be getting more talkative, which is good. However, the former is of some concern.”
“There is nothing wrong with my wardrobe, Mother. It fits me perfectly, and I have heard no complaints from my dance partners regarding my lack of embellishment,” he told her in as patient a voice as he could manage.
“Well, of course they would not tell you! It is not done, Wesley! Goodness. A lady commenting on a gentleman’s waistcoat. How positively horrendous. Imagine the scandal,” she said, shaking her head like such a comment was on par with being found kissing alone in the bushes of an Earl’s back garden. Which it most certainly was not.
Wesley was tempted to point this out to his mother, but similar statements made previously had only succeeded in making his mother more frustrated with him. And the more frustrated she became, the more she chattered.
Wesley loved his mother, truly. He was glad to see her so high in spirits, but an awful part of him almost preferred the grieving side of his mother to this energetic creature. All her attention was focused on him, and it was beginning to grow truly tiresome. He had finally escaped his father’s controlling nature, only to be saddled with the same troubles from his mother.
Immediately, he felt the guilt hit.
Wishing your mother was back to being a grieving widow? You truly are a beast.
But then, he had been feeling rather beastly since the ball, since he was so wholly improper with Lady Sophia. It had been so pleasurable at the time, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the pads of his fingers. He had almost gone further. Slipped his hand up her leg, leaned in, kissed her.
Thank God I came to my senses.
The event had reminded Wesley, however, of the darker parts of himself. The parts he did not like, did not want to engage with.
Which was why he looked at his mother and, mustering the very brightest smile he was able, said, “All right, Mother. Why don’t we go to the tailor’s after luncheon?”
He would make his mother happy. He would find a wife. And he would forget all about Lady Sophia, perfect as she might seem. Because any lady who made him feel like ravishing her in a drawing room was most certainly not the wife his father had intended for him.
“Indeed, it is so fine there in the summer. You simply must come for a visit,” Lord Montrose told Sophia. Sophia nodded and responded, indeed, she believed she even managed a smile and a few words of agreement. But her heart was not in the conversation, nor was her mind.
It was a week after Lord Stilton’s ball, and with each passing day her heart and mind had grown increasingly filled with thoughts and feelings about the Duke of Bersard.
She was trying her very best to distract herself from these ponderings. She knew she ought to pay attention to Lord Montrose as they took a walk in Green Park, but it was proving so difficult. His conversation was droning on, as it was wont to do, making it so easy for her mind to slip off into more interesting subjects, more interesting gentlemen.
“My mother is so looking forward to meeting you next week. I do believe I have not seen her so excited about anything since that author we love so much published her latest book,” he said, laughing to himself.
Does he even know Jane Austen is dead?
As Lord Montrose prattled on, Sophia couldn’t help but let her eyes stray from the path in front of her. It was a fine day outside and there we
re many people out walking. There was a chance the Duke would be among them, and she had to see him, had to catch sight of him.
But he was not there. No matter where she looked, she did not see that familiar head of dark brown hair, that tall, strong stature, those lovely hazel eyes. Her eyes alighted on many familiar faces, but none quite so familiar as his.
This only made sense, she knew. The Duke lived in Chelsea, not Mayfair. It was far more likely that he could be found walking in Ranelagh Gardens at this very moment. Still, Sophia was holding out hope that he had chosen the nonsensical option. That he had felt her keen need for him from across the boroughs of London and come for her, finally.
This hope was however beginning to dwindle with every minute that passed. Indeed, it had been decreasing before that, too, with each passing day that she did not catch sight of the Duke.
She had not seen him since Lord Stilton’s. That first morning after the ball, she had been so sure that he would visit her family home. After what they shared, it only made sense. They might not have kissed, he might not have taken her virtue, but an overture had been made. He told her they were about to make a mistake. Clearly he had left to rectify it the only way the ton knew how. With marriage.
She had spent all night tossing and turning, thinking of what she would say to him when their eyes met again in the light of day. How she would be able to maintain her composure around him when she knew he was about to ask her for her hand in marriage? What should she wear for the occasion, the rose muslin or the patterned lace?
But when morning came, the Duke had not appeared. Luncheon, then tea, then sunset all flitted by with no knock on the door, no butler coming in to inform her that she had a visitor.
She had continued to hold out hope, though, for those first few days. And when he did not come on the fourth day, she decided that it must take time to arrange these things. Affairs would need to be put in order, advice sought. He would be thinking of the right way to approach the situation. The correct things to say. And then, when he was properly prepared, he would come for her. He would ask her to be his, and she would say yes.
Yes, yes, of course yes!
She had imagined him storming into the house on the fifth day after the ball and immediately asking for her father. They would disappear into her father’s study. When they vacated the room, it would be with her father smiling, actually smiling. And the Duke would whisk her off into the drawing room to propose.
A proposal followed by a kiss.
It was yet another in a long line of scandalous thoughts about the Duke, but Sophia was powerless to stop them. They came frequently, more so with every day that she was away from him.
This had, of course, not come to pass. Seven days and not a glimpse of him. No Duke, and no proposal. Just Sophia and her silly, ill-placed fantasies.
She turned away from the walk now and back toward the Earl at her side and knew the truth. Lord Montrose, not the Duke, was the gentleman for her.
He had been selected by her father, was of good breeding, high station. He was perfect in every way. She would meet his mother the following week, he would propose, and they would marry.
It was what was good and proper.
She had been foolish with her fantasies, imagining the Duke trying to usurp Lord Montrose. Such a thing simply was not done in the ton. When a lady was being courted by a gentleman, she was considered his property. No other gentlemen were allowed to interfere or claim her for their own.
Obviously, she had misinterpreted the night with the Duke, she realized now. He hadn’t been touching her out of affection or desire, but rather to ensure her ankle was not hurt when he tripped and caused her fall. His words had not been ones of foreshadowing, letting her know what was to come. Rather, they were meant to dissuade her. He had been trying to tell her to stay away, that she was not right for him.
And Sophia knew that ladies ought to listen to Dukes. So she would stay away. She would stay away and marry Lord Montrose, as her father expected of her. Maybe then all these thoughts of the Duke would go away.
Chapter 11
The time had finally come for Wesley’s meeting with The Duke of Wellingson. They needed to go over the final version of the bill that would be put forward to Parliament at the following week’s session.
The meeting was to take place at the Duke’s house, and Wesley tried very hard not to hope that Lady Sophia would be there.
Even if she is there, she will not greet you.
She would be far too cross with him after what he had done to her the previous week.
He had ignored her at Lady Swinton’s ball, actually turning around and walking in the other direction when she approached the table of refreshments where he was standing. He had known it was a rude move on his part, but he hadn’t been thinking straight. Indeed, he hadn’t thought straight since that night at Lord Stilton’s.
She made him feel…so much. Too much, really.
The sight of her dancing with Lord Montrose had also influenced his actions. She had smiled at the Earl, even laughed at something he said. It had set Wesley’s blood to boiling, seeing her look so happy with that gentleman as her partner. It meant she wasn’t missing him. It meant her every thought was not filled with him, like his were with her. It meant she didn’t need him.
Therefore, giving her the cut direct at the refreshment table seemed the only thing to do. He couldn’t very well talk to her and risk hearing that she was having a lovely evening. With another gentleman. And a silly, insufferable one at that.
So now Wesley was quite sure that he was the very last person Lady Sophia would want to run into in the comfort of her own home. No doubt she hated him.
He was therefore both relieved and disappointed when he was led into the front hall of the Duke’s residence and saw no sign of Lady Sophia. There was only the Duke himself to greet him with his usual bow of welcome and invitation into his study.
Thankfully, the meeting took Wesley’s mind off Lady Sophia. It turned out there were rather a few changes to make to the final version of the bill. There were a few grammatical and spelling errors, as well as some awkward phrasing that needed to be amended.
Wesley liked this aspect of his duties. He had always liked correspondence, reading, and writing. The latter were his best subjects at Eton, and though his father had Berkeley handle his correspondence, Wesley chose differently. He responded to each and every letter he received himself. Correspondence allowed him to sit with Phillip in the study, quiet all around him as his quill scratched at the paper on his desk.
It was peaceful, simple. Pleasurable. If only the rest of his duties could be like that.
Amending the bill and rewriting it took the better part of three hours. Wesley volunteered to write the final draft, since his penmanship was by far the most legible. The Duke of Wellingson’s, he knew, looked like a child’s scribble.
“A toast is in order, I think,” the Duke said when Wesley had dotted the punctuation of the last line.
Standing up, he walked over to a small cabinet near the hearth and took out what looked to be a very old bottle of Scotch.
Two glasses were produced from the same cabinet, and were quickly filled with healthy pours of the fragrant amber liquid.
“To the bill’s success, and the beginning of what I think will be a mutually beneficial friendship,” the Duke said to Wesley, raising his glass.
Wesley raised his in response, and as he drank, he wondered if his father would be proud of him. Duke two weeks and he had already helped put forth the bill his father had worked on, and begun a friendship with one of the most respected members of the ton.
He was also attending balls, contributing to his mother’s happiness, looking for a wife. Indeed, he was becoming exactly the sort of Duke his father had hoped he would be. Minus, of course, the instance of impropriety with Lady Sophia.
But every man makes mistakes, don’t they?
Looking at his new friend, Wesley wondered if the Duke o
f Wellingson had ever made a mistake or wrong choice. He was such a steady gentleman, so stable, so dependable. Wesley couldn’t even imagine him as a young gentleman. He seemed to have always been middle-aged and reliable.
Rather like my father.
Wesley then realized that if he did marry Lady Sophia, if, somehow, that dream became a reality, then he would forever have the Duke of Wellingson in his life. He would always have someone like his father, someone knowledgeable and staid who could guide him when he needed it. However, unlike his father, the Duke of Wellingson trusted Wesley. He saw his potential, and believed in it. Wesley thought it would be rather nice to have a father-in-law like that.
Addicted to a Rascal Duke: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 9
