The Duchess Hunt

by Jennifer Haymore

  “Yes, I do.” Sometimes the duchess did seem to forget about her children. She loved them more than anything, but now that they were grown and on their own for the most part, she had become more absorbed in her own activities. She didn’t always tell the family about everything she did and everywhere she went.

  “So you understand why I am not worried.”

  “And yet you intend to find her.”

  “I do. To ease my siblings’ concerns, and because she needs to know that it’s unacceptable, not to mention irresponsible, to worry us like this.” He blew out a breath between pursed lips. “Unfortunately, we probably won’t be able to find her before the gossip mill starts to grind out the story, certainly with all kinds of embellishments.”

  “Ah,” Sarah said. “So that’s why you’re frustrated.”

  He gave a cynical shrug. “What’s another blemish on our family name? There have been so many. Between her and Luke, I’m surprised we’re not the sole topic of every scandal sheet.”

  “Those blemishes heal with the work you do every day,” she told him, certainty throbbing in her voice.

  He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Thank you. There’s much work left to be done, though.” Then the laugh faded and he scanned her face. After a long, silent moment, he murmured, “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

  But he didn’t move, and neither did she.

  She just stared at his handsome face, at the way his eyes narrowed as he studied her. At the heat in them. It prickled over her skin, building in her core. The look in his eyes was full of such… promise. Instinctively, she licked her lips, and his gaze flickered down to them.

  And then he leaned forward and kissed her.

  Simon remembered her taste – as fresh and sweet as the sunbaked grasses in a country meadow. Her mouth was warm and soft and dry, and he felt a little puff of air as her surprised “oh!” whispered over his lips in the gentlest caress.

  Simon wrapped his arms around her slender form and drew her close.

  His body screamed with need.

  For Sarah. His friend. His sister’s companion. The gardener’s daughter.

  He closed his eyes and stifled a groan as her arms came around him. Of course it had come to this. Of course. He’d been a fool to think he could keep his hands off her.

  He pulled her closer until her pliant body was flush against his. He splayed his hand over the muslin covering the curve of her lower back and coaxed her lips open with his. Wanting more of that sweet taste. Wanting to insinuate himself inside her in every way.

  And then he heard voices. The softest whisper of sound was like a slap, drawing him back to the world. He tore himself away, immediately missing the feel of her against him.

  She blinked her wide blue eyes at him. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips now damp from his kisses.

  And guilt made a frigid wash through him. He averted his gaze. Damn it. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She didn’t answer him right away. The voices were growing louder – there were people coming up the stairs.

  Finally, she whispered, “I liked it.” And then she smiled.

  A part of him – a very, very large part – wanted to accept that smile, to sink into it and bask in its warmth, allowing it to burn away his guilt. A very large part of him wanted to take more from her. Much more.

  But he wasn’t a man who took advantage of servants and innocent young ladies. He left all that to his carousing peers.

  The voices came closer. He recognized one of them as Johnston, the coachman. After an instant of confusion as to why Johnston would be coming up here, Simon recalled that he’d reserved the whole floor for his party – the suites for him and his sister and Sarah, and the smaller rooms for the servants. His family often frequented this inn on their more leisurely trips to and from London, and the mistress of the place tripped over her skirts to make certain all was perfect for any member of the Hawkins family whenever they chose to visit. Today had been no exception.

  He didn’t have much time.

  “Listen to me, Sarah. That was a mistake.”

  She gazed at him, unapologetic. As lovely and sweet and innocent as she was, she was no wilting flower. She never had been.

  “It can’t happen again,” he told her quietly, and took a step back from her. The servants were upon them now with bows and curtsies and “Your Graces.” He greeted them all politely and wished them a good evening.

  Then he disappeared into the silence of his room where he undressed to his shirtsleeves and crawled between the cold sheets to stare up at the dark ceiling.

  Simon was twenty-nine years old – old enough to know better. A relationship between him and Sarah was impossible for a variety of reasons that would be too exhausting to explore. He was a member of the English aristocracy, which at times was prone to vice and debauchery, and he knew what happened when men like himself formed liaisons with women like Sarah. Nothing good could come of bringing her into his bed.

  Yet, the more he was near her, the more he wanted to bring her there. That taste of her on the landing had not been enough to allay his thirst. It had only heightened his craving for her.

  He was expected to marry; to produce an heir and a spare, hopefully a full bevy of children to fill his household. He’d always fully intended to meet those expectations, but he’d put it off for years – other issues had taken precedence over the task of hunting for a suitable duchess. For a year after he’d kissed Sarah the first time, he hadn’t even been able to look at another woman.

  But he was twenty-nine now, and his practical, responsible nature turned again and again to his duty to his title.

  A few months ago, he’d decided that this was to be the year. This Season, he planned to attend the myriad balls, parties, soirees, musicales, and dinners to which he’d invariably be invited. And somewhere in the marriage mart that was the London Season, he’d find a woman suitable to be his bride.

  The devil in him whispered to him, promised he could have it all: explore the lust with Sarah and continue the hunt for a proper duchess.

  His stomach twisted from those thoughts, recognizing the wrongness inherent in them.

  Still, that devil wouldn’t stop its seductive crooning, and the only way Simon could shut it up was to fall into an uncomfortable, restless sleep.

  Sarah’s lips tingled, and it was a most pleasant sensation.

  Vaguely, she wondered how long it would be possible to keep that feeling upon them. If she licked them, or if water passed over them, would it vanish? Or would it simply disappear over time?

  She didn’t want the sensation to go away. She wanted to hold onto it forever.

  Half in a daze, she watched as Simon went into his room, closing the door firmly behind him. When she dragged her gaze from his door, she saw that Amy and Ned had disappeared into their respective rooms. Robert Johnston, however, was standing close by, watching her.

  She drew her friendliest demeanor about her like a cloak. “Good evening, Robert. I trust your dinner was acceptable.”

  He inclined his head at her. “More than acceptable, thanks. May I walk you to your room?”

  She glanced toward the door of her room, not ten feet away. “Of course.”

  He held out his arm, and after a slight hesitation, she took it. They walked the short distance in silence. He stopped before her door, and she disengaged her arm. “Thank you.”

  “Good night, Sarah.”

  “Robert?”

  “Yes?” He turned back to her, his brows raised expectantly.

  “I haven’t checked in on you as often as I should.” One of the tasks Mrs. Hope had given her was to keep track of the staff and to make sure everyone was content. “I do hope you have been happy at Ironwood Park.”

  “Quite happy,” he said.

  “You have visited London before, I gather.”

  He nodded. “I spent some time there with my previous employer.”

  “Do you lik
e London?”

  His smile was warm. He was quite a handsome man when he smiled – it made his brown eyes twinkle. He was dark and broad-shouldered – strong from working with horses. “I do like London,” he said. “But it’s a mite crowded. Think I prefer the open spaces of Ironwood Park.”

  “I can understand that,” she said.

  Her lips tingled, reminding her of Simon… the kiss he’d bestowed upon her not five minutes ago. She raised her fingers to her mouth as a light heat suffused her cheeks.

  “Well, goodnight, then, Robert. Sweet dreams.”

  “You, too, Sarah.”

  She slipped inside the little room and closed the door gently, then leaned against it, letting a wistful sigh escape.

  Simon had kissed her… again.

  London was quite as dirty and busy and smelly as Sarah had been warned. But she didn’t care. Her nose had been glued to the window as they’d traveled across Town and finally arrived at Simon’s house in St. James.

  Yesterday, they’d gone to church, and afterward, carrying their bibles, Esme and Sarah had gone for a long walk in Hyde Park, Esme awkwardly greeting a few acquaintances as they’d strolled along and taken in the spring air. Today was their second full day in the city, and when sunlight cracked through her curtains in golden rays, Sarah woke in the little bedroom that had been assigned to her.

  She rose, made her bed – which was covered with the loveliest counterpane of yellow silk – washed, and quickly braided her hair before tucking it up into her cap. She secured herself in her stays and chose one of her serviceable muslins to wear, then drew the heavy curtains and peeked out the window that looked over the mews, grinning. Already the alley below was busy with servants and horses preparing for their daily duties.

  Eager to see what her day held in store, she hurried downstairs for breakfast.

  Simon was seated in the dining room, a newspaper spread open before him. He rose quickly, his chair scraping over the floor, as she entered.

  She waved a hand at him, but she couldn’t ignore the tremor of awareness that passed through her in his presence. “Please sit down, Your Grace. There’s no need for such formality.”

  His frown bordered on a scowl. “Yes, there is.”

  He stubbornly continued to stand as she went to the sideboard and selected some toast and kippers and a fried egg.

  He only sat after she’d lowered herself into the chair across the table from him. She took a bite of egg. Simon had obviously ensured the food would be hot and fresh. Not knowing when she and Esme would come down, he probably had tasked a footman with changing out the dishes every ten minutes.

  He gazed at her with a small smile on his face. “What do you think of Trent House, Miss Osborne?”

  Her lips quirked at the “Miss Osborne” designation. She’d probably never get used to him calling her that.

  “It is lovely.” From what she’d seen of it so far, Trent House seemed to be a smaller but no less opulent version of Ironwood Park. “It has the Hawkins mark upon it.”

  “True,” Simon said. “Both houses were built by my grandfather, you know.”

  She did know but didn’t answer because at that moment Esme came in, yawning as she crossed the threshold. “Oh,” she murmured, her hand covering her mouth. “Please excuse me.”

  “I hadn’t expected you up so early, my lady,” Sarah said. Indeed, it wasn’t uncommon for Esme to sleep until noon.

  “I know.” Esme glanced at Simon, who’d risen from his seat once again. She didn’t take any food but sat at the table, taking the coffeepot and pouring herself a generous cup.

  “That would be my fault.” Simon pushed his newspaper aside. “I asked your maid to wake you because it’s going to be a busy day. News has spread of our arrival in London. We have received an invitation to a ball on Wednesday.”

  Sarah and Esme stared at him. Wednesday was the day after tomorrow.

  “I have already accepted the invitation,” Simon continued. “I have attended every ball I’ve been invited to so far this year, and I don’t want to raise suspicions by declining this one. For as long as possible, I wish to maintain a façade of normalcy in Town. When the truth about Mother’s disappearance is revealed, that may change, but for now, I’d like to keep up appearances.”

  Sarah and Esme didn’t say a word. So that was how it was to be – they were going to be thrown directly into the heat of London society with no time whatsoever to acclimate.

  “Therefore,” he continued, “you’ll be visiting the dressmaker’s, Sarah, because you’re going to require a ball gown in two days. No doubt the dressmaker will have something on hand she can alter and have ready by Wednesday.”

  Sarah glanced down at her plain white muslin – its only decoration the big ruffles at the neckline and hem. A similar style to the other two dresses she’d brought – the only two other dresses she owned.

  She should have considered the fact that she’d need proper clothing if she was expected to attend social gatherings with Esme. But so much had happened she hadn’t given it a thought.

  Simon leveled his gaze on his sister. “You will require new dresses as well, Esme. Whatever you might have is from last year and out of fashion by now.”

  “Yes, Trent.” Not meeting his eyes, Esme took a deep swallow of coffee as if to fortify herself.

  Simon kept his gaze on his sister. “Neither of you are to spare any expense. After the immediate necessity of the ball gown, I want you to help Sarah acquire a proper wardrobe. And you must purchase anything new that you require as well. The Duke of Trent’s sister and her companion will not be seen scampering about London in rags.”

  Sarah scowled – her clothes were old and somewhat worn, but they were clean and serviceable. Certainly to call them rags was a gross exaggeration. She would have told him so right then if a footman hadn’t walked in to refresh the dishes on the sideboard.

  Instead she shot Simon a glare that, if they had been seated on their bench at Ironwood Park, would have had him apologizing for his rudeness immediately. But he didn’t apologize, just gave her a cool look in return and didn’t say a word.

  Something tightened in her chest. So, he saw her as some slattern wearing rags. Very well, then.

  She dug into her kippers, stewing in her thoughts. Simon knew she didn’t have the funds to purchase fancy dresses from haughty London dressmakers, which meant that he expected to pay for them himself.

  A lady was not supposed to accept gifts from a gentleman. Miss Farnshaw had drilled that into her head as surely as she had drilled her in the steps of the quadrille.

  Yet, Sarah wasn’t a lady. And Simon wasn’t giving her a choice. Furthermore, she wouldn’t deliberately embarrass Esme or Simon by wearing inappropriate clothing in the presence of their peers.

  Sarah recalled the specific reason why ladies were not supposed to accept gifts from gentlemen. It was because gentlemen usually offered them expecting something more – something wicked – in return.

  She glanced at Simon, who had taken up his newspaper once more. He didn’t offer to buy her ball gowns because he wanted something more from her. If he did want something more, he fought against that desire. He hadn’t said anything to her about the kiss at the Angel Inn, but ever since then, she’d felt the skin-prickling heat of his gaze whenever they were in the same room together.

  Sarah had never spent much time considering her reputation. Sheltered as she was in Ironwood Park, it had never been of primary concern, although Miss Farnshaw had told her that it should be. Without a reputation, one could not expect to find a worthy husband. Without a reputation, a woman was scorned and belittled.

  Sarah never expected to find a worthy husband. In her mind, there was no man in the world who could measure up to the Duke of Trent, and she wouldn’t marry some poor fellow and make him miserable by constantly comparing him to Simon.

  Furthermore, at Ironwood Park, no one had ever scorned or belittled Sarah. The family wouldn’t have tolerated i
t. Now in London, however, she knew they couldn’t protect her so easily.

  So Sarah would do what Simon told her. She’d shed her “rags” and shop for proper garments so that she could stand proudly beside Esme as her companion.

  And as for the “gift” from the Duke of Trent – well, she would accept it. He’d never demand recompense for the dresses, especially not of a carnal sort. Honor, integrity, decency, propriety – those were all pieces of what made Simon who he was.

  Melancholy welled in thick, dark bubbles inside her.

  What an improper response. She should feel relieved. Happy. Safe. Pure. All emotions that a true lady would feel.

  There was a certain quality of purity she’d never had that Miss Farnshaw had told them a true lady possessed innately. This feeling, this tingling, yearning desire that she felt for Simon – had felt for three long years – she knew very well what it was.

  Lust.

  More proof, then, that this was all a farce. She might speak like a lady. She might know how to pretend to be one. But deep inside, she was anything but.

  Furthermore, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be.

  Chapter Five

  On Wednesday evening, after a quiet early dinner in the Trent House dining room, it was time to prepare for Lady Bellingham’s ball. Upstairs, two maids joined Esme, Sarah, and Amy in Esme’s dressing room.

  Everything Sarah would wear was new, from her stockings and shoes to the pins in her hair and her cosmetics.

  Standing in her new chemise, she gazed at all of it – the results of the day they’d spent at the modiste’s. The pile of hairpins and shiny ribbons. The lovely pearly silk cap that would be pinned onto her hair. The pink silk slippers, glittering in the lamplight. The crisp short stays and petticoat.