Dalliance with the Duchess (Seducing the Duchess #3)

Chapter One

S ophia shut the door on the party with a sense of relief and turned to face the room. It was smallish, with comfortable chairs and shelves stuffed with books, and it had an air of calm. Exactly what she craved. The chatter and laughter had seemed overwhelming for one who had spent most of the past year in mourning. Had she once enjoyed these Society dos? When she had first joined the ton , newly married to Oldney, hungry for the excitement of grand occasions, she had wanted to savor every single moment. The intrigue and the gossip, those were the things she had lived for. It had felt like all her dreams had come true—if you took out the part where she was married to a man as despicable as the Duke of Oldney.

Oldney had been a good deal older than her—almost forty—and had never planned to marry. But he told her he had been dazzled by her beauty. She had never loved him, though. Any girlish imaginings in that respect had been quashed very quickly, but he had kept her on a tight rein. No lovers for her at any point during their decade of marriage. Even his best friends received a sharp rebuke if they strayed into familiarity.

But now Oldney was dead and, as his widow, suddenly Sophia was free to do very much as she pleased.

The trouble was she had no interest in being the woman she had been before. Oldney’s corrupt and dangerous set no longer interested her. It was as if, up until now, the constant round of engagements had kept her from thinking at all. But once they had stopped and she was forced into seclusion, the awful truth began to reveal itself to her.

She hated her life. She felt empty. And she did not know what to do about it.

The click of the door opening brought her out of her dismal thoughts. Irritably she turned to face the intruder. A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the colorful crush in the other room. Someone’s high-pitched laughter sent a painful jangle through her head, making her wince.

“This room is occupied,” she said, perhaps not as politely as she should have.

Instead of leaving her in peace, the man closed the door behind him.

“Sir, I am not in the mood for company.”

He ignored her, moving forward until the light of the table lamp fell over him. That was when she recognized him. Her heart gave a jump, and a tingle ran all the way down to her toes.

Nicholas Blake.

A man she had hated from the moment she’d met him. Last year he had helped her sister, Ellis, escape a dangerous situation, and although she was grateful to him for that, she still had not come to like him.

And then, three months ago, she had met him again, and the less said about that meeting the better. Especially as her identity had been hidden behind a mask and he still did not know it was Sophia he had encountered that night.

Now he was staring back at her consideringly, as if he was making his mind up about something. Sophia kept her face blank—she had learned over the years that it did not serve her well to give her emotions free reign.

But inside it was a different matter. Inside she was a tangled mess of feelings she could not begin to name. She just knew that the sight of him, tall and dark haired, his head slightly bent as he judged her with those serious brown eyes under his heavy brows, caused a tremor inside her chest. Yes, he was a striking man, there was no denying it, and she was not immune to his looks despite telling herself she was.

She did not want to feel like this. But ever since that night...

No, Sophia would not let herself think of that now!

“Your Grace.” Belatedly he bowed. “I apologize for disturbing your moment of reflection, but I wanted to speak to you in private.”

Sophia stood up and gave him a haughty stare. “What can you possibly have to say to me, in private or otherwise, Mr. Blake?”

He came closer still, and she couldn’t help but notice his skintight beige pantaloons and his blue evening jacket. He had never dressed gaudily, to bring notice to himself, but Sophia had always thought him one of the most elegantly dressed men in any room in which he was present.

His hands on her naked thighs, his mouth on hers, the first thrust of his cock into her warm, welcoming body...

The raw image shocked her and she shoved it away. This was neither the time nor place for such memories. Surely she was not still mooning over a man she had coupled with three months ago? At the time she had been lonely, craving company, and he had seemed just as eager. It had been nothing, had meant nothing, and she certainly had no desire to ever do it again.

She ignored the throb inside her body while she waited impatiently for him to speak.

He was so close now that she could see the smooth, clean-shaven skin of his face, and his long dark eyelashes. She could smell him too, the warm scent of his spicy pomade, and the male scent of him . Of Nicholas Blake, whom, she reminded herself again, she hated.

Although what she was feeling at this moment did not seem like hate, or if it were then it was mixed in with a large dose of lust.

“Did you get my letter after Oldney died? I wrote to you expressing my condolences.”

“I tore it up and burned it. My late husband despised you, Mr. Blake. You have spent years trying to bring him down, and no doubt, if he had not dropped dead of an apoplexy, you would still be at it.”

He nodded slowly. “You are probably right. Oldney and I were worlds apart. But I did not come here to speak to you of the late duke. Will you grant me a moment of your time, Your Grace?”

She just wanted him to go away. The memory of the masked ball popped back into her head, and there it was again—the wet heat of his mouth, the unbearable ache of wanting, and the almost rough pleasure as he took her in the shadows of the arbor.

Her nipples pebbled painfully hard, and she hoped the thin silk of her bodice hid them from his watchful eyes.

“If you insist. Tell me what you want quickly, and then leave.” She sounded suitably chilly, and she knew her beautiful face would be as unapproachable as ever.

His mouth turned down at the corners and his shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I need your help,” he said.

It was unexpected, and she stared. “My help ?”

“I can see you are surprised,” he mocked, but she thought it was himself he was mocking. “How could you not be? I have surprised myself. But it is true. There is no one who knows more about the inner secrets of Oldney’s old set than Your Grace.”

“It has been a year since I was part of that set. I have been a widow in mourning.” Although Sophia was sure some of those gentlemen would have been more than happy to welcome her so that they could enjoy scandalizing Society even more than they already did. “Why do you need to know about Oldney’s set?”

“I am interested in one member in particular. He started fraternizing with them two months ago. Sir Gordon Robinson. Do you know him?”

She shook her head, bemused. She might have reminded him once more that she had been out of circulation for a year, but he was already speaking again.

“Sir Gordon is known to me. He was a neighbor, and although he is younger than I, we were always good friends. Or I thought so, at least. I was looking forward to resuming that friendship when he arrived in town, but these past months... he has decided there is more amusement to be found in the sorts of pursuits Oldney’s old set indulges in. I am worried about him.”

“So it is a personal matter?” No wonder Blake was unsettled. Bad enough that he was unable to remove his friend from such a vicious group of gentlemen, but that he had to ask her for help had to be galling. It must sting a man as self-sufficient and arrogant as Nicholas Blake.

“The last time I spoke to him we argued. Badly. Now he will not listen to me. If you could approach him and let me know how he is, if you can let me know if you think he needs rescuing...”

“So that you can rescue him?” she said dryly. “I see.”

He was watching her carefully, as if reading the thoughts circling around in her head, although Sophia knew that was not possible. She had become too adept at hiding them. But she considered his surprising request. She could refuse him in such an insulting way that he would never ask her again, and she was within her rights to do that. Basically, he was asking her to spy upon her friends, although in truth, “friends” was rather overstating it. Oldney had been an awful man. He had made her life very unhappy, and she wasn’t in the least bit upset that he was dead. As for the others... She pictured their faces—vicious, depraved men who cared for nothing but their own pleasure and amusement. They had welcomed her into their group where she had watched them destroy lives, and she had not lifted a finger. How could she, when it would have lost her everything? Her place in Society would have been in jeopardy. Oldney would have cast her aside and sent her to live in the country. The invitations to everything that had seemed important to her would have dried up.

She had been selfish.

One particular memory preyed upon her mind—a young and foolish girl who had believed one of Oldney’s friends, the Marquess of Chatham, was in love with her and was going to ask for her hand. She had been ruined at a ball when several guests walked into a room where she was spread out beneath the marquess. He hadn’t married her and had even laughed when asked if he had ever intended to do so. Society did not like what he had done, but he was not censured because he was a titled gentleman. Sophia did not know what had happened to the girl, and usually she tried not to think about it.

She was thinking about it now.

And what of this Sir Gordon Robinson, caught up in their web? She had been that person once, and she had only been safe because she was Oldney’s possession. What would have happened to her if she had not been married to him? She had done nothing to help the girl at the time—Indeed, what could she have done?—and she did feel guilty about it. The distance of a year had shown her with painful clarity how wrong the behavior of that set had been, and how her silence had made her an accessory in the affair. Was this an opportunity to make reparation for her inaction in that and all the other things she had seen and pretended not to?

Blake was still watching her, no doubt expecting the worst. It had taken courage to ask her at all, and reluctantly she admired him for that. “Why should I help you?” she asked curiously.

He almost smiled. “You helped your sister when she was in trouble. You cared about her. I think beneath the ice queen demeanor you have feelings, Your Grace. Am I wrong?”

Had he really seen a part of her she had thought so well hidden? Or was he manipulating her to get his way? “I will consider your request,” she said coolly. “It requires some thought.”

His face brightened, as if he were relieved she had not refused him out of hand. He bowed and said, “Thank you. I am most grateful, Your Grace. Should I call on you tomorrow? Perhaps at 10 o’clock, to discuss the matter further?”

Oh, he was keen. She waved a dismissive hand. “I am engaged all day tomorrow.”

He murmured his disappointment. She met his dark gaze and a tremor ran through her, and it made her reckless. “Call on me tomorrow evening and we can discuss the matter over supper.”

He looked as surprised at hearing the words as she was dismayed at saying them. What was she thinking? He would refuse her, wouldn’t he? But no, of course he wouldn’t. He needed her it seemed, and for now she had him at her beck and call. It was an unexpectedly heady feeling and was clearly skewing her judgement.

“As Your Grace wishes,” he said politely, but his eyes were curious, searching her face as if he was trying to understand her better.

“Then it is a date,” she replied. “Now, if you are finished, I would prefer my own company, Mr. Blake.”

His mouth twitched. “Apologies, Your Grace.” He bowed again before walking away.

The door closed.

Sophia sank down on a chair and made a little sound of distress. Madness. It must be. She had always claimed to hate Nicholas Blake, so why would she put herself in his company over an intimate supper?

And why couldn’t she forget that night, that wonderful dreadful night, three months ago?