Page 182 of Desires of a Duke Collection

Sophie sat next to Harlow and Lord Kemsley for the musical recital held in Lord and Lady Jenkins Mayfair opulent home. Considering the night was a more intimate evening, no one would have guessed that to be the case since the Jenkins seemed to have invited enough acquaintances to produce a slight crush.

She closed her eyes and let the music wrap around her like a comforting embrace. The voice of Maria Dickons was powerful and cultured, captivating everyone in her presence. How clever the woman was and fortunate to have a voice like an angel and one people seemed to appreciate.

With everyone facing toward the singer, it made deducing who was present difficult, although Sophie believed she could make out the broad, muscular shoulders of the Duke of Holland. The gentleman turned to answer something from the lady at his side, and excitement thrummed through her that, indeed, he was here.

Her excitement was short-lived, however, when she realized it was Lady Leslie who was so fortunate as to sit beside him and keep him company. Did he like the young woman after all? At the park, she had assumed that not to be the case, but then maybe she was wrong. As for herself, she did not like Lady Leslie at all. Rude came to mind with the thought of her cutting tongue that would sever anyone in two should they get in her way.

They listened in awed silence for several songs before Maria Dickons required a short pause. The room dispersed for supper, and Sophie followed Harlow and Lord Kemsley toward the room where a light repast was laid out along with beverages.

"How lovely this evening is," Harlow said, handing Sophie a cup of tea with a small biscuit. "It makes a nice change from the hustle and overwhelming balls we're so often attending."

"I agree," Sophie said. They moved back into the music room, Lord Kemsley excusing himself to speak to the Duke of Derby.

"Holland seems engaged this evening with Lady Leslie," Harlow mentioned, glancing in His Grace's direction. "He ought not to show too much favoritism toward the young lady, or she will believe an offer is forthcoming. I heard Lady Leslie's mama is determined for her daughter to marry well, and you cannot get any better than a rich, powerful duke."

Sophie nodded, unable to dispute that the duke in question, Holland, was indeed very well in looks, charm, and status. His Grace had everything a young lady would look for. His dark, mysterious eyes made one want to know secret things about him they should not.

As if he sensed their inspection of him, he glanced up from speaking to Lady Leslie. Their eyes met, held. Sophie would later tell herself that time stood still, that her heart ceased to beat in her chest. Indeed, her stomach fluttered like she was thrown into the air, just waiting to be caught.

He did not look away, and nor could she find the appropriateness to do so either. What was happening between them? Could she dream to hope? Or was she merely seeing possibilities where there were none? She had done so before. Her ability to trust people's characters was indeed flawed.

As if sensing the duke's attention elsewhere, Lady Leslie peeked over her shoulder and scowled at Sophie before turning back to Holland to continue their conversation. Whatever she said pulled his attention from her, and he averted his gaze, giving Lady Leslie his full engagement.

"You have a rival," Harlow said with a raised brow. "And she does not seem to like that Holland has noticed you and likes what he sees."

"Do you think so?" Sophie stated, unsure of any of that. "I do not want my feelings injured by reaching too high. He is a duke, after all."

"And what is that? I was the same as you, and I married an earl. If whomever you marry loves you, their status does not matter."

Sophie debated her cousin’s words of wisdom. "You may be right, but we're far from love." She glanced about the room and noticed the young maid standing beside a door in the parlor adjacent to the music room, directing ladies to the retiring room. "I shall return shortly. I need a moment before the second act begins." Sophie returned her teacup to a nearby footman and left the room. She finished her ablutions, only to return downstairs to find the door to the music recital closed and the muffled notes of singing behind the door.

She stood motionless, debating if it were appropriate to enter. How quickly had they started, after all? She had been gone barely five minutes.

"I see you've been shut out the same as I," a deep baritone said from behind.

Sophie spun about, having not expected to hear Holland at her back. "Your Grace," she said, dipping into a curtsy. "I have not been gone long, but it seems they were eager to begin again."

"So it appears," he drawled, holding out his arm. "Shall we stroll the picture gallery? Lord and Lady Jenkins have quite a collection from artists many aspire to possess."

Without hesitation, Sophie linked her arm with His Grace’s as they walked toward the picture gallery. "I should imagine you have just as grand a gallery as this one, possibly even grander," she said without thought.

Heat kissed her cheeks, and she glanced up at him, supposing he would find it abhorrent of her to speak of wealth. Instead, his lips twitched, and he shrugged in nonchalance. "You are right, it is a reasonable collection. Even my London home boasts a Rembrandt, but Holland Hall is the jewel in my collection, not just the picture gallery."

Sophie could well imagine. "It should be no surprise that I do not have such galleries. In fact, there are few portraits of myself in our home. Three if I'm counting correctly."

They came to a long, wide hall, paintings lining one side, sometimes two or three pictures high. "How beautiful this gallery is in the moon and candlelight."

Their eyes met, and again a hunger she had never encountered before thrummed through her. His attention dipped to her lips and to the diamond necklace Harlow had loaned her for the evening.

"I could not agree more at its unrivaled beauty," he said before pulling her along the Aubusson rug to inspect the paintings.

Henry should not be leading a young, unmarried miss down a darkened hall in the middle of a tonnish event, but nor could he deny himself. Running into Miss York was a pleasure after finally freeing himself from Lady Leslie.

Miss York walked alongside him, not the least overwhelmed by his presence, but more interested in the paintings on the wall. She pulled him to a stop before one featuring a vase of multiple varieties of flowers, a beautiful picture that caught his interest as well.

"What do you think this picture would smell like, should that be a possibility?" he asked, watching her pretty nose wrinkle in thought.

"Like spring," she said, grinning up at him. "Potent, rich florals from the hothouse, combined with the freshness of the wildflowers mixed within the bouquet."

Her smile hit him in the pit of his gut as hard as a prize fighter’s fist. Her eyes glistened with delight, and he fought the overwhelming urge to kiss her. Never had he been possessed with such longing, but something about Miss York discombobulated his senses.

Without knowing what he was about, he dipped his head and kissed those damn pretty lips that smiled with such sweetness that he ached.

He had to taste her, if only once.

Her small intake of breath hauled him to his senses, and he pulled back, but not before having felt how soft her lips were, like clouds of sin in heaven that beckoned him like nothing else ever had.

"I apologize, Miss York. I do not know what—"

He didn’t finish his apology before her lips smothered his words. Henry, as sensually innocent as the woman in his arms, could not refuse her. Hunger, hot and indecent, tore through him, and he wrenched her into his arms, kissing her with a need that left him breathless, his head spinning, his body roaring for satisfaction.

He wanted her.

All of her.

In his bed.

The realization struck him, yet he could not stop tasting her, drawing her sweet tongue against his. Her hands slipped about his neck, her fingers twisting into the hair at his nape.

Thoughts of her on his bed. Her long, sun-kissed locks spilling over his pillows filled his mind. He wanted her, to make her scream his name in the throes of passion.

He lifted her off her feet, pressing her against him, and she moaned, the sound cracking what little restraint he possessed. He had never held a woman thus. He had never desired to do so, but something about Miss York made him lose all gentlemanly decorum and throw caution to the wind and take what he wanted instead.

"Holland," she gasped against his lips before he kissed her again. Their mouths fused, they clung to each together, seeking, needing to be touched. His cock rose to attention, and he clasped her bottom, undulating her against him, pursuing release in any way he could.

"Henry. My name is Henry," he managed to get out just as a door slammed somewhere deep in the house.

They stumbled apart, and Miss York glanced from one end of the room to the other. "I do not think anyone saw," he whispered, his words breathless.

She looked at him, her lips swollen and red, her eyes wide with both desire and fear. "I must go," she said, fleeing him without another word.

He ran a hand through his hair, let her go, swallowed hard, and fought for control.

A control he feared he would never gain back. Not now that Miss York was in town and his life, just where he wanted her.