The Seduction of Sophie Seacrest Read online

  Jason didn’t miss the quickened breathing, the tight set of the jaw, the rigid manner in which his brother held himself, as though his whole body were about to explode. The telling tale was the intensity of that navy gaze that burned with anger and frustration. And something else that Jason could not identify. But when Holt spoke, it was not to admit tender feelings for Lady Sophie Seacrest.

  “Give my regards to the happy couple.” With that he stood, slammed the ledger shut, and strode toward the door leaving Jason staring at his back.

  ***

  The garden was alive in a brilliant array of golds, reds, purples, and greens. Sophie dug furiously in the soil, oblivious to the smudges of dirt smearing her cheek or the grass stains on her gown. When Caroline tapped her on the shoulder, she jerked back and fell on her behind, right into a patch of dirt. There she sat, pretending to glare at Caroline and when she could maintain the guise no longer, she burst out laughing. Heavens, it was good to laugh again, even for a moment or two. “You think to sneak up and scare the wits out of me? Well, two can play at that game!” Sophie scurried to her feet and raced after her disappearing sister as Caroline bound through the gates toward the front of the estate and the tall line of shrubbery.

  Her sister’s speed and the sun’s heat soon brought Sophie to a panting halt in front of the estate. Wisps of hair clung to the side of her face and the nape of her neck. Dampness hugged her gown as she doubled over, clutching the stitch in her side. “Come out and show yourself, Caroline. We should not play such games on the front lawn. What if a gentleman caller should appear?” She laughed and dropped to the lawn, lifting her face to the sun. She closed her eyes to revel in the serenity it offered, staying just so for several moments until a cloud passed overhead, blotting out the sun. “My beautiful sun, taken away,” she murmured, opening her eyes. But it was not a cloud blocking the sun; it was Gregory Thurston.

  Holt watched Sophie turn crimson and attempt to stand without calling attention to her disheveled appearance. He took it all in at a glance; the unbound hair softly framing her face, the flushed cheeks, the parted lips. Even the smudge of dirt trailing across her cheek. His gaze traveled to her heaving bosom and the wide expanse of bare calf peeking beneath a soiled gown. She was a mess. An utterly filthy disaster. Certainly not a paragon of the upper crust. He thought her beautiful.

  Desire pounded his body as he continued to stare. She stumbled to a standing position, ran her hands through her mussed hair and over her wrinkled gown. The effort proved futile but Holt didn't care. He longed to touch her. Taste her. Inhale the very scent of her. Instead, he glared and when he’d gathered enough control to speak, his words fell out in a biting reprimand. “It appears you are no more adept with children's games than you are adult ones.” With that remark, he turned on his heel and strode toward the mansion.

  “I want to marry your daughter,” he blurted out the moment Rendhaven admitted him to his study and before common sense could stop him.

  “The hell you say.” Rendhaven set down his glass and scratched his jaw. “My daughter refuses to even speak your name, yet you wish to wed her?”

  “I do.”

  The old man blew out a long sigh. “What does Sophie say to all this?”

  Holt cleared his throat. Twice. “She doesn’t know yet.”

  Rendhaven’s laugh bounced off the burgundy walls. “Good luck, my boy. You’ll need it.”

  Two whiskeys later, Holt left the library in search of his soon-to-be betrothed. He’d originally set up the meeting with Rendhaven to propose a design for a new ship which could show great profit if handled carefully as well as draw Seacrest Shipping away from the Langford market. He no longer desired to sink the business and believed if the two companies weren’t competing, the blood lust between the families might be somewhat tempered.

  He refused to admit he’d labored over the design and modifications in the hopes one green-eyed enchantress would let go of her hatred for his family. He told himself several times daily Sophie Seacrest meant nothing to him, was in fact little more than a tease and he was glad to be rid of her. If he repeated the litany often enough, by the end of the night when he was filled with drink and his latest woman, he almost believed it.

  But today when he saw her on the lawn, so innocently seductive and inviting, he knew it had all been a lie. There hadn’t been one single moment of one single day since she’d refused to be his mistress, that he hadn’t wanted her, hadn’t regretted his thoughtless words. He should have realized she was not a woman to be toyed with or handled with casual disregard. Sophie deserved to be someone’s wife; protected, cherished. Loved. He didn’t believe the emotion existed, but he did know about passion. That, he could give her and vowed no other man would ever touch her, especially not a popinjay like Peter Hatherton.

  Holt shielded his eyes from the sun, taking in the wide expanse of lawn where he’d last seen her. There was nothing save the gentle imprint where she’d lain. Perhaps she had escaped to her room. He couldn’t blame her for avoiding him after the abominable why he’d treated her. He was about to head toward the estate when he caught a glimpse of blue hidden in the nearby shrubbery. He approached cautiously, his eyes stuck to the spot of blue cloth. The cloth moved and a young girl bound from the shrubberies and tried to run. “Hold!” He grabbed the girl’s arm and said in a gentle voice, “I won’t hurt you. You have my word.”

  The child lifted her head and he stared into a pair of arrestingly familiar blue eyes. His eyes. By God, she had his eyes! He quickly scrutinized the rest of her. Waves of thick, black hair floated around her shoulders, having escaped the ribbon which had bound it earlier. He didn’t need to touch her hair to know its silken texture or bring her full-force into the sunlight to search for blue highlights. Did Sophie know? Was that why she so carefully shielded the child from strangers? In his many visits to Waverly Manor he’d never once seen the child, who looked to be twelve, perhaps thirteen. Holt knelt and clasped her small hands. “I’m a friend of your sister's. Do you know where I might find her?”

  Cold fear shone in those blue eyes as she attempted to yank her hands from his grip. When he held fast, tears sprung to her eyes. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.” He hesitated, before continuing, “I know you can’t speak, but could you show me where she’s gone?”

  The little black head shook a vigorous no, despite the silent trickle of tears down her cheeks. When Holt loosened his clasp on her hands, she reached into her pocket and produced a pad and writing instrument. She scribbled something and thrust it at him. You made her cry.

  Yes, he had done that and much more. As he looked back into those achingly familiar eyes, his tone gentled even more. “I did make her cry and now I must tell her how very sorry I am. I will try my very hardest not to make her cry again.” The child eyed him a moment longer and then bent over the writing pad once again to hastily scribble a word. Riding. “She went riding?” When the little head bobbed in affirmation, Holt smiled and swiped a tear from her cheek. “Thank you. I look forward to seeing you again very soon. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m off to see if I can dry your sister's tears.”

  Chapter 10

  Holt rode over Seacrest property for a full fifteen minutes, constantly scanning the lush countryside for a glimpse of Sophie, but even as he traveled the property, he knew he wouldn’t find her there. His gut steered him toward the gamekeeper’s cottage.

  He visited the cottage when he went for his morning ride. Each time he entered the tiny abode, his gaze locked on the bed and the promise of unspent passion. As he reached the small clearing, he spotted Sophie’s mare tethered outside. He was eighteen again, gangly and awkward as he dismounted and thought of how she might greet him. Would she accept his proposal? Would he give her a choice? Holt eased open the cottage door and stepped inside. Sophie lay huddled on the bed with her back to him. He approached her quietly, torn at the sound of her muffled sobs.

  “Don’t cry.”

  She stiffened. He was
here, right in the very same cottage where they’d first met. What did he want?

  “Sophie?” He touched her shoulder. She flinched. “Sophie, please.” She inched toward the wall, trying to get away from him. “Dammit woman, look at me!”

  She didn’t speak until she could pretend indifference. “What could you possibly want, Mr. Thurston?”

  “I spoke with your father.” Pause. “Arrangements have been made for the marriage.”

  Marriage? To whom?

  “Sophie? Did you hear me? We are to be married.”

  He was the groom? Her brain could not process the words and her lips would not open.

  “Sophie?”

  Slowly, she eased herself off the bed and stood next to him. “You want to marry me. Why?” Somewhere in the breadth of an instant, she had become the predator and he the prey.

  Gregory Thurston shifted uneasily, his eyes darting around the room. “I’ve decided we would suit well.”

  The arrogance of his words did not surprise her. Mere weeks ago, he’d vowed he would never marry and now he was informing her she was to become his lucky bride. “You . . . believe we would suit.” Her voice rose an octave with each word.

  “Exactly.”

  “And because you think we would suit, then we should marry.”

  “Right.”

  “Because you have decided for me.”

  A small smile tugged at his lips. “Exactly.”

  She smiled as well. “Then I shall give you my answer. I am permitted an answer, am I not?”

  “Of course.”

  “No.”

  His smiled faded. “No?”

  She shook her head. “No. But thank you for the generous offer.”

  “You’re afraid aren’t you?” He moved closer.

  She backed away. “No. Why would I be afraid?” Why would she be afraid?

  He ran a finger along the lace of her neckline. “Because I make you feel things.”

  “That’s absurd.” She swatted his hand away.

  He smiled again. “It’s true.” He placed a chaste kiss on her cheek, another on her chin, a third on her neck.

  Sophie held her breath. Oh, yes, he was definitely making her feel things but she’d cut out her tongue before admitting it.

  “Mmmmm.” He flicked his tongue along her neck.

  She cleared her throat, trying to gather her wits which had scattered with his first touch. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she managed.

  “No?”

  Good lord, he’d worked his way to her throat. And that tongue! How did he manage to carry on a conversation when his mouth was otherwise indisposed?

  “Sophie?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, yes.” She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate. “Could you . . . would you mind stopping that?”

  “This?” He gently sucked her neck. “Or this?” He licked her earlobe. “Or perhaps this?” He dipped a finger inside her bodice.

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  “Yes?” He inched the bodice down.

  “Mmmmm.” She leaned closer.

  “Does that mean ‘yes’ continue or ‘yes’ I want you to stop?” he murmured against her lips.

  “Don’t,” she managed.

  “Don’t?” He brushed his lips over hers once more.

  “Don’t . . . stop.”

  “Never.” He took her in his arms and gently kissed her.

  “Gregory,” she whispered. He groaned and cupped her buttocks, pressing her to his straining arousal. She welcomed the sensation, rubbing against him, seeking relief from the burgeoning ache spreading through her.

  He carried her to the bed and laid her down gently. “I won’t stop, my sweet. Not until I’ve tasted every delicious inch of you.” He trailed his fingers along her cheek to her neck, pausing at a swell of breast. He sought a nipple through the thin fabric of her gown and stroked his thumb over it in small circles. Oh, but he was driving her mad! Sophie strained toward his touch, the ache in her body building. Gregory traced the laces of her chemise and began untying them with slow precision. “So beautiful.”

  A moan escaped her when he eased the fabric aside and drew a nipple into his mouth. “Gregory.” She clasped her fingers about his neck, searching for a way to describe the sensations pulsing through her. “This is so . . . so . . . ”

  He lifted his head, “Yes, my sweet?”

  She sighed. “Wonderful.”

  “Mmmm.”

  She ran her hands along his back and stroked them low on his hips.

  “Now that is wonderful,” he said.

  She opened her thighs to cradle him. “Show me how wonderful it can be.”

  He jerked against her, his manhood hard between her legs. “Sophie,” he whispered.

  “Make love to me, Gregory.”

  He groaned and buried his face between her breasts. Then he proceeded to strip every last shred of clothing from her until she lay naked beside him. He began to worship her body with his hands, his lips, his tongue. Sophie sighed as he caressed her thighs and settled between them once again. When his hands moved under her to cup her buttocks, she arched toward him, rubbing herself against his hardness. The heat in his navy eyes made it difficult for her to breathe. “Please love me.” The words, spoken barely above a whisper, swirled between them. Gregory dipped his head once again for a drugging kiss before claiming her body from breast, to hip, to leg, stroking, molding, branding her forever his. His lips followed his hands, trailing to her belly, circling her navel with his tongue. With each touch, Sophie grew more desperate to feel his naked skin.

  When his warm breath caressed her womanhood, she shivered and dug her nails into his shoulders. His fingers measured and stroked her, finding the swollen nubbin and circling it with his thumb in a rhythmic motion. Oh, but she would surely die of such exquisite pleasure! The sensations were too much. Gregory’s hands and mouth and hard body were all over her, teasing, tormenting, promising. When his mouth seized the throbbing core of her womanhood, she exploded into a thousand pieces, clutching him to her as she moaned his name.

  Several moments later, she regained the ability to speak. “Gregory?”

  “Hmmm?” he murmured against her skin.

  “Is it always like that?”

  He lifted his head from her belly. “Why do you ask?” Didn’t she know?

  She flushed a pretty crimson and lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug.

  “Are you saying . . .” She couldn’t be. “You’re a virgin?” No virgin touched a man the way she did.

  She nodded.

  Then again, this was no ordinary woman. This one had touched his body and his heart.

  “Are you disappointed?”

  His lips twitched. “Disappointed?” She could teach Madame Founderay and her girls a few things. “No. Definitely not disappointed.”

  “Hmmmm,” she sighed. “I’m a quick learner, always have been.”

  “That’s a useful bit of information.” He planted a kiss on her right hip. “Very useful indeed.”

  She leaned forward and her breasts dangled in his face. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll master the task.”

  Visions of her luscious lips on a certain very hard part of his body jolted through his brain.

  And then she whispered, “What about you?”

  “What about me?” Luscious lips that sucked and teased.

  “How do I pleasure you?”

  With your hands and your mouth and your –

  “Gregory?”

  He was not so depraved as to take advantage of a virgin. “You gave me yourself,” he said on a sigh.

  “But that’s not enough.”

  What if she were a willing virgin?

  “You touched me and my body was not my own.” Her eyes glittered with desire and sincerity. “You controlled me and made me feel incredible sensations.” She hesitated, but only for a brief moment. “Surely you must need me to touch you, too.”

  Holt took in the flushed r
adiance of her face and the fullness of her heaving breasts, bared for his open perusal. But it was the honest emotion that nearly drove him over the edge. “Do you know what you are saying?”

  “I’m asking you to teach me to make love to you.” Her small hands rose to stroke his cheeks and then traveled the length of his chest, hesitating a moment in the dark, springy hairs, before continuing to circle his navel and finally settling on the buttons of his breeches. Holt’s sharp intake of breath brought a hint of a smile to her lips and only served to embolden her. She began unfastening his breeches, releasing each button and then stopping to caress the expanse of skin which became visible.

  He was certain he was dying a slow, torturous death. When the last button popped, Sophie spread the breeches wide, released his cock, and proceeded to circle the engorged flesh with hesitant but curious fingers. “Enough,” Holt growled, forcing her back onto the bed and kneeling between her parted thighs. “I can’t take anymore.” He settled between her thighs and searched for her mouth. His tongue darted in and out, simulating what he was about to do with another part of his body. Sophie moaned beneath him, raking her nails down his back and stroking his buttocks. When she wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him to her his control exploded.

  He entered her with one powerful thrust and would have continued in a mindless frenzy, had she not cried out and stiffened. “Sophie? Forgive me. I should have been gentler. But your hips kept moving and your hands . . .ah, Christ.” He scooped her into his arms, cursing himself for being such an impatient, careless idiot, and waited for her pain to subside.

  Several moments passed before she let out the softest of sighs and whispered in his ear, “I think I do not want you to stop.”

  He remained very still, certain he was trapped between heaven and hell. “Sophie, you can’t know what you are saying.”

  She moved her hips against his. “I do know.”

  He was a mere man, flesh and blood, with most of the blood pulsing between his legs at the moment. He began a gentle, rocking rhythm, moving inside her with careful, measured strokes.