Love Historial romances 

Jennifer Haymore
Author Book List

THE DUKE'S DESIRE

Simon Hawkins, duke of Trent, is no stranger to scandal. Rumors and innuendo have darkened the House of Trent for decades, and it has fallen to Simon to restore his tattered family name. He lives by a strict code of honor, but when he is called home to investigate his mother's disappearance, the distinguished duke will tangle with temptation. For there waits the only woman he has ever loved-and the last woman he should desire . . .

Sarah Osborne has spent her life dreaming of Simon's touch. But dukes do not long for lady's maids-or so Sarah believes, until a stolen kiss sparks a passion that could be her ultimate undoing. As the couple begins a forbidden romance, a cunning enemy plots to destroy the duke and everything he loves. Now, caught in a blackmailer's web, Simon faces an agonizing choice: sacrifice his family's future or break Sarah's heart.

Excerpt

Throwing her cotton robe over her chemise, Sarah left her room and tiptoed downstairs, making certain not to disturb any of the other members of the household. In the corridor outside the library, where she was intending to find a dull book to read to help her fall sleep, she stopped short. There was a line of light along the bottom of the door. Someone was inside.

It had to be Simon. Who else would still be awake at this hour?

Before she could think, before she could talk herself out of it, she'd knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Simon sat on a chair by the hearth at the far end of the long, narrow room, which was sparsely furnished except for the rows of bookshelves along the walls and two carved wooden chairs and a table near the hearth. He looked toward the door with a bemused expression that relaxed when he saw her hovering on the threshold. "Sarah. Come in," he repeated, setting his full glass on a side table and rising to greet her.

"It's not necessary to stand, Your Grace."

"Yes, it is, Miss Osborne."

She couldn't help the pull of a smile on her lips at the way he addressed her.

Simon wasn't wearing his coats. Only his shirt, open at the top and showing a vee of golden flesh, and the breeches he'd worn to the ball. Instantly, a tingling flush rose to Sarah's cheeks.

Tearing her gaze away from the sight of him so...undressed, she moved across the room toward the chair he was gesturing to, inhaling the pleasant essences of leather and cigar smoke. Simon had told her that his father had the habit of smoking cheroots in this room, and the smell had permeated into the walls and never faded away. He resumed his seat when she lowered herself into hers.

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted.

"Nor I."

"We both should sleep," she said. Their schedules were busy tomorrow.

He gave a soft laugh. "Probably."

She stared at the hearth, but feeling his gaze on her, she glanced at him. "Did you enjoy the evening?"

He'd danced with six different young ladies—twice with Miss Stanley. She'd counted.

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. "It was...acceptable."

She cocked a brow at him, but only said, "Ah."

They sat in comfortable silence. Simon retrieved his glass from the table and took a few sips of the amber liquid. Sarah soaked up the heat of the fire and basked in the luxury of having Simon close to her without the presence of others.

"Lady Esme—" she finally began. Lord, how to finish that sentence? "She...struggled."

He nodded. "I know."

"Oh." She hadn't been sure he'd noticed his sister's extreme discomfort tonight, but she was glad he had. Sarah gave him a sidelong glance. "And...?"

He fingered the rim of his glass. "I think her reticence is due to her being sheltered in the country. The more she is exposed to such gatherings, the more comfortable she'll become."

"Do you truly believe that?"

"I do."

"Perhaps your theory will prove true," she conceded after a minute. "In the meantime...she tried so very hard tonight."

"She performed..." he hesitated, then said, "adequately. Better than her last ball, by far."

Sarah didn't want to know what had transpired at Esme's last ball if this showing had been far better.

"She wants so desperately to please you."

He frowned. "Please me? Why?"

Sarah laughed. "How can you not know, Your Grace? You are her older brother, the head of the family. You are the Duke of Trent. Everyone wishes to please you, but probably no one more than Esme."

Except Sarah herself, of course.

Now it was Simon who stared into the flames. "I am just her brother. Just someone who wants the best for her. We'll keep trying. She'll continue to improve."

"I hope so."

"I have thought more than once tonight that her improvement was due to having you at her side."

"Oh, no. Your mother was at her side last year, and the duchess is a far more formidable ally than I."

"She is that, but she is also quite social and had a tendency to ignore my sister. Leaving her to the wolves, so to speak."

"Oh." Sarah's heart clenched. It made sense. The duchess knew everyone, spoke to everyone, was the most gregarious soul Sarah had ever known. She could see the older woman flitting from person to person, leaving poor Esme to fend for herself.

"But you remained by her side," Simon said.

"It is my duty to do so."

"Still—I wish you would have danced."

"What?"

His eyes met hers, held her steady in his gaze. "I would have liked to see you dance. I would have liked to dance with you."

"I do not stand at Lady Esme's side as her equal, Your Grace," she reminded him gently. As Lady Esme's companion, she could not encourage invitations to dance. Her duty was to be an observer, a protector of her lady's interests.

He was quiet for a moment, staring down into the liquid he swirled in his glass. "I know Miss Farnshaw taught you how. I watched you once, years ago."

"Did you?" she breathed.

"I did." He raised his gaze, met her eyes. "I watched you dance a minuet in the parlor."

"Oh." Something about the way he was looking at her sent a soft heat flushing through her from the inside out.

"I wanted to dance with you then. I wanted to dance with you tonight, too. Did you not wish you had danced this evening?"

She considered this. She would have liked to dance, yes, to take the place of Miss Stanley on Simon's arm. But how could she tell him that?

Suddenly, firmly, he set the glass on the side table and rose. He held out his hand to her.

She stood without thinking, reached out to take his hand. Like when he'd helped her into the carriage earlier, his grasp was warm and strong, but now was different. Now she touched his bare skin, felt the roughness of his fingertips under the sensitive flesh of her palm. His hand was warm and dry. Intoxicating. Touching him like this, skin to skin, was a heady feeling, indeed.

"A minuet," he murmured. "Dance with me, Sarah."

He stepped back and bowed formally to her. Entranced, she curtsied back. They both took a step, and he swept up her right hand once more in his firm grip. They turned to face the closed door at the other end of the room, and as he hummed the notes, they danced forward then began the figures and turns of the minuet. Throughout it all, Simon's lips pressed together, humming the notes in a low tenor, and his eyes never left hers.

In the minuet, the couple came in contact with each other infrequently, and when they were separated and dancing to the corners of the room or turning to complete their figures, Sarah ached for the moment when they would come together again, only their hands contacting, those strong fingers curving around her palm.

It was the slightest touch, the rarest contact between the two of them. But with his green eyes focused solely on her, his bare hand touching nothing but her, Sarah had never felt anything so erotic. Each time her skin connected with his, a deep shudder ran through her.

Finally he gathered both her hands in his, and as they turned, Sarah realized this was the end. The humming notes stopped, and he let her go, stepping back once more to bow.

She curtsied, and he straightened as she rose.

They stood there, in the center of the room, staring at each other. The depths of his dark green eyes held her in his thrall, so heavy with the weight of the world, and at that moment, she wanted to wipe it all away—the pressures of Parliament and government and his position. Worries about his sister...and his mother.

"I wished it had been me," she said softly. "When you were dancing with Miss Stanley and the others. I wished you were dancing with me."

He gazed at her unspeaking for a moment. Then he said, "I did, too."

He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pressed his lips to hers.

The feel of him, of their lips gliding against each other, sent fireworks exploding through her. She dragged him harder against her, heard his ragged whisper, "Sarah."

Their lips moved in a hot, sensual slide. His hand rubbed tight circles over her lower back...and lower, until he cupped her bottom, pulling her against him so the hard ridge of his arousal pressed against her abdomen. The feel of it, of that most primitive, masculine part of him, sent a carnal shudder racing through her.

His mouth moved down her chin, and she kissed his rough cheek, then tilted her neck as he moved her braid aside with his free hand to kiss her there.

His lips pressed against her jaw, then caressed the shell of her ear before kissing their way back to her mouth, seeking, exploring.

Sensation washed over her. Not only in the places his mouth touched, but all over and through her. Deep yearning. Longing. Need.

She gave a small whimper, clutched him tighter, kissed his bare, warm skin wherever her mouth could reach him. She wanted more. So much more.

His arousal grew, pressed against her lower belly, so hard and so hot she could feel the heat between the layers of their clothes.

His hand moved from her neck to the opening in her robe, cupping her breast over her nightgown, his thumb running over her nipple, hardening it into a sensitized nub that strained against the fabric of her chemise.

She pressed her body tighter against him, blindly seeking his lips with her own.

She caught them, moving against him in a brazen kiss that she hadn't known she was capable of. He tasted like man and desire. Cedar and spice. So delicious. She didn't know how she'd ever get enough.

Suddenly his hands moved from her buttocks and breast to her upper arms. With a low groan, he pushed her back.

"Stop."

She gazed at him, clawing through the haze of desire that had overcome her. "No, Simon."

He blinked at the use of the familiar name and, from a part of her deep inside, she froze.

Reality crashed in. Forcing her frozen neck to move, she swung her head away.

"Sarah, look at me." He cupped her hands in his palms, and warmth instantly flushed through her, combating the cold.

"I...Sarah, I want you. But I don't want to hurt you. I'm not the kind of man who...uses women."

"I know you're not." One of the reasons she adored him.

"So you see why we can't, why I can't...?"

"I'm not a fool, Your Grace," she said softly. Sarah knew that no matter what happened between them, no matter what power he had over her, Simon would never take advantage of her. "I know what I am doing. What I want."

Simon flinched. "I don't want to ruin you."

"I know," she whispered. "But sometimes I wish you did."

With that, and with a huge force of will, she turned and left the room.

Should She Marry or Wait for the Love of Her Life?

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