Page 11 of The Duke's Only Desire

Chapter Two

“What is themeaning of this, Granville?” James Norton demanded.

Shay watched as Sophie’s almost-fiancé leaned over the Earl of Granville’s desk in his study and tapped an accusing finger on the desktop. Shay fought back the urge to toss the man into the street on his arse, where he belonged.

“I was supposed to have announced my engagement tonight to Lady Sophie,” he continued. “We should be dancing our first waltz together right now. Instead, I’ve been summoned to your study and told the engagement is off by that—thatthing.”

Norton swung his arm to point at Shay as he stood in the corner of the study, as far away from the light of the fire and candles as possible, to let the shadows cover his face. Old habits died hard.

Shay flicked his gaze across the room to Sophie as she paced so her agitation wouldn’t overwhelm her. His pulse spiked at the sight of her. Apparently, some habits never died at all.

In response to Norton, Shay simply shrugged. The man was right, after all. Hewaslittle more than a thing these days. But in this meeting, he also had the upper hand.

But Sophie heard the insult and halted mid-step, her hands dropping to her sides and clenching into fists. An almostforgotten sensation of hope stirred in Shay’s chest that she just might defend him when she opened her mouth to interject—

Only to be beaten to it by her father. “He is the Duke of Malvern,” William Winter reminded Norton coldly. “He is a guest in my home, and you will show His Grace the same respect you show me.”

Norton straightened with offense. “He is attempting to steal my fiancée.”

Oh, Norton was sorely mistaken about that. Shay wasn’t stealing Sophie away. Technically, she already belonged to him. Had for five years. It had simply taken Norton’s engagement announcement to bring Shay to London to finally claim her.

“No one is stealing me,” Sophie corrected indignantly. Her pert little nose rose into the air. “I’m not some horse to be carted off by a thief.”

No, she certainly wasn’t that. What she was…breathtaking.

If an angel fell from heaven, it wouldn’t have been as ethereal as Sophie in her satin ball gown of ice blue, nor as beautiful and elegant. Even with irritation and confusion warring in equal turns at her brow, her oval face was still as delicate as he remembered, her skin fair and nearly iridescent in the candlelight. Her full lips were dark rosy pink, their color heightened by the way she bit her lip in consternation at the turn the evening had taken. It was her large cornflower blue eyes, though, that captivated him. With their specks of lavender, they were nothing short of mesmerizing, even narrowed with irritation.

Five years without a glimpse of her. In that time, she’d gone from an alluring young woman to simply stunning. The transformation was astonishing.

Oh, she’d always held the promise of great beauty, even the first time he’d laid eyes on her at Ravenscroft Manor when she had been only twelve and as shapeless as a plank. In his visits toher in London over the following years, she had changed before his eyes. The spindly legs and arms that had reminded him of a colt had given way to elegant gracefulness, and her body had begun to soften and curve. The last time he’d seen her, only three weeks before the planned wedding, he had realized just how much she had matured into a woman who captivated him with a visceral longing. The thought that she would never be his had nearly broken him.

Five years without her should have dampened those rash feelings. But they didn’t. Being near her again in the garden had reignited a low burning in his gut, despite the cold night air. Even now, standing a room apart, her nearness registered within him as if via some sixth sense, noting every move she made, no matter how subtle. Including the utterly baffled yet curious looks she cast in his direction when she thought he wasn’t watching.

She punctuated her previous comment by crossing her arms and adamantly declaring, “I will marry whomever I choose, and no one else.”

Shay’s lips twitched. Her flash of spirit warmed him. He was glad to see that London society hadn’t beaten it out of her.

“You might not have a choice,” her father told her grimly and tapped his finger on the reason they had all gathered in the study to discuss matters. It was the old marriage contract Sophie’s grandmother had hammered out with Malvern all those years ago, which until tonight had still been locked away with the most important Granville documents in a Chippendale cabinet. A contract which was still very much binding, thanks to the careless—or perhaps too careful—way the old woman had insisted on its wording.

Shay didn’t have to read it to remind himself what it said. After all, he had looked at it so often over the years before John died in futile attempts to stop the marriage that he’d memorized the damnable thing. Miss Sophie Winter was contracted tomarry not John Douglass by name but the heir of the sixth duke of Malvern. Oh, the old woman surely thought she’d been so clever in that! Hedging her bet in case something happened to both heir and spare—even if a plague wiped them all out until the family tree existed only on its barest branch tips—Sophie would still become a duchess. That was all the old woman wanted. She couldn’t have cared less to which man. Lady Kelsey had written to Shay to remind him of that very fact after the deaths of John and his father. She insisted the contract was still binding, that Sophie was still obligated to marry the remaining heir…

Him.

Knowing he would make no progress with the grandmother, who wouldn’t have cared if he’d turned into Caligula himself, he instead wrote back to Sophie to bluntly announce that he had no plans to marry her, that he wanted to be left alone, and that he would burn without reading any more letters anyone in the Winter family sent him. Including Sophie.

He let her place all her blame, anger, and hatred squarely on him. He would never tell her the truth—that the last thing he would do was ruin her life by shackling her to the monster he had become. He had no plans to ever marry her. For God’s sake, with the turn his life had taken, he had no plans to marry anyone at all.

Until a few weeks ago, when he’d learned from his best friend Lucien Grenier, Duke of Crewe, that James Norton planned to wed her.

“Our party might have been ruined,” Norton announced. Even now, the house was emptying quickly of puzzled guests, who had heard not the engagement announcement they’d expected but an early farewell by Granville, thanking them for coming and wishing them a good night as the party was brought to a crashing close. He turned toward Shay. “But ourengagement—and wedding—will not be delayed.” He folded his arms over his chest in what was surely his best impersonation of an immovable object, only to appear pathetic in the attempt. Shay had seen cowardly privates in the wars with more presence than that. “Lady Sophie is promised to me. Has been for weeks.”

“Actually, Lady Sophie is promised tome,” Shay calmly countered. He shrugged a shoulder. “Has been foryears.”

Norton clenched his hands into fists as he spun on his heel to face Shay. The tips of his ears reddened from fury.

“You arenothelping.” Sophie leveled that admonishment at Shay before Norton could unleash a string of curses at his ancestors and before Shay could agree with every one of them.

Then she turned to Norton and affectionately put her hand on his arm. Shay’s chest squeezed with hot jealousy, in an intensity he simply hadn’t been prepared for.