To Pleasure a Duke (19 page)

Chapter 24

T
he woods were as dark and villainous-looking as Robert had warned. Sinclair, who had taken his pistol from his bag and slipped it into the waistband of his breeches, could imagine every sort of rascal hiding among the trees, watching them pass. The rain grew heavier, which didn’t help. Whenever he glanced back to see if Eugenie was still following him, she had the hood of her cloak pulled low over her head and he couldn’t see her face.

She was sulking about something, although he didn’t know what. Women had always confounded him. As a boy of seventeen he’d loved drawing their bodies but what went on inside their heads was a complete mystery. It didn’t help that she wouldn’t ride beside him, so that he could speak to her or at least keep a watch on her. No, she had to keep back, too far for him to converse with unless he wanted to shout. He told himself for the hundredth time how lucky he was not to have done anything irrevocable, like making her his mistress.

Although, of course, the fact that he’d wanted to and it had been Eugenie who denied him, was something he preferred not to remember. Better to believe the decision had been entirely his; certainly more soothing to his self-esteem. And right now his self-esteem needed all the soothing it could get.

By the time they reached a tavern in a small village in the forest, Sinclair was soaked to the skin. Which certainly didn’t improve his temper. But like the gentleman he told himself he was he waited for Eugenie and helped her down to the cobbled yard beside him. She swayed a little, stiff from riding, and he held her longer than necessary, worried she might fall, worried she might be ill.

“I should never have agreed to you coming on this mad journey,” he said.

Her head came up, her green eyes narrowed in her white face. “You’ve already made your feelings perfectly clear, Your Grace,” she said in a voice as icy as the weather. Tugging herself free she whirled around and began to make her way toward the door leading into the low, smoky-looking and rather dismal establishment.

Sinclair ground his teeth. Once again she’d misunderstood him—deliberately he was sure. Maybe she was right in not speaking at all. Yes, they would proceed in deathly silence; it was the only way they could manage to be together without arguing.

But as he went to follow her he saw that she’d stopped and was standing perfectly still. Puzzled, he drew closer. Something had caught her attention and a moment later he saw what it was.

A child of about seven or eight with a pale, peaked face and dirty dark hair. It was standing by what looked like a pile of old straw and stable rakings. Wide, suspicious eyes flicked between Eugenie and the duke, and the child took a step back. His—Sinclair thought it was a boy—feet were bare and he was wearing clothes that had been roughly cut down to fit his skinny frame.

Forgetting they were not speaking to each other, Eugenie reached out to grasp Sinclair’s arm. “Oh,” she whispered. “The poor thing must be frozen.”

The sight of such children gave Sinclair no pleasure, but London was full of them, and he was currently busy trying to catch up with his sister, as well as getting his coach repaired or arranging for a new one, and more important getting Eugenie out of the rain and into whatever comfort this poor hostelry could offer.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, and brushed past her, leading the way into the building, confident she would follow.

But she didn’t follow. After waiting impatiently and stamping his feet, he was forced to retrace his steps. As he expected she was still with the child, only now she was kneeling at the boy’s feet, holding his hands, her skirts dragging in the muddy water of the yard while droplets of rain ran down her cheeks from her sodden curls.

The first emotion he was aware of was shock. And then the gentle compassion of her face, in her eyes, caught his heart and squeezed so tight he reached out to grasp the doorjamb, to steady himself. No woman he knew would act with such wholehearted love and compassion; no woman he knew would behave in such a way without worrying what her fellows might think. Would they laugh at her, snigger at her, tell her that she was behaving in a manner that ladies did not behave in?

One does not allow oneself to show emotion in public.

It was his family’s mantra. And yet here was Eugenie, completely unaware that she was breaking all of society’s rules. They simply did not matter to her as much as the plight of this child.

He didn’t know what to feel. A part of him knew he should drag her roughly to her feet and tell her she was disgracing herself, and him, by kneeling in the dirt before the urchin. That was what he should do. But the other part, the part that had been closed off for so long, wanted to wrap his arms about her and hold her. Eugenie was a woman completely oblivious to the petty rules of his world, and if she had known them then she wouldn’t have cared.

He was confused. Until now it seemed as if everything had been clear and precise, laid out before him so that he knew exactly how he was supposed to act and what he was meant to do. And now . . . Eugenie had shown him that those rules were like paper in the wind.

Feeling naked and vulnerable, Sinclair became even more the arrogant duke. In this role, at least, he felt ironclad.

“Miss Belmont, what
do
you think you are doing?”

She looked up at him, her green eyes wide and startled, as if she’d forgotten he was here. “His name is Georgie and he has no one, Your Grace. His family are all dead and he has been left here in the hope that someone will take him in. They give him some work, but he sleeps in the barn and makes do with scraps of food.”

If he wasn’t so agitated, Sinclair might have retorted that this sounded like a melodrama. But such cruel things did happen in his England, and he could see that Eugenie was deeply affected by the child’s predicament.

He searched her face and tried not to groan. A look of determination had firmed her chin, giving it a defiant tilt, and she didn’t have to tell him what she was thinking. The child was in need and Eugenie was not one to abandon anyone or anything in need. Look at all the trouble she’d caused herself—and him—over her brother Terry! Sinclair knew that arguing with her would waste time and he really didn’t have time to waste.

“Bring him in and I’ll get the landlord to feed him,” he ordered brusquely, and turned his back on her, knowing that this time she would follow.

He could hear her murmuring encouragement to the boy.

An unbidden thought crept into his head. Eugenie would never refuse her own child the joy of painting because it was “not done.” She would love him for what he was and not what others might think of him.

Angrily he shook his head and told himself he had no time for such nonsensical notions. If Eugenie was in charge of the world then there would be complete anarchy! Besides, he had Annabelle to find and bring home. He needed to focus on his task and forget about Eugenie Belmont.

T
he suspicious-eyed landlord turned into an obsequious fellow when he discovered who Sinclair was, at the same time giving the child a frown as if he were a stray cur. He even waved a hand at the boy, as if to shoo him away. It was only when Sinclair announced he would pay for the boy’s food and lodgings that his manner changed.

“Poor little lad,” he said, patting the boy’s head. “But we can’t feed every orphan who comes along, can we? We have to make a living. You understand that, don’t you, sir?”

The child ducked away from the hand, not taken in by the landlord’s sudden change of manner.

“Perhaps you have some clothes that would fit him?” Eugenie gave the landlord a look there was no arguing with. “And some shoes. He cannot go about with bare feet in this weather.”

“He’s used to it,” the man muttered, and then made a hasty retreat as Eugenie’s eyes narrowed.

Sinclair began to remove his coat and hat, both sodden, while Eugenie settled the child down in a chair she’d drawn nearer to the fire before kneeling down once more, this time to inspect his feet. The boy didn’t object, just stared at her as if she was something completely unknown to him—a gentlewoman who cared about his predicament and was willing to do more than hand him a coin as she walked away.

Perhaps, Sinclair thought, the two of them were both coming to terms with the shocked realization. Eugenie had probably never seen a child like this, living all her life in the village apart from her stay at the finishing school, and the child had probably never known a respectable young woman who was willing to fight for him.

“You are as wet as he is,” Sinclair reminded her almost gently. “Take off your cloak at least, so it can be dried before we resume our journey.”

She began to fumble with the ties, but her fingers were too numb to manage the knot. Sinclair brushed her hands away, bending to unpick the tangle with a frown. He bent even lower, his voice quiet in her ear, the words for her alone.

“You cannot save every abandoned child.”

She looked up at him, her eyes clear green, her damp curls clinging to her temples and water dripping down her neck. “But I can save this one,” she replied, and she didn’t bother to whisper.

Sinclair finally released the ties and her cloak fell from her shoulders. Beneath it, Eugenie’s dress was wet, clinging to her body so that he could see the rounded shape of her breasts. He tried not to groan. A moment before he’d been in awe of her goodness and now he was lusting after her.

Clearly he was suffering from some kind of mental illness.

He busied himself laying her cloak out, in an effort to distract his disordered thoughts, while Eugenie went back to her inspection of the boy’s feet.

“Is he really a duke?” the child said with a note of cynicism that belonged to someone much older.

“Yes, he is.”

“What’s his name then?”

“He is the Duke of Somerton, but my brother Jack calls him Somerton.”

“Are you his duchess then?”

“No, I’m not,” Eugenie said, with a nervous glance in Sinclair’s direction he decided it best not to see.

“Are you his baggage then?”

A pause. Sinclair gave a bark of laughter. She probably didn’t know what a baggage was, or was he once more underestimating her?

“No, I’m not his—his baggage, either. We are just traveling together, Georgie.”

“A lot of ladies and gents travel this road, but most of ’em don’t stop here. Can’t blame ’em, really.”

Sinclair leaped at this information. “Have you seen any of the other travelers along this road, boy? Did a young man and a woman, a very pretty woman with dark hair, stop recently?”

The boy thought a moment. “Might o’ done,” he said cautiously. “This morning, early. Stopped for a bit. The lady said she felt sick.”

“This morning,” Sinclair repeated, relieved.

“They didn’t stay on the highway though,” Georgie went on, scratching his hair in a way Sinclair was sure meant he had fleas. Or worse. “They took the road up ahead that runs through the forest.”

“Why would they do that?” Eugenie asked, looking between the two of them.

“They must know we’re close after all,” Sinclair replied. “Perhaps we’d be better riding the horses rather than waiting for the coach. We can move more freely then if we have to travel on narrow roads and lanes. They won’t be expecting us to do that. We can catch them up.”

“They was arguing,” Georgie said, his eyes sliding away in a manner Sinclair could not help but think was suspiciously sly. “Havin’ a real barney, they was.”

“Arguing? Arguing about what?”

The urchin shrugged one shoulder. “Dunno. The lady said something about wishin’ she’d never trusted him to do it right, and why couldn’t he have found a coach that didn’t rock about so.”

“I knew this was your brother’s fault,” Sinclair growled. “He has forced this upon my sister.”

Eugenie glared. “If anyone is to blame then it is you, Sinclair! If you had not tried to force your sister into a marriage she did not want then my brother would not have been obliged to rescue her! Surely you know that young girls look to marry for love in these modern times? Even our queen has married for love.”

His lip curled. “You are showing your lack of breeding again, Eugenie. My sister’s situation is very different from your imaginings. She is not a poor put-upon heroine. Lucius does love her and if she would give herself a chance, she would soon return his affection. They are perfectly suited in every way.”

“Oh? Then why has she eloped with my brother?”

He leaned closer, his manner almost threatening. “Do I really need to tell you why? Because he inveigled her into it, telling her lies and persuading her against her better judgment. She is young, impulsive, and he played on that. She is also rich. Are you saying
that
had nothing to do with it? Your family have a reputation for getting hold of money in any way they can. It wouldn’t surprise me if your father didn’t plan the whole thing.”

Eugenie looked furious enough to slap his face again, but before she could do anything a small figure wriggled between them and gave Sinclair a hard shove.

“Hey, mister duke, you leave her alone!”

Surprised, Sinclair looked down into Georgie’s angry face. The boy had his fists clenched, as if he was prepared to do battle for his benefactress. For a child with such a delicate form, he was full of courage. Sinclair felt inclined to laugh. Knowing that would make Georgie even angrier, he settled his face into a sober mask. “I wouldn’t hurt her,” he said in a mild voice, “no matter how infuriating she is.”

“I’m not infuriating,” Eugenie said, more mildly. “At least no more than you.”

“I have never offered you any violence.”

She flushed at his reminder of her own behavior. “It was a very light slap.”

“Did you slap the duke then?” Georgie butted in, eyes wide with admiration.

“She did,” said Sinclair. “What do you think of her now?”

Georgie considered for a moment. “I think you must have deserved it.”

Eugenie bit her lip, but her eyes were dancing.

Sinclair raised his eyebrows at her. “It seems you have a champion.”