To Pleasure a Duke (21 page)

“Hey, are you listening?” Seth blustered. “Your ring and your pocket watch, Your Dukeship.” He chuckled at his own joke.

The signet ring was a present from his mother when he’d turned eighteen, and the pocket watch had belonged to his father. Sinclair wavered. As items they were not worth much monetarily, but emotionally they meant a great deal to Sinclair.

Suddenly he knew this was the time to make a stand. He had to show these villains he wouldn’t be pushed about. No matter how foolish and reckless his knew it was, he couldn’t give up his signet ring and his watch without a fight.

Eugenie was watching him nervously.

He stepped away from her.

“No,” he said. “You can’t have them. What are you going to do about it?”

Chapter 26

E
ugenie was jumping out of her skin. “Sinclair,” she hissed, tugging at his hand. “Don’t argue with them. Give them what they want.”

“Some things mean more than money,” he told her coolly, watching the two ruffians.

“Sinclair, please . . .” she began.

Sinclair raised his voice and drowned her out. “You have my money. Now go on your way and leave us alone. And make certain you keep looking over your shoulders, because one day I promise you I will be there.”

His words, or perhaps the threatening tone of his voice, seemed to give them pause, but a moment later they were nudging each other and chuckling, reconstructing their tattered courage.

“Sinclair, please give them what they want.” Eugenie’s voice was urgent.

“No.”

Seeing he meant to make a stand, Seth ordered Georgie to hold the horses, while he and his brother climbed down. They swaggered toward Sinclair, making a show of tensing their arm muscles and squeezing their fists. He realized with a sense of fatalism that they were as keen for physical combat as he.

“How are you in a fight, Your Dukeship?” Seth smirked. “I expect you only fight in them toff places where the gents always win, eh?”

“I am rather good in a fight, if I do say so myself,” Sinclair replied, readying himself for the onslaught. “And no one has ever allowed me to win.”

“So you say, so you say . . .”

“You may test my words . . . if you dare,” he goaded them.

It had the desired effect. They both rushed him.

The unequal struggle was short and unedifying, but Sinclair got in one good punch to Seth’s jaw and another into his brother’s soft middle. Before he could congratulate himself, he received a blow in return that stretched him out on the ground. He lay there, his head spinning, while the two men, favoring their own hurts, hurriedly tugged off his signet ring and removed his pocket watch.

So much for making a stand.

He could hear shouting and screaming. Feeling the brush of Eugenie’s skirts he realized she was trying to push them away from him. He tried to sit up, but one good shove sent her to the ground beside him. He managed to stretch out a hand and hold her down.

“Stay there. You’ll hurt yourself,” he growled, wincing as the movement sent pain ricocheting through his aching jaw.

She crawled closer to where he lay, wriggling up his shoulders so that his head was resting gently on her lap. Her curls tickled his face. He saw the warning in her green eyes as she leaned over him, and didn’t need the press of her finger against his lips, warning him to silence.

“You’ve killed him!” she wailed. “He’s dead!”

Seth looked startled. There was blood on his lip from Sinclair’s blow. His brother backed toward his horse. “You’ve killed him, Seth,” he said. “That’s hanging, that is.”

Sinclair supposed Eugenie’s plan was to save him from more pain and drive the villains away. He was content to allow her to go ahead, but he tensed his muscles, ready to spring back into the fray if it became necessary.

“What about her?” Seth said, nodding toward Eugenie, who was keening to herself like a banshee. Rather overdoing it in Sinclair’s opinion.

Then Georgie spoke up, something which must have taken a great deal of courage. “The lady’s been kind to me,” he said, shuffling from foot to foot. “I don’t want her hurt, all right? Please, Seth.”

The brothers stood either side of him, nudging each other, working on regaining some of their bravado. “And how are you going to stop us, eh, little brother?”

At that Georgie lifted his head, eyes defiant. “I won’t help you no more. I won’t bring you no more toffs to rob.”

They were no longer laughing.

“Maybe the duke’s man
is
coming,” Georgie went on, with a conspiratorial glance at Sinclair. “I don’t want to end up in gaol. Do you? Can’t spend our blunt there, can we?”

He must have known his brothers well, because the threat of losing their money did the trick. They both sprang into action. One of them grabbed Georgie by the scruff of his new coat and tossed him up onto Eugenie’s horse. A moment later they were all mounted, with Sinclair’s horse tethered behind them.

Georgie followed as they wheeled around and into the woods, vanishing as quickly as they’d come. The last Sinclair saw of the boy’s face was a pale blur before the trees swallowed him up.

He blinked, wiping a hand over his face. It was raining again and he hadn’t even noticed. He groaned and started to get dizzily to his feet, only to have Eugenie grasp his shoulders and push him back down to the ground. Her face was above him, frightened and angry, her cheeks streaked with rain and tears.

“What were you
thinking
, Sinclair? They could have killed you!”

Sinclair grinned at her, strangely buoyant despite everything that had happened, then winced when his bruised jaw protested again. “I couldn’t give up my watch and ring without a fight, Eugenie. What sort of man would I be if I did that?”

She shook her head at him in despair, and gently brushed the bruised skin where Seth’s fist had connected. “Why are men such fools?” she said, clearly not expecting an answer.

“At least we’re in one piece.”

Eugenie had been brave up until now, but now her emotions overwhelmed her. Her lips trembled and then she pulled away from him, crumpling onto the ground in the damp leaves, her head in her arms.

She was weeping. Sinclair watched her shoulders shaking. His limited experience of women told him she’d be better off when she got whatever was bothering her out of her system.

He waited.

But when her sobs began to grow louder and more violent, he was worried enough to kneel over her. “They didn’t take anything that mattered,” he insisted untruthfully. “We’re alive, that’s all that counts, isn’t it? Eugenie, please be calm. You’ll make yourself ill.”

He rested his hand on her hair and after that it seemed natural to stroke her soft, damp curls. That seemed to do the trick because her sobs stopped and eventually she lifted her head. She was a mess, he thought pragmatically. Her green eyes were swollen and pink, her skin was red and blotchy, and she seemed to be very damp about the bodice of her dress.

She seemed so vulnerable. His protective instinct urged him to gather her up in his arms; he resisted.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped.

“Why on earth are you sorry?”

“This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have trusted Georgie. I thought—I thought—” The tears began to spill over her lashes again.

Sinclair gave in and wrapped his arms about her and held her close. Yes, it was her fault, but only because she was too honest and trusting, too good at heart, and she could not see there might be wickedness in a child’s heart.

“He fooled me, too,” he said. “And if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he enjoyed robbing us.”

“Did you see that, too?” she asked hopefully, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“Yes, I did,” he said, and found his handkerchief—at least they’d left him that—using it to mop at her tearstained face. After she’d blown her nose and restored herself a little, she looked around at the woods and the gathering darkness.

It wasn’t late, but the rainy weather and the thick forest reduced the light so that they could have been in a twilight world.

Eugenie shuddered. “This is a horrible place,” she said.

Her wet lashes were spiky against her flushed cheeks, her lips still turned down at the corners, and slowly, but with increasing heat, it occurred to him that he wanted to make love to her.

“It will be all right,” he said, knowing he was babbling and not caring. “I promise it will be all right.” He leaned closer to her and his lips brushed the soft skin of her cheek. “I promise, Eugenie.”

She turned her face, and he was gazing into her remarkable eyes, telling himself there was no one else in the world who looked at him like that. He kissed her damp eyelids, gently. He knew that if she opened her eyes again he would probably have to stop, but she didn’t. She lay in his arms, snuggled against his chest, as if she was sleeping, except that her breasts were rising and falling very quickly. There was a telltale flush of desire on her cheeks.

He knew, with a sense of triumph, that she wasn’t going to deny him.

E
ugenie felt his warm breath against her cheek, and then the feather light brush of his lips. If she kept her eyes closed then she could pretend this was a dream, one of her very best dreams. It felt right that this should happen now, after their brush with death.

With a happy sigh she surrendered herself to his kisses.

He began to undo the fastenings on her bodice, his mouth warm against her chilled skin as each inch was exposed. She shivered. She heard him get up and spread out her cloak, and then he was lifting her, cradling her close, and laying her down in a warm nest he’d made. The rain was still falling but the heavily leafed branches above them gave them protection.

His body was heavy on hers, but she welcomed his weight and his strength, her arms slipping about his waist. His mouth was on her breast, closing on the rigid peak. Pleasure shimmied through her and she wriggled against him, wanting to get closer, wanting to feel his naked flesh pressed to hers until she couldn’t tell which of them was who.

The emotion and trauma of the past days was replaced with the need to be held and loved, to feel alive, and she reveled in Sinclair’s touch.

Feeling her way, Eugenie discovered the ties to his shirt and began to undo them. His flesh was masculine and warm, and when she pressed her face to his chest she tasted salt and sweat and man.

Her hands moved lower, finding the hard rod in his breeches, and she set about freeing him. He groaned against her, pushing into her palm as she held him. And then he was kneeling, drawing up her skirts and petticoats, his fingers exploring her darned stockings and closing on her bare thighs.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, or perhaps the words were in her head. It was the sort of thing he always said in her dreams.

His mouth closed over her most intimate place, his tongue caressing her, and she arched upward, pleasure spiraling through her. Her body readied itself for climax, but then he was lying over her again, easing himself inside her, taking her.

As she moved to the rhythm of pleasure, her body gripped by the fever of need, she no longer felt as if they were duke and commoner. There was no gulf between them. They were Sinclair and Eugenie.

Just man and woman.

H
e could hardly breathe, the pleasure was so strong, so all-consuming. Sinclair held her as the world came back into focus and knew he didn’t want to let her go, no matter what he had said to her and to himself.

For the first time he thought of marriage without instantly dismissing it.

Would it be fair to her, to raise her up so high and bring her to the attention of the gossips and the subtle cruelties of his class? And what of him? Could he bear the laughter of his friends and the mockery of his peers? His mother had threatened to turn her back on him . . . never to speak to him again. Could he live with that?

Right now, as he lay with the sweat cooling on him from loving her, he felt as if he could put up with anything. But later, what of later? Would he still feel the same in a month, a year, ten years? And then there was the letter she had written. Was he prepared to forgive her for humiliating him like that? Could he trust her not to do so again?

She stirred, rubbing her cheek against his chest, her tongue warm and wet against his flesh.

“This has been a very strange day,” she said, her voice soft and fuzzy. She yawned. “Perhaps it has all been a dream. Perhaps I’ll wake up on that divan covered in pomegranate seeds.”

He laughed. She always had the ability to make him laugh when he’d thought it impossible. Or was it just that she made him happy?

He sat up and looked down at her. She was still a mess. He tucked her unruly curls back and smoothed a truant eyelash from her cheek. “If this really is a dream then I would like to wake up at home in my bed.”

She gave him a temptress smile. “Would I be there?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Most definitely, minx.”

Her gaze tangled with his a moment more, enjoying the connection, and then she raised her arms and stretched. He looked about them. The rain had stopped for now, but it was decidedly gloomy and growing colder. Time to start moving out of this wretched wood, although where they would go after that he had no idea. Certainly not back to the tavern; it wasn’t safe there.

The problem of Annabelle and her beau jumped into his head, but he pushed it away. No use in worrying about them now. The thing was to find civilization and a warm room, and then he could begin to decide what to do.

He took Eugenie’s hand in his and tugged her to her feet. She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, his arm about her waist. For a moment they stood together, as if neither of them wanted to be apart ever again.

Chapter 27

T
he road they’d followed through the woods no longer seemed as clearly defined, and several times Sinclair stopped and pondered their direction before continuing on. Eugenie was so tired that she let him make the decisions. She would have been just as happy to lie down and sleep the night away and start off again in the morning, but she supposed it was safer to leave these trees far behind them, in case Georgie and his brothers changed their minds about letting them go free.

Her heart ached still when she remembered Georgie’s perfidy, but she could understand why he’d done it—why he felt he had no choice but to obey his older brothers. How could he know that if he’d confided in her and Sinclair they would have done everything in their power to help him escape their clutches? The child was obviously used to shifting for himself and didn’t trust anyone else. Life was risky business if you were an orphaned child reliant upon a brother like Seth.

The sound of galloping horses came at the end of this thought and Eugenie, fearing the worst, grabbed Sinclair’s hand. “Who is it?” she whispered.

Sinclair, peering through the darkness, wrapped his arms tight about her and did not answer.

There was a light.

Someone was carrying a lantern, its pallid glow valiant against the permanent night of the woods. And then a voice cried out, a voice they both knew.

“Yer Grace? Is it you?”

“Robert? Here, we are over here!”

“Yer Grace, thank God I’ve found ye. Are you or the lady hurt?”

“No, Robert. Apart from our dignity,” Sinclair replied, relief making him light-headed.

The coachman jumped down from his mount and was hurrying toward them, the lantern held high. Light sent strange shadows flickering through the branches of the trees.

“How on earth did you find us?” Sinclair said, grasping his servant’s hand in a firm, grateful grip.

Robert grimaced and gave a glance over his shoulder. “Boy! Come on over here and face the music!”

They followed his gaze. Someone else was with the horses, someone small like a child. He shuffled toward them, his boots too big, every step getting slower, as if he’d rather be going in the opposite direction.

“Georgie!” Eugenie cried, and a moment later she was holding his hands, just as she’d done outside the tavern. “Oh Georgie, I was so worried about you. Are those awful men really your brothers?”

Georgie bowed his head. “Stepbrothers,” he said in his gruff little voice. “I didn’t want to do it, truly I didn’t, but I knew if I didn’t they’d belt me. They’ve belted me before, miss.”

“Oh no, poor Georgie.”

Sinclair came over and rested a hand on Eugenie’s shoulder. “I think Georgie needs to tell us everything before we absolve him of his crimes,” he warned her.

She glanced at him beseechingly. “But Sinclair, surely—”

“No excuses, Eugenie.” He fixed a serious gaze on the boy. “Well, Georgie? What is the whole story? And make sure you leave nothing out because I will know if you do.”

Georgie glanced nervously at Eugenie and then swallowed and straightened his back and lifted a brave face to Sinclair. “I expect you’ll belt when me I’m done, Duke.”

“I expect I will.”

Robert gave a snort of laughter, turning it into a cough under his master’s baleful look.

The boy began to speak. “My stepbrothers make me hang around the tavern, keeping an eye on whoever passes through, and if there’s someone with blunt—like you, Duke—then I send them word. I get them to travel into the woods, tell them some tale or other. It was easy with you and the lady, because you were looking for someone and I could pretend I knew they went that way.”

“Yes, very clever,” Sinclair said sternly. “And you took my pistol, Georgie, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” He swallowed audibly. “I had to take it. I didn’t want no one shot. I knew once Seth and Harry had your blunt and your horses they’d be happy. The landlord always buys the horses from them. He pretends he doesn’t know where they come from but he knows, course he does. He pays for the horses and everyone is happy.”

“I found your horses at this tavern the lad talks about,” Robert put in. “The landlord was trying to sell them to me, but to buy time I said I’d have to consider it. Then this brave lad came up to me and told me the whole tale, including his part in it. I shook the truth out of the landlord and promptly sent for a constable. I don’t know if the constable’ll find the other two, Georgie’s stepbrothers. Georgie won’t tell me where they’re hiding out, will you, son?”

Georgie lifted his chin as three pairs of eyes fixed on him. “They’re still me brothers,” he said. “I can’t see ’em hang, can I?”

“Might be the best thing for them,” Robert muttered, but at the same time he gave the boy a pat on the shoulder as if to commend his loyalty.

Sinclair found himself glad to see his horses, and in a strange way he was glad to see Georgie, too, although what they were going to do with the boy now he had no idea. He was certain of one thing, Eugenie would not want him to go to gaol. The boy had showed courage when it was needed and he deserved to be rewarded.

“So your stepbrothers have my money. Where does that leave us?”

“I took some of it out and left it in your bag,” Georgie said quickly. “Didn’t you see it? I didn’t give it all to them, Duke, I promise you. I wouldn’t have given them any but they knew you were a toff and toffs always have blunt on ’em.”

Sinclair believed the boy about the money. “Still I doubt it will get us very far.”

“They was surprised you fought for your ring and your watch. They thought you was a right ’un.”

“Does that mean they admired you?” Eugenie said in amazement.

“He stood up for himself,” Georgie explained. “Not many toffs do.”

“He risked his life for a ring,” Eugenie retorted.

“It weren’t the ring, it were the principle of the thing,” Georgie said.

“Very true, Georgie,” Sinclair agreed. “One should always stand up for principles.”

“What about Framlingbury, Yer Grace?” Robert interrupted. “We could go there. Wouldn’t your uncle help you?”

Sinclair turned to him in surprise. “Good God, is Framlingbury so close? I didn’t realize.”

“About twenty mile, Yer Grace. You’d be welcome there.”

“I would indeed. Thank you, Robert.” And he clapped his coachman heartily on the shoulder, nearly toppling him over. It was only when Robert shot him a startled look that he knew he wasn’t behaving like his usual level-headed self. But he couldn’t help it. He didn’t feel like his usual level-headed self. He hadn’t done so since he met Eugenie.

“What is Framlingbury?” the lady in question asked warily.

“It is my uncle’s house. My mother’s brother.” His Bohemian uncle, whom his mother blamed for his interest in painting naked women. He’d always got on well with his uncle, but his mother had avoided such contact for many years now, claiming he was a bad influence.

“Do you think Annabelle might go there?” said Eugenie.

It was a clever idea but regretfully he shook his head. “I doubt it. My uncle would send her home if she did. He knows my mother has set her heart on a society wedding for Annabelle and he’s learned to his cost what it means to cross her.” He looked to Robert. “Is the coach mended?”

“It’s being mended, but it will take some time. I have arranged for another vehicle in the meantime, Yer Grace. That was what I was coming to tell you when I ran into young Georgie here.”

“Then I think we should go to Framlingbury and consider our options. If Annabelle is heading for the border we will still find her in time.”

And even if they didn’t, he thought grimly, they could drag her back to Somerton. He could not imagine the Belmonts refusing cash for silence.

“I
have never felt so
sick
in my
entire
life.”

Terry had heard Annabelle say those words, or remarkably similar ones, so many times he’d lost count. Now he just clenched his jaws and tried to ignore her. Who would have thought his heroic journey would come to this? They couldn’t reach Scotland soon enough for his liking.

“We will have to stop at the next village.”

He opened his mouth to inform her they weren’t stopping again, but she had her handkerchief to her own mouth and her eyes were begging him over the top of it. Her skin was certainly an interesting shade of green.

At her side, Lizzie gave him a pleading grimace. “She is very ill, Mr. Belmont. I know you are worried about slowing our journey but would a few moments hurt . . . ?”

“We will never reach our destination if we keep stopping,” he said, attempting to stand firm against them. “The duke will catch us and that will be the end of it. The end of me at any rate.”

“And me,” Lizzie added, to his surprise. “I will lose my position and he will send me back to my father in disgrace. I shall never ever hear the end of it. I shall never escape the vicarage again.”

“Then why did you come with us?”

Her blue eyes met his almost shyly. “It just seemed to—to happen! One moment I was standing on the ground arguing with you and the next I was here, in the coach. I suppose I considered it my duty as Annabelle’s chaperone to remain by her side.”

Terry found himself smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. Lizzie’s soft mouth curved, too, as if she was on the verge of bursting into laughter. It occurred to him that he had never heard her laugh. Perhaps she didn’t have much to laugh about. He was beginning to feel responsible for her.

“We could set you down at the next town.”

But Lizzie shook her head, her fair hair a bright beacon in the gloomy interior. “I’m rather afraid I have burned my bridges.”

“We have all done that,” he murmured.

“I expect I will find employment in the north,” she went on. “Somewhere.”

Annabelle, feeling the lack of attention, groaned and flopped back against the seat. “I think I will die before we reach Scotland, and I think I will be glad of it.”

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Terry said. “I thought you were courageous? You told me you wanted to live like an ordinary girl.”

“Well, I don’t. I want to live like a duke’s sister.”

They glared at each other.

Terry had only been in the coach a day before he knew that contrary to his hopes and dreams, he could never marry Annabelle. Not even if she’d have him. And a day after that he was sure he would murder her long before they reached the border. She was demanding and selfish and ungrateful. In fact she seemed to blame him for all their misfortunes, even the fact that the coach made her sick.

Was it his fault he only had money enough for a vehicle whose standard was far beneath her? He’d done his best. He could go to prison for what he’d done, or worse, Botany Bay, and all she did was moan about her stomach.

Two pieces of good luck kept him going.

One, Lizzie was here, with her gentle and sympathetic influence. Without her he really might have murdered Annabelle.

And two, the duke hadn’t caught up to them yet. Terry could hardly close his eyes for fear of seeing Sinclair stalking him, like the monster in some nursery story. His hope was that he’d get Annabelle safely to her friend. After that his plan was to join the army. He no longer cared which regiment he was in, nor did he care if he was a simple soldier of the line. As long as he was sent far from England and far from the Duke of Somerton then he’d be happy.

Perhaps, he thought sourly, when he was shot by renegades or speared by savages or—or eaten by wild animals, then Annabelle would be a little bit sorry she’d been so nasty to him. Then she’d regret she hadn’t admired him as he deserved for his sacrifice on her behalf.

Terry had just reached the part of his fantasy where Annabelle was throwing herself, sobbing, upon his grave, when he was rudely interrupted.

“Terry!” Annabelle gurgled, and lurching forward, she vomited.

Into his lap.

“I told you I was going to be sick,” she said smugly. “Now see what you’ve done.”

“S
he can’t help it, you know,” Lizzie said. “The movement of the coach makes her sick.”

They had found an inn and Annabelle was upstairs, sleeping. Terry had stripped off his clothing and washed and changed. Lizzie, as always, was trying to make peace.

“At least you have a change of clothing,” she said, casting an envious look over him. “I don’t even have that.”

Guiltily, he realized that was true. He hadn’t taken it into consideration before, or perhaps he’d imagined Annabelle would share, unlikely as that was. They’d taken Lizzie with them in the coach with nothing more than the clothes she stood up in and until now she hadn’t complained. Not once.

“You have a loose button.”

Looking down he saw that one of the buttons on his shirt was dangling by a thread. He opened his mouth to tell her it didn’t matter, that Eugenie always fixed his buttons, until he remembered Eugenie wasn’t here. But Lizzie was already asking the servant for needle and thread.

“Do you want me to . . . ?” he began, miming removing his shirt.

“No, it’s all right. I can repair it without you needing to undress,” she assured him, and then blushed.

He watched her as she thanked the returning servant, and then drew her stool closer to his chair, leaning forward to begin her work. Her hair brushed his chin as she bent her head, and he wondered whether she was hiding her blushes from him. Why had she blushed? Was the thought of a man half-naked so embarrassing to her? Or was it the thought of
him
half-naked?

His cogitations were abruptly halted by the needle pricking his flesh. He jumped; he couldn’t help it.

“Ooh! I am so—so . . . Forgive me, please.”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed, appalled.

He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, at first to reassure her and then because her skin was so soft and smooth, and at this moment he wanted to touch her more than anything in the world.

“It was nothing.”

She shook her head and he saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “You will be glad to be rid of the pair of us. Annabelle is ill on you and then I stick you with a needle.”