To Pleasure a Duke (23 page)

“I always think of him as the perfectly behaved child.”

Robert had eyed her cautiously. “Well . . . I can say he weren’t no angel, miss. They sent him off to school and he hated that, but I suppose every boy in his high position has to bear the bad with the good. Then he got that painting lark into his head . . .”

“What painting lark?”

Again Robert considered his words. “I could be speaking out of turn here, miss.”

“I promise I won’t repeat anything you say, Robert.”

He nodded, accepting her at her word. “He wanted to be an artist, miss. A painter. You can imagine how well that went down with the duchess, as she was then. If he’d gambled his inheritance away on the cards they would have been upset, but at least that was what gentlemen do. Artists, according to the duchess, are Bohemians, not respectable at all. She made sure the tutor who’d encouraged him was sent packing and Sinclair was told to pack up his paints and never put brush to canvas again, unless he wanted to be disowned.”

Eugenie felt herself trembling with righteous anger on Sinclair’s behalf.

Robert saw her feelings clearly enough and tried to sooth them. “He recovered,” he assured her. “Went on to find other hobbies, more fitting for a gentleman.”

“Well, they have certainly done a good job of turning him into the perfect duke,” she said. “More’s the shame.”

Robert’s eyes sparkled. “Don’t you believe it, miss. He still has his days . . . and nights, when he’s off painting away. No one to stop him now, see. He hasn’t changed that much, not underneath.”

Sinclair the Bohemian? Eugenie tried to imagine what sort of pictures he’d painted. They must have been risqué if they caused such consternation in his family. Perhaps, if she asked him nicely, he would paint her?

She thought she’d like that.

She’d like it very much.

Chapter 29

S
inclair had spent the morning riding one of his uncle’s horses, enjoying the exercise after being cooped up in the coach for so long. As he took a shortcut past the formal garden back to the stables, he noticed Eugenie walking there with a young man.

Their heads were bent close together and they seemed so intent on each other that neither looked up at his passing.

“That is young Nicholas,” his uncle said, when Sinclair asked him. “His father farms a good deal of land he leases from me. Nicholas will take over one day. They are a respectable family, well off, too.”

Sinclair found himself uncomfortable with the notion of “Young Nicholas” walking in the garden alone with Eugenie, and said so.

“Good God, nephew, are you suddenly becoming all namby-pamby? After you’ve been racketing about the countryside with the girl?”

“That’s different.”

“I don’t see why. Young Nicholas seems to have developed quite an interest in Miss Belmont.” He fixed Sinclair with a serious look. “You’ve said yourself that she’s rejected your less than respectable offer.”

“It was a perfectly respectable offer! Well,” he muttered, “you know what I mean.”

“Oh I know what you mean, dear boy! Swish apartment and all that. Strange she rejected you.” His eyes twinkled. “And of course you can’t marry her, can you? So what’s left for the poor girl? You should be thinking of getting her comfortably settled. I think you could do a lot worse than to put her in the way of Nicholas and see what transpires.”

Sinclair found he did not wish to see Eugenie comfortably settled. All very well for his uncle to place the practical solution before him but Sinclair was not feeling practical.

Not where Eugenie was concerned.

E
ugenie was surprised to see Sinclair in his riding clothes striding toward her through the perennial borders. Mr. Fenton had just left her after a lengthy conversation about the butcher’s daughter and how he longed to marry her, if only his family would come round to the idea. Eugenie wasn’t surprised to be the recipient of a discussion of Nicholas Fenton’s personal problems; it was something that happened to her often.

“Your Grace,” she said, with a little curtsey and a smile.

“Miss Belmont.” He glanced about. “Your companion is gone then?”

“You mean Mr. Fenton? Yes, he’s gone home. Did you wish to speak to him?”

As she was conversing she noticed he looked a little ragged—not his clothes, they were impeccable as always, but his demeanor. Had something occurred? Bad news regarding Terry and Annabelle? But before she could ask Sinclair spoke again.

“I believe Mr. Fenton has been calling rather often?”

That was when the idea struck her that he might be jealous. That he imagined Nicholas was pursuing her and might win her and she would be happily married to another man.

Eugenie knew she shouldn’t be pleased at the idea of the duke being so possessive of her, but she couldn’t help it. She
was
pleased. And she was wicked enough to want to tease him into showing his feelings.

“Yes, he has come here every day. Twice yesterday. Do you know he has the bluest eyes I have ever seen?”

Sinclair gave her a sharp glance. “Indeed. From what I saw of him they looked a little too close together for him to be trustworthy.”

“Oh no, I am sure Mr. Fenton is extremely trustworthy.”

He grunted, and she decided to postpone her game.

“Have you heard anything about the runaways?” she said anxiously.

“No.”

“Where could they have got to?” Eugenie sighed, downcast.

He reached for her hand. As he touched her she felt the tingle of attraction between them, and her blood grew warm. She tried to withdraw from his grip, but he held on, stepping closer, so that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

“I wish . . .” he began, but didn’t finish. His mouth closed tightly on whatever wishes he’d been about to share with her.

His fingers brushed across her cheek, lingering on her lips, and then he was gone.

Eugenie watched him walk away, longing for him to take her in his arms and make her body sing. It was the first time since they’d arrived that the Sinclair she knew and loved had shown himself. Yes, she loved him, she admitted bleakly. It was a love that could never have a happy ending but that did not stop her from feeling it.

H
e’d meant to stay away. He’d sworn he would not go near her again. But here he was, in only his breeches and stocking feet, outside her bedchamber looking down at the pale glow from under the door, like some lovesick hero in a Byronic poem.

His body trembled with need. He wanted her in his arms, his body inside hers. He couldn’t bear the thought of her with someone else—he’d been tormented by visions of her kissing that Fenton boy. His thoughts were chaotic.

He thought about knocking but it seemed ridiculous, so he simply opened the door and took a step inside her room.

She was reading, propped up with pillows, her hair loose about her shoulders and curling wildly, catching fiery light from the candles. Her skin had a soft warm hue, the shawl about her shoulders slipping to disclose a nightdress of plain white cambric.

If she was Helen of Troy he couldn’t have thought her more beautiful.

Her eyes were wide and dark. She didn’t speak and neither did he. They knew each other’s desires too well and with a need so desperate and raw there was only one way to assuage it.

He lay down beside her and blew out the candle. A moment later her hand touched his hair, fingers sliding through the thick wave at his temple, and the next moment her lips pressed to his skin.

“Sinclair . . .”

Blindly he lifted his face and found her mouth. “Don’t speak,” he muttered against her lips. “Pretend this is a dream.”

“Yes, a dream,” she breathed.

Their lips clung. He heard himself groan. Felt her arms slip about his neck as she pressed closer, the soft curves of her body melding itself to his harder angles. He curved his arm about her hips and his hand splayed over her bottom; she was so accessible without stays and petticoats. He hardly knew where to begin.

He lowered his face to her breasts, nuzzling against her, drawing up her voluminous nightgown so that he could press his skin to hers, breathe in her scent, taste her with his lips and tongue.

She was quivering with desire, and he could hear her heartbeat thundering in his ear as he held her close. He slid his hands up her thighs, reveling in her warm skin.

“I can’t sleep,” she said, a catch in her voice.

“Nor can I.”

He drew her closer, and she cupped his face with her palms to kiss his mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids, as if she would know each inch of him. His hands closed on her hips, urging her. He was so hard. He knew if she touched him he’d explode and yet he wanted her to touch him.

“If this is really a dream . . .” she began softly. “I can do whatever I want and it won’t matter.”

“Yes.”

She reached to stroke the ridge of him through his breeches.

He groaned, dropping his brow to her shoulder.

“Should I stop?”

“No, don’t stop . . .”

When she undid his fastenings and began to explore he did not demur, giving himself into her power. She stroked the velvet length of him, her fingers curious, eager.

Her breathing was ragged. Touching him was arousing her. He cupped her mound in his palm, feeling the moist heat of her, and then used his fingers to tease her swollen, slick flesh.

It was time.

Slowly, he eased his way inside her. She was so ready there was no resistance, but the sheer joy of being within her, of knowing her desire for him, was urging him to drive wildly into her body and finish it.

He restrained himself with difficulty.

He rose again, until he was almost completely free of her, and then slid down into her. Slowly, with excruciating care. Using his powers to increase her pleasure. And his.

Her passion was building. Soon she was panting, the muscles of her thighs trembling, her breasts rising and falling, as she moved more quickly upon him. He caught her hips in his hands and thrust hard inside her, meeting her, pushing her.

And then it happened, the wild insane moment when their bodies merged and melded. He covered her mouth with his to stop her cries of ecstasy and his own groans.

For a long time they were quiet, allowing their breaths to slow and their hearts to stop racing. The perspiration cooled on their bodies. Then at last Eugenie shivered and sat up. Her white nightgown enclosed her, her hair was loose about her shoulders. She looked virginal, but he knew she was his own personal succubus, who came to him every night in the darkness and tormented him until dawn.

“Sinclair . . .” she began. “We cannot go on like this.”

“I know.”

He kissed her again, tenderly now, sated, and rose from her bed. The door closed behind him.

Eugenie lay back and closed her eyes. She knew she should be full of anxiety but she couldn’t feel anything but the dull throb of pleasure. If she really did love him then she suspected he was close to loving her. Not that it made any difference to their future.

Half asleep now, she decided on a new epitaph for her gravestone:

Eugenie Belmont, who loved a duke, and died of a broken heart. . .

“T
hey were in Stoke-on-Trent on Monday,” Sinclair announced, looking up with a glitter in his eyes as Eugenie entered the drawing room. “Finally some news.” He paced toward the windows and then back again, too wound up with excitement to stay still.

In the meantime Lord Ridley had risen to his feet and set about making Eugenie comfortable in a green silk-covered chair. “We have heard back from my spies,” he said, with a wink. “The runaway pair has been spotted. They were on the Manchester road.”

“Will we be able to catch them before they reach the border?” she asked anxiously.

“Perhaps you should stay here at Framlingbury,” Lord Ridley said. “Let my nephew chase after them.”

There was a pause. Sinclair looked irritated and distinctly uncomfortable. “No one is forcing Miss Belmont to go.”

“My brother will need me,” Eugenie said cautiously. She knew then they had been discussing her predicament, as if she was something untidy to be sorted and tucked away.

“There, you see,” Sinclair declared triumphantly. “Miss Belmont wants to come with me.”

His uncle frowned. “She hasn’t exactly said that, Sinclair. Is that what you really want, Miss Belmont?”

Suddenly Eugenie felt as if she was at a crossroads. He was asking her if she wanted to remain here and pursue her friendship with Nicholas. She was not silly enough not to realize Lord Ridley had been blatantly throwing them together over the past days. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t enjoy his company, but he was in love with someone else. Just as Eugenie was.

Well, there was her answer. She’d give up the Nicholases of the world any day to go off with the duke to who knew where and get into all sorts of trouble. If she was honest it wasn’t only the need to help Terry that was driving her but the need to be with Sinclair.

“I want to go with the duke,” she said firmly.

Lord Ridley sighed and shook his head. “Dear me, you are as bad as each other. Very well then. Now that is settled . . . With the roads in the state they are it will be quicker if you go by canal.”

Eugenie saw that he had set out a map on the table before her, evidently he and Sinclair had been examining it before she arrived. She could see that it displayed the north of the country with its growing industrial towns and vast tracks of moorland and mountains. There were blue lines crisscrossing the land, some wide and some narrow. They passed through the towns and cities, intersecting and then traveling in all directions, to the ports on the coast as well as on to smaller towns and villages. For some reason there seemed to be a great many blue lines.

“Canals,” Lord Ridley explained, tapping his finger on the intricate network. “They cut across the countryside, using water as a means of transport as opposed to badly maintained roads. The larger canals are used for barges carrying raw materials to the mills from the ports, for instance from Liverpool to Manchester, and then when the cotton has been spun or the wool woven, it is returned to Liverpool to be shipped out. But there are many smaller canals used for transporting local produce from town to village and back again, or carrying passengers.”

He’d grown enthusiastic, and Eugenie could see that the canals were a passion with him.

“And one of these barges will take us on board?” Sinclair said doubtfully.

“Oh there’s no need for that. I have a narrow boat of my own, a vessel built especially for traveling the canals. I find it very restful on the water, once I leave behind the busier commercial routes. And I always have horses stabled at the end of my journey, in Wexham. Once there all you’d have to do is head for the border and stop the lovelorn pair from plighting their troth.” He raised his eyebrows. “So to speak.”

Sinclair shifted restlessly. “I don’t know, Uncle. A narrow boat seems a peculiar way to follow someone.”

“Nonsense, my boy! It is the perfect way to follow someone and I won’t hear any more objections. I consider the matter settled.”

Sinclair was wearing his haughty look but he didn’t offer any further arguments.

“I must write to my family before we leave,” Eugenie said, hastily getting to her feet again. “They must be dreadfully worried.”

At least she hoped so, she thought, avoiding Sinclair’s cynical eyes. Her father would be disappointed if the elopement didn’t come off, but the rest of the family would be relieved to have gotten out of yet another scrape.

“Be ready to leave in an hour,” Sinclair called after her curtly.

“Give the poor girl two,” Lord Ridley retorted. “What woman could be ready in one hour?”

“Eugenie can,” Sinclair said with a note of pride in his voice.

“Oh-ho,” his uncle murmured, with a wink at Eugenie, “then she is a unique specimen of her sex.”

“She is matchless, Uncle.”