To Pleasure a Duke (24 page)

Eugenie closed the door, her heart thumping. Matchless? Did he really mean that or was he teasing her? She didn’t have time to consider the question now, she told herself, as she hurried toward the stairs. She had to pack and pen a brief note. Perhaps it was just as well she had so few clothes to worry about, although Lord Ridley’s servants had cleaned and pressed what she did have so she was fit to be seen.

It occurred to her to wonder what Annabelle must be feeling. From what Sinclair had said his sister had taken very little with her, too, almost as if she was intent on leaving the past behind. But Annabelle was not Eugenie. All her life she had been used to having the best of everything. Eugenie could not help but wonder how much the duke’s sister was enjoying being out in the world, cut off from her family, reliant upon her own wits and Terry.

Remembering the way Sinclair had behaved when his comfortable coach was taken from him, she did not think Annabelle would be enjoying it at all.

Chapter 30

T
erry had reluctantly let the coach go and taken to horseback. Annabelle insisted that was the only way she could continue the journey north and he was willing to believe her. But Annabelle was no horsewoman, and he should have remembered that. After only a day of riding she declared her back broken and could not rise from her bed at the inn. Lizzie, herself stiff and sore from the unfamiliar motion of the horse, eventually coaxed her into eating some toast and then they went out for a stroll, to stretch her “poor aching legs.”

Manchester was one of the larger and smokier northern cities, and the noise from the mills, running day and night, was not something any of them was used to. Annabelle held her handkerchief to her nose and mouth and gasped and groaned, while Lizzie gazed about wide-eyed. Finally they succumbed to Annabelle’s complaints and returned to the inn, where Annabelle shook out her skirts and pointed out the soot she found upon them, as well as the reek of smoke in her hair.

“How can people live like this?” she wondered.

“I suppose they have no choice,” Terry said wearily.

“How can they have no choice? Everyone has a choice.”

He looked at her in amazement. He shouldn’t have been surprised at her lack of worldliness, not after the past few days, and yet he was.

Lizzie watched them uneasily, aware another argument was brewing.

“What have I said?” Annabelle demanded haughtily. When he didn’t answer her eyes grew wary and a little anxious. “Terry, have I said something stupid again?”

He shook his head. “No, of course not, only . . . Annabelle, if a man, or a woman, has little or no money, how do you think they have a choice about how they earn their living? They will take any job offered them. I believe mill jobs pay well, so I suppose they will take them over laboring in a field or washing clothing for gentlefolk. With the money they can buy food and clothing, they may even buy a house—or rent one. If there are children, then more money needs to be made. Do you see? Not everyone is as fortunate as you, who does not need to work to buy things, because your family already has money.”

“I am sure my ancestors worked very hard for their money,” she reminded him coolly.

“I’m sure they did,” he agreed, although he wasn’t at all sure about that. He remembered his father saying the St. Johns had got rich from fleecing their tenants and enclosing their fields.

For a moment Annabelle was unusually quiet and then she sighed. “I am being stupid, aren’t I? You have done all of this for me and I have been very ungrateful. I’ve never stopped complaining. I’ve even been ill on you, poor Terry.”

She reached out to touch his hand and smiled. She was so beautiful that for a moment Terry thought he might be able to love her after all.

But then she spoiled it.

Her gaze went beyond him and her eyes narrowed. “I loathe the color of the walls in this room,” she said. “Why on earth would anyone choose such a sour shade of yellow?”

Terry stood up. “I think I might go for a walk before dinner,” he said, and closed the door as she began to complain about being left alone. He knew if he spent another hour with her, another minute, he would leap from the window.

He didn’t realize at first that Lizzie had followed him out, and when he did he turned to face her, to tell her to return to the room, that he was not very good company just now. Instead to his surprise he found himself holding out his arm. With a shy glance at him, she slipped her hand through his elbow.

“She has been very spoiled, you know.”

“Don’t make excuses for her, Lizzie.”

“I’m not excusing her. Annabelle is what she is. Perhaps you saw her differently, Terry. She is a beautiful girl. Could you have been wearing rose-tinted glasses?”

He smiled without humor. “You mean, was I blinded by her pretty face?”

“I am not blaming you for that,” she said earnestly. “Annabelle has a great many admirers. She does not mean to break hearts and disappoint, it is just that she has been brought up to think only of herself.”

“You need not make excuses for her, Lizzie. Or for me. And you needn’t fear I will run away and leave you both. I won’t do that. I have been brought up as a gentleman, even if the duke does not consider me one. I started this madness and I will see it through, at least until you and Annabelle are safe.”

“I know you will,” she said gently.

They wandered listlessly through the grubby streets and smoky alleys.

“Do you know I have never been farther north than Gloucester?” she said. “This is a great adventure for me, and I am determined to look upon it in that way. My life so far has been very boring.”

Terry wondered what she would think of his family, his scheming father and Jack with his menagerie and the wild twins. Her blue eyes would grow very round. And yet he had the sense she would not judge them, but she would enjoy them and accept them for what they were.

However it was unlikely he would see his family for some time and possibly never again if he did not sort out his current problems. The riding on horseback idea hadn’t worked. Could he afford to hire another coach? He knew he could not. He could probably afford a two-wheeled dog cart. Pity Erik the goat was back at home, he was always good at pulling carts. He imagined the look on Annabelle’s face if he drove up to the door of the inn in such a vehicle.

The image struck him as funny and he began to chuckle and then laugh, and then he couldn’t stop. Lizzie, concerned, tried to discover what was wrong, her worried face close to his. Finally he sagged against a brick wall, weak at the knees, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sobering. “I have gone a little mad, I think.”

And then he noticed that they had walked to where there was a canal running right through the city. An idea came to him and, grasping Lizzie’s hand, he climbed up onto a hump-backed bridge that spanned the canal and they leaned over the edge, watching as narrow barges made their busy way along the greasy stretch of water, drawn along by tow ropes attached to horses and steered by the bargees at the helm.

“Do you think we could hire a barge?” Terry said, grinning at her. “I have heard the canals run into the north. We could travel a good distance without needing to ride in a coach or on horseback.”

Surely Annabelle would not be able to complain about that?

They began to walk along the canal until they found one of the barges being loaded with bags and boxes and dressed timber, and made some inquiries. The deal was quickly done and by the time they headed back toward the inn Terry felt his old self again. Indeed his step was quite jaunty, and Lizzie, squeezing his arm and smiling up at him, appeared merry, too.

Maybe, just maybe, he told himself, everything was going to turn out right after all.

Chapter 31

L
ord Ridley’s narrow boat was a long low craft, designed to move easily through the narrow waterways, with their aqueducts and locks and bridges. It was painted in bright blues and yellows and reds, and as Eugenie picked her way down the stairs into the inside of the vessel, she found it quite pleasant and roomy. The captain, known as Johnno, was a short wide man with tattoos of mermaids on his forearms, who informed them he had once sailed the oceans but after one shipwreck too many had decided the inland waterways were far safer.

“Rufus will get you to Wexham,” he said, nodding to where a large feathery footed shire horse stood on the towpath, tethered to the boat by the length of the tow rope. Rufus would pull them along the canal while his master steered.

“As long as we make good time,” Sinclair said brusquely.

The captain gave him a look and a nod. “Never you mind. Lord Ridley has given me me orders, Your Grace.”

Why didn’t that fill him with confidence? Sinclair asked himself, as he went below. Uneasily he glanced about at his surroundings. The interior of the narrow boat was very luxurious, almost dangerously so in the circumstances. They were on a mission to rescue his sister, after all, not taking a holiday.

“I knew this was a mistake,” he said. “At least I know where I am with horses.”

“You hated that coach, remember?”

“We could have had my uncle’s coach.”

“We’ll find them,” Eugenie soothed, feeling the need to say something positive when he looked so dour.

But Sinclair was no longer listening to her. He was staring at a small pencil sketch hanging on the wall. He took a step closer, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, and then with a curse he swung around and caught Eugenie’s arms, hustling her back toward the stairs.

“What is it?” she cried nervously, trying to see behind him. “Sinclair, whatever is the matter?”

“We can’t stay here,” he muttered.

“Sinclair, what are you talking about? We have no choice. Stop it!”

He did stop, and met her eyes, and she saw that there was something in his that was close to fear. It struck her as so unlike the Sinclair she knew that she pulled away, stepping around him, and making her way purposefully toward the framed sketch.

“Please, Eugenie. Don’t.” He made another grab for her, but she avoided him, and then she was standing before the sketch.

It was a drawing of a naked woman, standing by an open window, her hair unbound and curling about her hips. Eugenie didn’t consider herself a prude, and there was nothing obscene about what she saw now, but it was very sensual. There was the sense of something, or someone, beyond the window who had caught the subject’s attention and the fact that she was standing naked led Eugenie to believe whoever was outside was the woman’s lover.

Sinclair had followed her, and was standing behind her. He was very still, almost as if he was holding his breath. She understood then that it wasn’t fear she had seen in his eyes, but vulnerability. She saw it now in his stance, in his expression, as his dark eyes searched hers as if waiting for an axe to fall.

“Whatever is the matter?” she said. “Sinclair?”

And then she remembered the conversation she’d had with Robert Coachman and she turned again to the framed sketch and searched for the artist’s signature at the bottom. Just as she’d thought:
S St. John
. This was one of Sinclair’s works from his brief career as an artist.

“You did this?”

He nodded his head, but his eyes remained on hers, searching, as if he was desperately uncertain of her reaction. As if her opinion mattered. Of course he would feel like that after his mother’s attitude to his art, but he should have known Eugenie would never destroy his confidence in such a way.

“Sinclair, it’s beautiful,” she said gently. “Really beautiful.”

His shoulders relaxed, his mouth twitched into a relieved smile.

“Although of course I disapprove of you having naked women in your company. Who was she?”

His eyes gleamed with humor. “A model I hired. I didn’t know any young women willing to undress for me then.”

Eugenie tilted her head, examining the sketch again. “Why did you stop?” she said blithely, as if she didn’t know.

He didn’t answer, saying instead, “I’ve wondered whether you might be willing to pose for me. With your clothes on, of course.”

She smiled a wicked little smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He reached for her, tugging her close. She tilted back her head, watching the heat gathering in his eyes, waiting for what she knew would come.

To her surprise he didn’t carry her to the bed, but lifted her onto the table in the central part of the boat, edging her thighs apart and standing between them. Slowly, intently, he began to unfasten her bodice. Her breath caught in her throat as first his fingers and then his mouth began an intense exploration of her breasts. She cupped the back of his head, pressing him close, lost in sensation.

By the time he reached beneath her skirts, she was damp and aching, wanting him urgently. It was her fingers which opened his breeches and caressed the hard length of his cock, drawing him to the entrance to her body, wrapping her thighs about his hips as he drove forward.

Voices sounded outside and then their captain, his voice drifting down from the deck. “We’re about to head off. Do you need anything, Your Grace?”

Their eyes met. Eugenie bit her lip. “No, thank you,” Sinclair called in reply. “I have everything I need right here.”

The boat rocked, began to move.

With his eyes closed and beads of sweat on his brow, Sinclair groaned softly as he thrust again, taking his time. Their buildup to ecstasy was gradual, relentless, and she wondered if she would ever reach her peak, and then when she did it was so tumultuous she felt as if her heart might stop altogether.

Afterward they clung together, weak and shaken. Dreamily she said, “Why did your uncle hang that sketch?”

He lifted her in his arms and she clasped her hands about his neck, resting her head against his shoulder.

“He admired it,” Sinclair admitted. “He was the only one who didn’t think I should take up more gentlemanly pursuits, like horse racing. He even encouraged me to keep drawing and painting. He did a little sketching himself but he always claimed he didn’t have my talent.”

“And yet you stopped?”

“Yes. At least . . . lately I’ve been playing about with my paints again,” he said wryly. “Much to my mother’s disgust.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned you can paint from dawn to dusk.”

The words came out before she considered them, and then she flushed and hid her face from him. “That is, if I had anything to say about it. Which obviously I don’t.”

He set her down on the lavish bed and she watched him as he began searching through some of the drawers in the table. “My uncle said he’d left some here somewhere . . .” Soon he found what he was looking for, a sketch pad and pencils, and held them up.

“You said you wouldn’t mind,” he reminded her, rather diffident.

Eugenie, who wasn’t at all sure about this, managed to put on an air of ease. “How should I . . . eh . . .”

“Just like that. Perhaps lean back a little, and hold the blanket to your breasts. Like that.” He smiled at her. “Oh yes, very nice.”

After a moment, with the silence broken only by the scratching of his pencil on the paper, she said, “You won’t hang this one in someone’s boat, will you, Sinclair? I don’t think my family would appreciate it.”

He grinned. “This one is strictly private,” he answered her. “This one is for me.”

“Good.”

They smiled at each other and Eugenie knew with a sense of sheer relief that Sinclair,
her
Sinclair, was back.

S
he’d fallen asleep.

He wasn’t surprised. She must be exhausted after all their adventures, despite their brief respite at Framlingbury. He leaned back in his chair, stretching out stiff muscles, raising his arms over his head, opening and closing his fingers. He’d enjoyed drawing her, and then watching her sleep. Her riotous hair fell over her cheek, tangled strands tumbling down over the side of the bed toward the floor. Her arm, soft and pale and rounded, was caught in a shaft of light from a narrow strip of window in the deck above, and she breathed softly, peacefully, like an innocent child.

He felt happy. A sense of deep contentment he couldn’t remember ever feeling before. The movement of the narrow boat, the occupation of his eyes and his fingers, the making of a work of his talent and imagination. All in the company of a woman he was besotted with. If only life could always be like this.

But of course it couldn’t. How could it be? The world was still outside and soon it would interfere with them, tearing them apart.

There was another possibility.

Sinclair rubbed his hand across his jaw, feeling the beginnings of a beard. He could take Eugenie’s hand in his and they could face the world together. People might sneer and mock, but such things couldn’t hurt them.

Not unless they allowed them to.