To Pleasure a Duke (5 page)

Sinclair was no longer behind her. Eugenie turned and found him standing stiff as a poker watching as Terry fought a mock battle with a sharp-looking sword, having taken it down from its place on the wall.

“Terry, please be careful!” she cried. “That doesn’t belong to you!”

“It’s only an old sword,” he said scornfully, feinting a thrust at an imaginary foe. But the weight was too much for him, and the tip struck the marble floor with a loud ring.

“That ‘old sword’ belonged to the first duke,” Sinclair spoke in frozen tones. “It is a family treasure and I would prefer it to remain in one piece.”

Terry, his confidence dented by his almost accident, replaced it with an uneasy glance at the present duke. “I was only trying it out,” he said sulkily.

“Learn to use it first,” Sinclair snapped.

Behave yourself!
Eugenie mouthed at her brother as she turned away.

She resumed her walk. A sideways glance showed the duke was not amused by her brother’s antics, his mouth straight and thin, his chin jutting. “I apologize, Your Grace. Terry has hopes of joining the army. He imagines himself as a gallant officer fighting off the enemy.”

“Hmm.” He gave her a considering look.

Eugenie smiled. “He is young, Your Grace. Do you remember what you were like at that age? I’m sure he will improve with time.”

He searched her face, a crease appearing between his brows.

“As yet there has been no suitable commission,” Eugenie added, wondering what it was he could see that was so fascinating. The truth, probably. That they could not in fact afford a commission, suitable or unsuitable. She gave him another smile, and strolled on, nervous about the manner in which he continued to stare at her.

Eugenie was starting to feel as if this gallery would never end.

“Miss Belmont.” His voice was abrupt. “I beg your pardon but . . . Have we met before? Not in the lane, of course I do not mean that. I mean some time ago. Just now I had the strangest feeling that we had met somewhere before. That would explain why I’ve been thinking about you all—” He stopped as abruptly as he’d started, his lean cheeks flushed.

Startled, Eugenie shook her head, meeting the intent look in his eyes. “I am certain we have not.”

“Your smile . . . Yes, there
is
something familiar about it. I am not going mad,” he went on, and now he was quite flushed. “Have we met? I demand you tell me at once.”

“I assure you I would if I could. I can honestly swear to you that we hadn’t met before the day in the lane.”

“You have no sisters who resemble you?”

“I have not.”

“Cousins?”

“Alas, no.”

“Then I am flummoxed,” he said. “Never mind, it will come to me.”

Eugenie could not help but hope it would not. It was probably something uncomfortable, like being pointed out to Sinclair in the village as that Belmont hoyden or Belmont’s ramshackle daughter. From experience she just knew it could not be anything good.

To her relief they were nearing the end of the gallery. A few portraits hung upon the walls, several enormous canvasses showing the Dukes of Somerton doing heroic deeds or seated on fat horses with small heads. There was even one of Boudicca—or at least she thought it was Boudicca—with her bosom barely covered with a flimsy robe and her hair streaming behind her as she drove her chariot toward her glorious end. The smile on her face seemed rather unlikely, unless she was laughing at fate.

“Aha!”

His cry made her jump. He was clutching her arm, his hand large and warm, his fingers tighter than was comfortable. With his other hand he pointed triumphantly at the vast painting.

“You see! I knew I had seen you somewhere before!”

Chapter 4

E
ugenie stared up at the painting, trying to see what the duke saw. As far as she could tell Boudicca bore no resemblance to herself, none whatsoever. Perhaps the hair was somewhat similar, although far redder than her own, and the eyes had a hint of green in their mad glare . . . but the likeness was extremely nebulous.

“This came from an eighteenth century royal household, I believe,” Sinclair was saying, dredging up his memory of the painting. “My ancestor bought it because there seemed to be very few women hanging among our ancestors and he considered Boudicca an acceptable addition. I wonder, Miss Belmont, if this might be your ancestress? George’s mistress?”

Eugenie made a sound that could have meant anything. The woman in the painting was fierce and pagan, neither of which Eugenie considered part of her own character. Sinclair seemed rather excited by his conclusions but all she wanted to do was stroll on and leave her unsavory great-grandmamma—if indeed it was her—behind.

“Good Gad, Genie, is that you?” Terry was standing, mouth open, staring up at Boudicca.

“It’s very like, isn’t it?” Sinclair said, forgetting for a moment his dislike of the boy.

“Could be twins,” Terry agreed obligingly.

“Well, I can’t see it,” Eugenie burst out uncomfortably.

Sinclair and Terry exchanged a look.

“No need to take it like that, Genie,” her brother murmured. “You should be flattered.”

“Well, I’m not,” she said, and strode off down the final stretch of the gallery, not caring whether the duke followed her or not.

S
inclair found her in the yellow saloon, standing before the French windows and gazing out over the terrace and a fine sweep of the gardens. Her slim back was very straight, rigid almost, as if she was determined to show she didn’t care about the painting.

Now that he considered the matter he realized the resemblance wasn’t all that great. Just enough to strike a chord in him. Certainly not as apparent as her brother claimed, which was no doubt to repay his sister for her admonishment over the sword.

Sinclair rang for tea, and Terry threw himself in a chair covered in striped pink satin and yawned rudely. “I haven’t been to bed yet,” he announced with pride, as if he expected to be congratulated.

“Nothing ages a person more than lack of sleep,” Eugenie said, turning from the window.

“I agree,” Sinclair put in, meeting her eyes. She looked a little pale but her gaze was as clear as ever. “I knew a man once, looked at least sixty. He was barely thirty. No sleep, you see. Wore him out before his time.”

Her mouth twitched but she bit back her smile.

Suspiciously Terry glanced from one to the other of them. “You must think I’m an idiot. Lack of sleep isn’t fatal.”

“But can you be sure?” Sinclair retorted.

Now Eugenie did smile. He was back in her good books again, he thought with relief and then wondered why he cared so much. It was a mystery to him, just as most things to do with women were a mystery; it was just that normally he didn’t care and with Eugenie he did.

Tea arrived and with it polite conversation. Eugenie took over the pouring of the beverage as if she’d done it all her life, handing out cups, sorting through the trays of cake and sandwiches so that both Terry and the duke were given their choice.

Here, she was in her element.

Eugenie knew polite conversation was one of her strong points—she was particularly good at putting others at ease—and she proceeded to do so. The awkwardness of the moment in the gallery was gone and, thankfully, the duke did not mention it again. They were getting on so well, chatting about this and that. Just for a moment she let herself imagine that Sinclair was thinking what a wonderful duchess she would make.

I knew at that moment I had to marry her.

She pictured the wedding, or tried to, but she had never attended a society wedding and the detail eluded her. And things in her fantasy kept going wrong. When she got to the point where her brothers and Erik the goat were running wild down the aisle, she gave up on it and asked the duke if he wanted more tea.

S
inclair handed over his cup. He wasn’t thinking about Eugenie’s conversational skill or that she would make a wonderful duchess.

Sinclair was imagining what it would be like to kiss her.

The idea came upon him with shocking abruptness, like a dash of cold water on a hot day. He’d been staring into her green eyes, which really were like the clearest of ocean pools, and then his gaze wandered to the dear little freckles sprinkling her nose. After a moment he found himself watching her lips as she spoke—her words could have been babble for all he was listening—and trying to decide on their exact shade of pink. She smiled a great deal, her mouth curling at the edges rather delightfully. In fact her natural repose was smiling.

And that’s when he knew he wanted to kiss her.

He, who never did anything which might undermine his importance or interfere with his lofty position, wanted to kiss a woman whose family were so far below his own they were almost invisible. He who never knew what to say to a woman once the social niceties were done wanted to get intimate with the by-blow of a randy old king and his chambermaid. He glanced across at her appalling brother and found he’d slipped out of the room. Probably gone to pocket the silver, he thought darkly.

“My mother is currently in London,” he heard himself saying. “She enjoys seeing her friends and attending the opera and the theater. She is far more of a social butterfly than me, I’m afraid.”

“You prefer the country, Your Grace?”

“Yes, I do. What of you, Miss Belmont? Are you heading to the metropolis now you’ve been ‘finished’?”

To look for a rich husband,
he almost said.

“My aunt has offered to put me up in London, but I haven’t decided yet. I am required here for the moment—my mother needs help with the twins.”

The twins would be too much for any woman, no matter how much help she had, Sinclair thought.

They were silent, sipping their tea. Eugenie was sitting up straight, her slim figure elegant, her profile turned to him as if she was deep in her own thoughts. Visitors to Somerton were often uncomfortable with its grandeur, overwhelmed by surroundings far above their own, but Eugenie did not seem overwhelmed.

“I wish I
could
go away from Belmont Hall,” she said suddenly, passionately. “I wish I could leave my family behind and launch myself into a new life.”

She gave him a flicker of a glance, as if uncertain whether her words would offend him in some way. He wasn’t offended. While he did wonder why he’d been the recipient of her unexpected confidence he was rather pleased she’d chosen him.

“Why don’t you?” he said cautiously.

She laughed. “I can see you do not understand the difficulties of common folk. How could you? You have everything you might ever want and if you don’t have it then you can quite simply purchase it or find it or—or take it. You are a duke and everyone defers to you.”

“I would have thought that brings its own bonds and ties. I have obligations and responsibilities, remember?”

“But don’t you sometimes wish you could just throw aside all of it and head off on an adventure? Or do something completely out of character, something wild and dangerous? Have you ever done anything wild and dangerous and—and reckless, Your Grace?”

“Can’t say I have, Miss Belmont.”

She sighed. He found himself wondering what she was thinking. She seemed disappointed in him, as if he’d failed her in some way. Sinclair didn’t want to be a disappointment.

“When I was a young boy, I considered being a tinker the most exciting life I could imagine. Wandering free through the countryside, sleeping under the trees and cooking rabbits over a campfire. No parents to insist I do my lessons or sit up straight at the table, no one to remind me of the heavy burden coming to me when I became duke. But when I began tying Cook’s pots and pans about my person and affecting a tinker’s accent my mother put a stop to my ambitions.”

She smiled, and he felt pleased, as if she was rewarding him for effort. “I remember that tinker. He had long dark hair and a gold earring.”

“I think it was the earring that I wanted most of all.”

“I should think, now you are duke, you could wear an earring and no one would dare to comment upon it. They may think you eccentric, but the rich are allowed their eccentricities. Nice try, Your Grace, but I do not think I would consider that reckless behavior, not in your case.”

Sinclair watched as she set down her teacup. What
did
she consider reckless behavior then? When she rose to her feet he felt his own stab of disappointment. “I’d better find my brothers before they wear out your staff.”

He opened the French doors onto the terrace and she paused to admire the potted orange trees in flower, enveloped in their sweet, heady scent. The sunlight caught the red tints in her hair, where the curls were evading the confines of her straw bonnet.

She was no classic beauty.

Nevertheless there was something very fetching about her, something that drew him and made him want to . . . well, to kiss her.

A pulse began beating in his throat as she turned to smile at him, and he wondered what would happen if he did kiss her. Here. Now. Would that be wild and dangerous enough for her? Could he do it? Did he dare?

He leaned closer and she gazed back at him, her lips slightly apart, her pupils enormous and dark. Her scent came to him, an undertone to the orange blossom, sweet and fresh and womanly.

“Eugenie . . .”

But just before he took her into his arms, a familiar voice drifted toward them. Sinclair straightened up. Across the lawn and under a tree was his sister, seated on a swing, and pushing her rather too vigorously was Eugenie’s appalling brother.

Sinclair leaped off the terrace and began to stride toward them with ominous speed.

Eugenie hurried behind, skirts held up above her shoes and stockings, more curls tumbling from beneath her straw bonnet.

“Whatever is the matter, Your—Your Grace?” she called, her voice fading as he outstripped her.

“Annabelle?” he said in his most glacial tone. “Where is Miss Gamboni?”

His sister stopped swinging and looked at him, her beautiful face mutinous. “I wanted some air, brother. Do I need a chaperone for that? Surely you would not begrudge me some air? There will be little enough to be had in London once I am residing there.”

Sinclair eyed Terry with displeasure. “I see you have met Mr. Belmont.”

“Mr. Belmont was kind enough to accompany me for a stroll around the garden,” she replied primly, but with a sly sideways glance at her companion.

Eugenie arrived, breathlessly trying to straighten her bonnet. “Terry, I think we must go now,” she said anxiously, reaching for his arm.

As if, Sinclair thought with surprise, she was drawing him away from danger. Was
he
the danger? Did she think he was going to punch her brother in the nose? He might deserve it, certainly, for inveigling himself into Annabelle’s company, but Sinclair knew he was far above such petty behavior. Still, he took a moment to calm himself.

“Let me introduce Miss Eugenie Belmont,” he said in a milder tone. “This is my sister, Lady Annabelle.”

Caught off guard, Eugenie gave a wobbly curtsey.

Just then a fair-haired girl came hurrying toward them, flushed, her gaze anxious. “Your Grace,” she said breathlessly.

“Miss Gamboni,” he retorted coolly. “We will discuss your failure as a chaperone for my sister later.”

Eugenie felt sorry for the girl, but Annabelle was more interested in persuading her brother to let her have her own way. “Mr. Belmont says there is a ball in the village on Saturday night, Sinclair. Shall we go?”

“Annabelle, you know that is not possible.”

“Why not?” Her voice had grown a little shrill. “He says they have a ball every year at this time and we have never gone. Don’t you think that is a little odd, when we have lived here so long? I want to go, Sinclair. Just because I am marrying Lucius does not mean I cannot have a little treat. Indeed, I think I deserve a treat. Please. You know I love to dance. It is the one thing I miss about London. We have never attended the village balls and yet Mr. Belmont tells me they are a great deal of fun.”

“Rather tedious, sometimes,” Terry put in. “Very strict when it comes to manners, aren’t they, Eugenie? No high jinks allowed.”

Eugenie looked as if she might say something else, but her brother nudged her and instead she reluctantly nodded in agreement.

Despite all of his inner doubts, Sinclair felt himself waver. Annabelle was going to London soon. There would be no time to form a tender for the appalling brother, so what harm could it do? She would probably find the village ball boring and uncomfortable; she would not enjoy being jostled among so many smelly farmers and local worthies. And Sinclair and Miss Gamboni would be there to keep an eye on her.

“We shall see.”

She pouted and tossed her head, but he thought it was more for Terry’s benefit than his own. “You’re so stuffy, Sinclair. You never have any fun and you want everyone to be as boring as you.”

“We must go,” Eugenie said again into the uncomfortable silence, with an urgent glance at her brother. “Thank you again for your invitation, Your Grace. We are most grateful for your kindness.”

“Yes, thank you,” Terry murmured, as he ambled in her wake.

Sinclair watched them go, their heads close, as if in serious conversation. It wasn’t until Annabelle tucked her hand into his elbow that he realized she’d been speaking and he was miles away. Determinedly putting Eugenie Belmont out of his thoughts, he concentrated on his sister.

“You cannot have enjoyed being with Terrence Belmont,” he said. “He’s not up to your mark.”

Annabelle smiled at him fondly. “Sinclair, you are such a snob. And the thing is you don’t even know it.”

J
ack was back in the stables after a visit to Erik, but content to be loaded once more into the old coach. The twins were tired from a game of hide-and-seek with a stable lad and leaned against each other, sleepy-eyed. Terry waffled on about Lady Annabelle and how unaffected she was for a duke’s sister.