To Pleasure a Duke (8 page)

Eugenie wasn’t a naïve fool. Her family had been through enough scandals for her to understand what it was to step beyond society’s boundaries and how that might affect her life. But it wasn’t as if she had any great prospects, was it? And kissing the duke had been such a pleasurable experience.

“I will stop before anything really dreadful happens,” she told herself firmly, ignoring the thought that perhaps her great-grandmamma had told herself the same thing, just before she climbed into King George’s bed.

A
nnabelle was breathless from dancing. Her chaperone, Miss Lizzie Gamboni, steadied her and suggested she sit down for a moment, which was a suggestion Annabelle rejected. Of course.

Lizzie sighed. Her charge, a girl only two years younger than herself, was beautiful and headstrong, no doubt about that. Lizzie was beginning to think Annabelle was far too strong-willed for her. She supposed if she had had so fortunate birth as Annabelle then she might believe anything in the world was possible, but Lizzie, the eldest daughter of a vicar in a family of twelve, knew differently. Her life had been sacrificed to the will of others, or so it sometimes seemed, although she tried hard to be grateful for what she had been given.

“May I have this dance, Your Ladyship?” a well-scrubbed farmer said, eyes bright with admiration. And Annabelle was off again before Lizzie could say a word. She had seen the duke watching them and hoped he wouldn’t blame her for his sister’s romp. She could not afford to lose her position at Somerton and she did not know where she might get another.

“Miss Gamboni.”

Lizzie started. It was Terry Belmont, the very person the duke had warned her of, a handsome young man with a bad reputation, and—she admitted this secretly to herself—a heartbreaking smile.

“Mr. Belmont,” she said, and hoped she sounded like a stern chaperone and not an insecure young woman.

But he wasn’t looking at her, instead he was gazing across the bobbing heads to Annabelle. “Is Lady Annabelle’s card full?”

Lizzie smiled. “I don’t think she has a card with her tonight, Mr. Belmont.”

“I did hope to have more dances with her,” he said, longingly.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Lizzie spoke sympathetically. All the young men fell for Annabelle and breaking hearts seemed to concern her not at all. “The duke is watching.”

Terry smiled and she felt her heart do a little dance of its own. He really was very charming and she reminded herself once again that she must be the stern and grim-faced chaperone, or at least pretend.

And then he asked, “Do you ever dance, Miss Gamboni?”

Startled, she looked up at him wide-eyed. “D-dance?” she stammered, before she could stop herself.

He took that as a “yes” and, taking her in his arms, whirled her through the crowd and onto the dance floor. And Lizzie, who hadn’t danced for ages, found herself enjoying herself very much.

T
he supper was as awful as Sinclair had feared, but he forced himself to make polite conversation and then he went to find Annabelle. She didn’t want to go so soon but he insisted, so with a sulky pout she allowed him to escort her and her chaperone—looking suspiciously flushed—back to the carriage.

On the way home to Somerton Annabelle was quiet, but then so was he. He found he had a great deal to think about.

And an abduction to plan.

Chapter 7

S
inclair lifted the lamp and felt a wave of sadness as he saw the state of what had once been his secret room, his sanctuary, the hub of his dreams. He hadn’t been up here in the attic for years and he should have expected neglect, but the dangling lace of cobwebs and the thick dust made the place appear even more forlorn than he’d feared.

Sinclair hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d lain in his bed remembering kissing Eugenie Belmont, the flushed pink of her cheeks and the wild curls of her hair, and as her picture grew clearer in his mind he finally realized what that itching sensation was that was keeping him from slumber. So he’d risen from his bed, lit a lamp and climbed the stairs to the little room in the attic.

Had it really been ten years since he’d been here last?

The memories were still sharp of the day he’d locked that door on his hopes and dreams. Misery and defeat had followed him when he’d turned away and retraced his steps down the stairs; it had felt as if he was turning his back on more than a room. He was rejecting an ideal. He was walking away from the person he’d longed to be and the life he’d wanted to lead.

His mother had blamed his tutor at Eton.

At seventeen years of age, Sinclair had been lit by the fire of paint and canvas and the Royal Academy. He had talent—his tutor said so—and there was talk of him showing some of his sketches and paintings. He’d begun in high hopes, spending hours on his masterpieces, losing himself in the world of his imagination.

Until his mother put a stop to it.

Gentlemen didn’t become artists, she said. Gentlemen rode to hounds and went into politics and gambled in gentlemen’s clubs. An artist was a seedy Bohemian, a disgrace to his name and his family, and that was something she would never allow Sinclair to be. He was a Somerton and he should remember it and live accordingly.

There was no arguing with her, although he’d tried. His maternal uncle, Lord Ridley, had sided with him, but he was a bit of a Bohemian himself—a “loose cannon”—and according to his mother he didn’t count. There was a bitterness in her recriminations, a gleam in her eyes, that frightened him more than he’d admit. She made him ashamed of his own dreams and afraid of the possibility that she was right. But he remained strong and determined, on the outside anyway, certain he could get his way. It was when she broke down in tears, sobbing about his selfishness and how could he do this to her, begging him to reconsider, that he knew she had won.

So he had locked the door on all that he’d longed to be, and turned into the Duke of Somerton, cold and proud and haughty.

Until now, when somehow Eugenie had brought back those boyhood dreams. The itch was there, the urge to pick up a pencil or a paintbrush, and it seemed as strong as ever. Stronger. He wasn’t sure if this was a good development but he was eager to let it take its course. After all, what harm could it do?

Setting down his lamp, he uncovered the easel. The last canvas he’d worked on was waiting there, paint flaking from it, dust discoloring the surface. He wondered if he still had the talent to capture an image. Because he knew exactly who he wanted to paint.

Eugenie.

Eugenie as she was tonight in his arms, flushed and sensuous and beautiful.

And now that he was a grown man there was no one to tell him nay. Oh, if his mother found out she might act shocked, she might wipe a tear from her eye, but she couldn’t stop him. Why should she want to? He’d proved himself a worthwhile duke and a responsible head of the family. No, she had no reason to. The only person who could stop him was himself.

He wondered idly what Eugenie would think if he asked her . . . if he dared her to sit for him. Would she laugh in his face or act appalled? He didn’t think she’d do either. The Eugenie he was beginning to know would probably say yes.

Sinclair smiled. He would ask one of his more trustworthy servants to tidy up in here tomorrow. The paints were all dried up so he would need new ones, but he could order them from London. He supposed his friends and acquaintances would think he’d lost his mind, but they needn’t know about his little hobby. No one need know.

Sinclair closed the door softly behind him, feeling very different from the last time he’d been here. He was looking forward to renewing his acquaintance with the brush, and there was a sense of anticipation stirring in his soul. After all these years he was beginning to understand just how much he’d missed his Bohemian hobby.

L
izzie couldn’t sleep. She wished she could put all of the nonsense out of her head and drift into nothingness, but she couldn’t. She was worried about Annabelle; the girl was up to something. At The Acorn she had seen the glances that passed between her and Terry Belmont, and she was beginning to think there was something more serious to their friendship than a silly flirtation.

Lizzie knew it was her duty to report any fears she might have to the duke, but she also knew Annabelle would consider such tattling as treason and never speak to her again, or else insist she be dismissed. The thing to do was to keep a careful watch on matters without overreacting. Annabelle was marrying Lord Lucius soon. Surely she could not get up to any mischief before then?

Lizzie sighed restlessly and rolled over.

Unfortunately, knowing Annabelle, she could, and would!

I
t had been easier than Eugenie thought to escape the company of her younger brothers. All she’d had to do was make the excuse that she was taking a basket to “the sick” and after some face-pulling they’d gone off to play games, leaving Eugenie to set off with an appropriate-looking basket. Once out of sight she hid it in the hedgerow and, shaking out her grass green skirts and her white lacy cuffs, she hurried off to her abduction.

Trepidation made her knees tremble.

Would he come? He had last time. She couldn’t help but remember the way his lips had fitted so perfectly to hers, the sensation of being held tightly in his arms. She’d never experienced such intimacy with a man before, never expected the sheer sensual pleasure of it. The way his body was hard where hers was soft, the manly confidence of his grip, the scent of his skin, and the faint roughness of his jaw against her tender skin.

Everything had been so new, and yet so perfect at the same time. She felt herself full of optimism and hope, although she wasn’t convinced the duke would go down on his knees and propose marriage to her. Not yet, anyway. But for now she was happy to go in whatever direction fate was taking her and savor the unexpected experience of being pursued by a duke.

There was a drumming of hooves up ahead and then the silhouette of a rider approaching against the sun. Her heartbeat quickened. He’d come, as he’d promised. Perhaps, like her, he’d lain awake all night longing for morning to creep through his window and the church service to be finished.

Sinclair’s horse slowed to a walk as he reached her, giving her time to take in his tight breeches and shiny boots, and the billowing white shirt open at the throat. He looked romantic rather than dangerous, with his dark hair windblown and the flush along his cheeks. When her gaze reached his, she found his eyes glowed with an emotion that echoed a chord in her.

“I thought about wearing a mask, but I didn’t want to frighten the wildlife.”

“I think you look very roguish,” she replied, with a smile. “Just like a wicked baron riding about the countryside looking for wenches to abduct.”

His eyes narrowed. His mouth curled into a wicked-baron smile.

“Then give me your hand, wench.”

She did so. His fingers closed hard on hers, and then she put her foot on his in the stirrup and he swung her up behind him on the horse. She clung about his waist, relaxing against him, pressing her cheek against his shirt and feeling the muscles in his back tighten and shift. Once again she thought how nice it was to be in such close contact with a man, feeling him move and breathe, and drawing in his clean masculine scent.

Her irrepressible curls tugged against their pins and she shook her head so that her hair tumbled free. The wind caught the folds of lace on her bodice and at her wrists, and lifted her skirts to show her petticoats and stockings. It was shocking, she supposed, but she didn’t care. She felt as if they were flying, the two of them, and the world was reduced to the simple equation of Sinclair and Eugenie.

But as they galloped further on, her determination to enjoy the moment began to give way to anxiety. The practical part of her brain took charge, reminding her that if they were seen, if they became the subject of gossip, then her reputation would be in shreds. She imagined explaining to her neighbors that she planned to marry him and the expressions on their faces. Disbelief, scorn, horror. They’d consider her a scheming hussy, or an innocent fool.

Why had she let herself be coerced by her friends’ expectations into declaring her intention to marry the duke? Why couldn’t she have chosen a lord or a baron, or even a plain mister? There had been a gentleman she met when she stayed with her Aunt Beatrix years ago who had paid her a great many compliments and she’d always thought . . . hoped . . . that one day he might seek her out.

It was probably the best Eugenie could hope for when it came to marriage prospects, or so her practical brain told her.

Slowly she withdrew her arms from about his waist, sitting back from his warm, muscular body. Time to put an end to this. Eugenie opened her mouth to tell him to stop and set her down, but just at that moment Sinclair turned his horse into the woods.

Taken by surprise, she clung to him again. He slowed their gallop, as the branches and leaves reached out to enclose them, and the earthy smells of nature pressed upon her senses. It was shady in here, the light turned green and mysterious.

“Duck,” he said matter-of-factly. Instinctively she bent her head and a low branch brushed over them. He glanced back at her with a smile. “Well done, Miss Belmont. A woman who can take orders without arguing.”

Eugenie tucked her tangled hair behind her ears, ignoring his barb. “Where are we going, Your Grace?” she said, unable to hide her nervousness.

“Do call me Sinclair.” His eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Where are we going, Sinclair?” she repeated breathlessly.

“A place I know. Ideal for our game of abduction.”

It was a game, she reminded herself with relief. Of course it was. There was nothing to worry about.

Ahead of them the woods opened into a small clearing. The space was entirely enclosed by trees and undergrowth. The grass was sparse, the air a little chilled from the shade of the taller trees, and there was a hushed silence to the place that made her skin prickle. Sinclair dismounted and reached up to grasp her waist and lift her down. Her feet touched the ground and, suddenly shy, she stepped away, turning to examine her surroundings.

“How did you know of this place?”

“Jack mentioned it to me. Evidently fairies dance here when the moon is full.”

“Do they?” She turned back to observe him. He looked very different from the polished and proper duke who’d appeared last night at The Acorn. Windblown and disheveled, he could indeed be a highwayman or a kidnapper. Someone to treat with caution. Someone to fear.

But Eugenie wasn’t afraid. Instinctively she knew Sinclair would never hurt her, and she was the sort of woman who trusted her instincts.

No, he would never hurt her, but he may well try to seduce her.

That was what dukes did with women like her, wasn’t it?

Her skin tingled at the memory of their kisses; the taste and feel of him in her arms. No wonder the village mothers warned their daughters about the dangers of the flesh! It was far too easy to become addicted.

He came toward her. Reaching out to take her hands in his, he raised one to his mouth and pressed his lips to her. She felt the warmth through her thin gloves and closed her eyes the better to enjoy the experience. When she opened them again he was watching her.

“You set me another dare and I have passed, have I not, Eugenie?”

“Yes, Sinclair, you have passed.”

“Do I get my reward?”

Eugenie knew what sort of reward he wanted. There didn’t seem much point in acting coy, especially when she wanted the contact as much as he did. Stretching up on her tiptoes she brushed her lips over his. With a growl he caught her up in his arms and held her tight against his body, plundering her mouth in a very ungentlemanlike manner.

This was the Sinclair she’d never imagined lay beneath his cold and aloof social exterior. The man few others knew. This was
her
Sinclair, passionate and fiery and very human. Eugenie wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back, giving herself up to the heat of passion.

When at last, breathless and dizzy, she drew away, the sparkle in his eyes had turned into a blaze.

Eugenie felt the same tingle of doubt begin to build again, the unease she’d been experiencing off and on all morning. Was she really not afraid of him? Somerton had seemed the perfect gentleman but perhaps he wasn’t as easy to manage as she’d imagined. Could she really control him? Could she really expect a man who’d had his own way all his life to listen to a woman like her?

Evidently he read her expression again because he gave a rough laugh and said, “Don’t fear, Miss Belmont, I’m not going to ravish you. Not today. Although I cannot make promises about what I may do tomorrow.”

“You’re jesting,” she said flatly. “Aren’t you?”

“Am I?” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you want to be ravished?”

Warm pink flooded her face. “That is hardly something a lady would admit,” she replied automatically. “Gentlewomen do not ask to be ravished.”

“More’s the pity,” he mocked, a sulky droop to his mouth.

“Oh?” She found herself suddenly curious about his domestic arrangements. “I would have thought the Duke of Somerton would have plenty of women begging to be ravished by him. It is my understanding of the aristocracy—which I admit is limited—that they have a mistress in every house.”

Laughter lit his eyes and the sullen little boy look was gone. “Is this your way of asking me whether I presently have a mistress, Eugenie?”