by Sara Bennett
Village balls were always great fun, even if sometimes matters got out of hand. Despite what Terry had told Lady Annabelle, there was certainly no stuffiness or grandstanding, apart from the landlord of The Acorn, who liked to remind everyone that it was down to his generosity that they were here at all. Whenever she had a moment, Eugenie glanced about her, but she could not see the duke or his sister. She told herself firmly that she wouldn’t be disappointed if they didn’t turn up, despite Terry’s insistence that they would.
In fact I would be relieved.
But it wasn’t true, not really. She wanted to see Sinclair again. She wanted to test her feminine skills on him. She wanted—she hardly dared to admit it even to herself—to kiss him.
“Annabelle promised,” Terry said smugly, when she voiced her doubts to him, as if he knew her better than anyone.
“Lady Annabelle to you,” Eugenie reminded him sharply.
He pulled a face at her. “She hates being Lady Annabelle. She says she’d rather have been born in a hedgerow.”
“For heaven’s sake don’t encourage her,” Eugenie hissed. “She sounds very young and impressionable. You’re not planning anything silly tonight, are you, Terry?”
“Depends what you mean by silly,” he retorted. “I’m going to show her some fun, that’s all.”
“Well, I hope that’s all. The duke will lock you up in his dungeon if you do anything to compromise his sister.”
Terry snorted and walked off to join a group of his friends, all of whom were slouching as if they had no bones.
Eugenie told herself that the duke was perfectly capable of watching over his sister and she was worrying over nothing, so she smiled and tapped her foot as the musicians struck up again and tried very hard to enjoy herself.
It wasn’t until there was a stir at the door that she became aware that something out of the ordinary was happening. Eugenie looked up with the rest of the crowd. The tall, handsome figure of Somerton and his beautiful sister had drawn all eyes. The third member of their party was the fair-haired girl, Miss Gamboni, the chaperone for Annabelle, but it was the brother and sister who commanded the attention of the room.
“The Most Noble Duke of Somerton and Lady Annabelle St. John!” declared the doorman—the village constable—in his loudest and most official voice.
Sinclair bowed as he was introduced to the gathering and Annabelle curtseyed prettily. A crush of The Acorn’s elite surged toward them, but already the duke’s gaze was surveying the room over their heads, darting from face to face in the crowded room. Eugenie felt that familiar drummer boy begin his tattoo on her heart. She suspected that Sinclair was looking for her. Who else would he be searching for among this motley lot? With a smile she couldn’t quite contain, she made her way toward him.
As soon as he caught sight of her, something sparked in his dark eyes, despite his face remaining cool and aloof. Annabelle, suddenly noticing her, clasped her arm to draw her into their intimate circle.
“Miss Belmont, how nice to see you again!” she declared, and then half turned aside to avoid her brother’s watchful eyes and whispered, “Where is Terry?”
“I am certain he will find you,” Eugenie whispered back. She wondered if she should offer a warning, but decided against it. This was her night, too, and she wanted to enjoy herself.
“So this is the famous village ball,” Sinclair said, with that sneering curl to his lip she found so extremely irritating. When they were married, Eugenie told herself, she would insist he stop doing that.
When they were married. . .
A giggle escaped her at the sheer madness of the idea.
Sinclair gave her a baleful look. “Is it customary for one to dance or does one watch, Miss Belmont?”
“Well I prefer to dance,” she said cheerfully. “There will be supper, too, later on. But do not expect a late night, Your Grace. The ball finishes promptly at midnight so that the farmers can rise to till their crops and milk their cows.”
He gave her a sharp look but didn’t seem to know how to answer her, or perhaps he was thinking up a suitable put-down.
“Will we stroll about?” Eugenie suggested, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “Then I can introduce you to some of the people present. Although I expect some of them are already known to you, Your Grace.” She added, when he gave her a blank look, “Your tenants.”
He looked down at her gloved fingers, resting so intimately upon his sleeve, and his mouth twitched. “Miss Belmont,” he drawled, bending his head so that only she could hear. “I think you know very well I haven’t come here to play polite with my tenants or eat what passes for supper at The Acorn. I’m here because of you.”
Eugenie felt herself drawn into his dark gaze, like a small bird into a thunderstorm. She might have stepped away, to compose herself, but he’d placed his warm hand over hers to hold her exactly where she was. This was happening too quickly and she didn’t know what to do, how to behave.
“Because of me, Your Grace?” she said, breathless, smiling to make a joke of it. “What could I possibly have to do with your attendance at our village ball?”
His eyes narrowed. Suddenly he looked very formidable and rather flustered. “I am no good at word games, Miss Belmont. Never have been.”
“I’m not playing a game, Your Grace.”
He frowned at her, looked away, but she saw the hint of doubt, of shyness in his eyes. Could the grand duke of Somerton be as uncertain of his next move as she? His vulnerability touched her as his arrogance never could.
“You asked me on the last occasion we met whether I’d ever done anything reckless . . . dangerous. I had the feeling you thought me a poor sort of chap when I denied it and I’ve been considering the matter ever since.”
“I did not mean—”
“Of course you did!” he retorted.
Several heads lifted and he lowered his voice again.
“I have decided, Miss Belmont, that I would very much like to do something reckless and dangerous, but I need your help.”
“M-my goodness, Your Grace.”
He glanced about him and now she could see his frustration in every pore. “This is impossible. We should find somewhere private so that I can explain more fully.”
She tucked an unruly curl behind her ear, giving herself time to think. “Your Grace, I am fully conscious of the honor you do me—”
“That is—”
Eugenie put up a finger, as if to lay it against his mouth to hush him, but stopped herself in time. She tucked the same curl behind her ear, blushing. His eyebrows rose. He was smiling at her.
“As—as much as I would like to speak with you in private, Your Grace, I don’t think it would be appropriate so soon. You’ve only just arrived. Tongues would wag—they are probably already wagging over the time you have spent with me—and although you may think the manners of our villagers quite antiquated I do have to live with them.”
Had she reproved him?
Sinclair believed she had.
It wasn’t often a girl of no birth or family worth considering reproved him for being too forward and making tongues wag. In fact he could never remember it happening before.
Well, it was certainly a step forward in his effort to behave recklessly and dangerously. The tingle of anticipation, the need to have his own way, was growing inside him.
“How long do I have to wait before I can be alone with you?” he said, and wondered if he sounded as sulky as he felt. “I warn you, Miss Belmont, there is only so much of this I can endure.”
She smiled up at him. She really was an enchanting minx. “Not long,” she said.
“Do you promise?”
“Most sincerely,” she answered, and he knew she was teasing him. He couldn’t remember a woman being so free and easy with him, not for a very long time. He didn’t quite kno
w how to respond to her.
While Sinclair was trying to think of a reply Squire Richards came to join them. He knew the man—a pompous fool—but he was claiming Sinclair like a long lost friend, at the same time giving Eugenie a teasing reproof for monopolizing him. A moment later he was being tugged away by the arm through the noise and the crush to a gathering of the squire’s cronies.
He looked back over his shoulder, longing for Eugenie, feeling bereft. But she had already vanished into the sea of revelers behind him.
Chapter 6
Sinclair’s frustration was growing by the moment. Here he was, forced to make conversation with any number of red-faced worthies, when all he really wanted to do was press Eugenie Belmont into a dark corner and kiss her. Thoroughly. Completely.
That is what I’ve come here to do, after all.
The force of his acknowledgement surprised him, even shocked him. Over more recent years he’d convinced himself he was a man of mild passions—women had tried to ensnare him but he hadn’t felt the least bit in danger. Until now. This emotion he was experiencing didn’t feel mild, far from it. Eugenie had brought him here—Eugenie and her dare—and now he wanted to collect his due.
Why not admit that she’d been in his thoughts ever since she laid down the challenge, and that the more he tried to shut her out, the more she returned to taunt him with her pink smiling lips and clear green eyes? He could tell himself that a man in his position had a responsibility to remain aloof from a woman so far beneath him.
But it was no use.
He even dreamed of her at night, and awoke hot and flustered and aroused. Sometimes he was surprised by the erotic fantasies he indulged in where she was concerned.
And now here he was in the same room as her and yet he might as well be in another country.
The music was giving him a headache. The fiddle player in particular was excruciating. Not that Annabelle seemed to care. He’d watched her dance every dance so far, although thankfully not all of them with Terry Belmont. Sinclair was keeping a close eye on that situation. If Eugenie was unsuitable for a Somerton then her brother was ten times worse. He had made some inquiries after their visit and learned that the boy was mixing with unsavory sorts at the Five Bells, drinking and gambling and probably carousing with the village girls. The consensus was that he was his father all over again.
The Belmonts were a thoroughly bad lot.
“Your Grace?”
His heart jolted. He would have spun around like a callow lad, except that at the last moment he remembered who he was and what was due to his position. So instead he turned slowly, in control of himself, and stared haughtily down into her flushed, smiling face.
And then he spoiled it all.
“Thank God,” he growled. “Now can we talk in private?”
She pretended to give it due thought but he could see the laughter in her eyes. “First we’ll need to dance.”
“Dance?” he said, as if she’d asked him to stand on his head.
“Come, Your Grace, it is not difficult. I can show you the steps. Well, some of them. I am not so good at the more intricate country dances but I can waltz. Miss Debenham was very particular about the waltz.”
“I am perfectly capable of dancing,” he said. “That is not the issue.”
But all the same he led her onto the floor and they took up their places. She was light on her feet and seemed to enjoy herself as they strove to find enough room in the sweaty crush to perform their steps. Grimly, Sinclair set himself to get through it, but after a while found it was not so bad. At least it gave him an excuse to hold her close, and he found the scent of her hair as intoxicating as the finest wine in his cellar. Lithe and graceful, her waist slim beneath his hand, he suspected she had underplayed her prowess when it came to dancing.
“Miss Debenham taught you well.”
“Do you think so?” She flushed with pleasure at his small compliment. “I always enjoyed the lessons. Well, far more than embroidery or Italian.”
“I promise not to start a conversation in Italian.”
“Thank you.”
“Or ask you to embroider me a handkerchief.”
A crease drew her brows together. “You would be sorry if you did.”
By the time the music finished he was smiling.
“Now, Your Grace,” she spoke in an unnecessarily loud voice, “supper is this way.” She preceded him through a door and into a narrow passageway. They paused to allow a group of giggling girls to pass through a farther door, which opened into a room even more crowded than the last. Inside, Sinclair could just hear the ring of silverware against china above the chatter and laughter. Behind them the music had started up again and his head began to throb. His headache, forgotten for a moment, was getting worse.
Eugenie had changed direction, darting down a small flight of steps, and he hurried after her. She glanced back at him and then opened a low door and slipped inside. He followed without hesitation, closing the door behind him, and suddenly found himself in a small, dimly lit anteroom. Above him the noise of dancing made the ceiling shake and his head pound.
Eugenie smiled at him. Behind her old bunting was stacked against the wall and what looked like a set of broken chairs was piled into a corner. An empty barrel sent out a reek of sour wine. The dust on the floor was a good inch thick.
Eugenie followed his gaze and grimaced. “I know. It’s rather horrid, isn’t it?”
“You little wretch,” he said, surprising himself with his lack of good manners. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough. Come here.”
It was her fault, he told himself, as he pulled her into his arms. She’d made him wait far too long and he’d be dashed if he’d wait any longer. It was her fault he had a headache, too. It was probably a combination of unrequited lust and the appalling music.
She was gazing up at him, startled, but not struggling. He took that as agreement and kissed her, his mouth pressing hard to hers.
She gave a little gasp and he almost let her go, but a moment later she relaxed into his arms, winding her own about his neck and clinging there as his mouth slid along the full warm sweetness of hers. Now he knew what her pink lips tasted like—ripe summer fruit—and he was relieved to discover she was not too shy to kiss him back. Perhaps she was not as innocent as he’d thought? But her next words disabused him of that.
She smiled and touched her lips. “I don’t think I have ever been kissed like this before. In fact, my experience of kissing is rather limited.”
“I can remedy that.”
Eugenie searched his eyes with hers, as if trying to decide whether he was teasing or not. He’d sounded more serious than he’d meant.
“Well, have I won your dare?” he said. “Is this reckless enough for you, Miss Belmont?”
“I’m glad you decided to take up my challenge, Your Grace,” she said with a husky laugh. “I like you better when you’re reckless.”
Her slender body was soft and pliant against his and he drew it closer, enjoying the feel of her, the fact that she was finally in his arms. He rested his overheated brow against her cool forehead and groaned.
She reached to touch his face, her fingers gentle. “You are very warm, Your Grace,” she ventured.
“I have the devil of a headache,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes closed. Even the dim light in here hurt.
She slid her arm about his waist, helping him take several steps, and the next moment he was sitting on the upended wine barrel. She stood before him, frowning at him, and he felt her hands cup his face, ecstatically cool against his overheated skin.
“I am rather good with headaches,” she said in a quiet voice. “My aunt Beatrix suffers from them and she has a Chinese doctor who uses a special massage to reduce the pain. He showed me when I stayed with her some years ago.”
Above them the music began aga
in, but he concentrated on her fingers, stroking his head and face, finding little areas of pain and pressing gently against them. The pressure never became too much to bear before she released it, and gradually the pain began to slip away. Soon he felt able to open his eyes.
She didn’t notice him watching her at first. She was too busy concentrating on what she was doing. She skimmed her fingers along his brow, massaging his temples with her thumbs in circular movements. He could see her slender neck and shoulders above the white lace of her dress, the pale sheen of her skin. The swell of her breasts were just visible above her bodice, and he wished he could see more. He wished he could undo a button or two and investigate what lay beneath all that clothing.
Instead he reached to encircle her waist with his hands and drew her into the wedge of his thighs and the heat of his body, his breath teasing wisps of her hair. “Thank you,” he whispered against her ear, and felt her shiver. His lips caressed her earlobe and then her jawline, working their way toward her mouth. By the time he reached it her lips were parted, her own breath quick and sharp, and she gave a little moan when he took her mouth with his.
This time the kiss went on far longer and when she pulled away she was breathless, her eyes dark and dreamy.
“Is your headache better?” she said, and stepped back and away, out of reach.
“Oh yes,” he growled, reaching for her again.
But she darted to the side, avoiding him. “Your Grace, we have been away long enough. It will be noticed.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do,” she said primly.
Frustrated, he strode to the door then back. “I need to see you alone again,” he declared.
“Then we must think of another dare,” she said. “Something more difficult. This was far too easy.”
“Oh was it, minx!”