by Sara Bennett
He was watching her, wishing his good manners weren’t so ingrained in him. If he was one of his ancestors, the Norman baron perhaps, he would have no hesitation in snatching her up and riding off with her into the night.
“Why are you smiling?” she said with a hint of suspicion.
He told her and watched her eyes widen. “Ride off with me?” she squeaked. Then, her green eyes opened even wider and she cried, “I wonder if you dare. I wonder if I dare!”
He frowned with impatience. “What is it you are daring me to do?”
She giggled mischievously.
“Eugenie,” he growled, taking a step toward her around the barrel. “I warn you, I am not climbing up the church steeple.”
“Goodness, I would not ask that.”
“Then what is making you laugh?”
“I’m sorry. It isn’t really funny but you reminded me with your Norman baron. At Miss Debenham’s we discussed history and visited the ruins of a nearby castle.”
“I thought finishing schools were all about manners and deportment?”
“Miss Debenham was interested in turning out well-rounded girls,” she retorted, with a twinkle in her eye. “Do you want to hear or not?”
He sighed. “Tell me then.”
“The baron who once owned the castle had a wicked reputation. In those days there were very little manners and even less deportment. Not nearly as civilized as now. This baron was prone to riding about his lands on a big black horse and abducting any girl who took his fancy. He’d ride back to his castle and . . . well, the lesson didn’t go that far. But I . . . well, my friends actually, found the idea of being abducted rather appealing, much to Miss Debenham’s dismay.”
He shook his head at her. “You really are the oddest creature. So that is your dare? For me to abduct you?”
For a moment he thought she was going to deny the whole thing. Doubt and a hint of fear clouded her eyes. She was an innocent young lady, he reminded himself once again, and more than likely a virgin. He was dabbling with fire where she was concerned. But Sinclair was too far gone to care. The vision of himself as a baron riding off with her to ravish her had taken hold of him and he was damned if he’d relinquish it now.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a castle,” he said quietly, “and I can hardly ride up the drive way at Somerton with you over my saddle. What would the servants say?”
She smiled, and he was relieved to see that her fear was gone. “You could meet me in the lane, where we first met.”
“I could. Yes, that would be the perfect place to sweep you up onto my horse and ride off with you.”
“Not far, of course,” she added swiftly and a little breathlessly. “Just a little way will do. Just to win the dare.”
His eyes narrowed, but excitement was already coursing through his veins. “I am not in the habit of abducting young ladies in laneways,” he drawled.
“I know. That’s why it’s a dare,” she teased with a smile.
“And when does this abduction take place?”
“Tomorrow? After the morning service?”
“You’re not going to change your mind?” he said. “You’re not one of those girls who promises something and then breaks her word?”
As he suspected, his words stung her pride. “Indeed I am not! I will be there.”
“Then so will I,” he said. Those feelings were stirring inside him. There was excitement. And lust. And longing. And a sense of coming alive after a long sleep.
“I demand another kiss, as surety,” he said, and this time the barrel was shoved determinedly out of his way.
She had no time to struggle, as he wrapped her in his arms and pinned her against his chest and took her mouth, every inch of it, thoroughly. Despite her innocence there was a natural passion in her response—perhaps inherited from her wicked ancestress. Her efforts to kiss him in the same way he was kissing her increased his desire and numbed any conflict he may have felt for her position if he’d been thinking more clearly.
By the time he’d done she was having difficulty standing, and he was unashamed to feel an odd pride in that. Her eyes were sleepy, her lips reddened, her cheeks flushed. What he’d really like to do was lift her in his arms and find a bed, but Sinclair knew—as lost to reason as he was—that it was far too soon for that. Instead he bowed and backed away.
“Until we meet again,” he said, his voice husky, and left her there.
Alone, Eugenie made a sound between a sob and a laugh.
Was she insane? She was playing a very dangerous game, a game to which she barely knew the rules. If she had any sense she would stop now, refuse to meet him tomorrow, tell him it was impossible for her to continue.
And yet her heart was beating fast and hard, his touch had brought her to life in a way she’d never known possible, and his lips on hers made her delightfully dizzy.
It seemed a shame to halt the game just now, when it was getting so interesting. Besides, what would she tell her friends? Wasn’t the Husband Hunters Club all about using one’s feminine wiles to capture one’s prey? Of course there was a difference between capturing one’s prey and becoming the prey.
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.
Annabelle 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.
The 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
Sinclair 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.
Lizzie 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!
It 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 ridin
g 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.