by Sara Bennett
But beneath the facade, Sinclair had become aware that he was lonely. With all his wealth and power, he was a man alone.
It had taken Eugenie to bring him to that realization.
“Sinclair, whatever is wrong with you?”
His mother was staring at him again. The servants were clearing the soup in preparation for the next course, their faces blank, pretending not to listen. He found himself wondering what they thought of him, of his mother—minutiae that had previously been beneath his notice.
“Sinclair is probably thinking of ways to increase his consequence,” Annabelle quipped.
She’d been unnaturally quiet since their mother’s arrival, and looking at her now he noticed her pallor and the shadows under her eyes. Was she fretting about her marriage to Lucius? Sinclair was aware it was unpalatable to her but the life of a duke’s sister could never be as free and easy as a servant girl’s. She must accept that lesson or expect heartbreak for the rest of her life.
Just as he had accepted.
“Of course the wedding will be at St. James’s,” the dowager duchess enthused. “And afterwards those guests we choose to invite can come to the London house for champagne and cake. I think we will have enough room. People are talking about it already, and once the invitations are sent . . . I do believe it will be the event of the year, Annabelle.”
Annabelle smiled, her lashes sweeping down to hide her eyes. “Yes, Mama,” she said like an obedient daughter.
Miss Gamboni gave her a sharp glance before looking down at her plate.
Sinclair frowned. Was there something in his sister’s smile that should make him uneasy? What did Miss Gamboni see that he didn’t? But before he had time to consider the matter his mother was talking again, describing how she intended to decorate the London house, the colors she would use, the theme she had in mind. Then she went on to describe some event she had recently attended, and who was there and what they were wearing. Appearance was all to her.
Suddenly Sinclair was bored with it.
Completely, utterly, and unbearably bored.
He stood up from the table. Three pairs of eyes lifted to his in amazement. “Sinclair?”
He was behaving completely out of character, but he didn’t care.
“My apologies,” he said, moving away. “I have remembered something I must do and I’m afraid it cannot wait.”
“Sinclair, really! I’m sure you can get someone else to do it for you. You cannot rush off halfway through dinner—”
“I have apologized, Mother.”
The door closed behind him and he took a deep breath. He’d actually walked out during dinner. Something he had never done before. Something he would never have thought of doing before. And he felt quite giddy with the thrill of it.
He wanted to see Eugenie.
Now! This moment.
“Have my horse saddled,” he called to one of the servants as he strode across the marble hall. “I have an urgent appointment.”
“Your Grace?” His startled gaze ran down over Sinclair’s dinner clothes. “Aren’t you going to change first, Y-your Grace?”
“Of course I am,” he frowned, as if he’d never forget such a minor detail. The fact was he had. Completely.
Upstairs he waved his valet away, dressing himself with unusual carelessness, and hurrying down the backstairs to the stables. By then his mount was ready and he set off at a gallop, out into the starry night, feeling remarkably free and reckless, and quite unlike himself.
Belmont Hall was not exactly ablaze with lights. Evidently the family kept early hours. It occurred to him that he hadn’t had the foresight to discover which was Eugenie’s bedchamber; however, by the use of his wits he saw one of the windows had a flowery curtain, more suited to a young girl. Probably it had not been replaced as she grew up, and he could not imagine Jack or the other boys with such a curtain on their window. Well, not for long, anyway.
It was a chance the old Sinclair would never have taken. What? Risk embroiling himself in a scandal? But this was the new Sinclair and he was a very different creature.
Standing in the darkness, below the faintly candlelit window, he knew he was behaving erratically. Some would say he had lost his wits. There was a moment when he almost turned away and rode home, but before the urge could take hold, before the old Sinclair could spoil his fun, he bent down and picked up some pebbles from the drive and threw them against the glass in the casement.
They made a satisfying rattle.
A shadow appeared against the candlelight, and then the curtain was drawn aside and there she was. Eugenie. She stared down into the garden, trying to see who was there, and then threw open the casement and leaned out.
Her hair hung loose about her, a waterfall of tumbling curls within which her face was a pale oval.
An angel.
“Terry? Is that you?” she hissed. She sounded annoyed.
Not quite an angel, then.
“It’s not Terry,” he said.
She gasped, her hand creeping to her throat. Or maybe she was holding her nightgown up so that it didn’t dip too far and disclose too much of her pale, curved flesh.
“Sinclair?” she whispered loudly. “What on earth—” She began to shut the casement. “Go away. I don’t want to see you again.”
“Come down. If you don’t I’ll ring the doorbell.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed. Then she saw the stubborn expression on his face in the moonlight. “Wait there. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Sinclair decided he wouldn’t wait under her window. The doorbell threat had been a bluff, and it suddenly seemed far too risky even for his new self to lurk about here. Good God, he wouldn’t put it past Eugenie’s father to demand he call the banns! He saw what looked like an arbor in the shadows behind him, set in the far corner of the garden.
It was an arbor. He ducked under the arch with its overgrown climbing rose, and sat down on a cold stone bench. Probably damp, too, he thought uneasily. He stood up, knocking his head against the arch and its thorny canes, cursed, and sat down again.
If Eugenie was anything like other women he’d known he could be waiting here until dawn while she primped and preened, trying on dress after dress, seeking to make herself beautiful for him.
But he already knew Eugenie wasn’t anything like those other women and that was a big part of her appeal.
Just then she appeared from the shadows, in a simple dress hastily thrown on, a shawl cast about her shoulders, her hair still loose. For a moment she stood, looking all about her, and then he called her name, and she hurried through the garden to the arbor and, arriving breathless, stood before him.
“Sinclair,” she said, sounding annoyed. “What are you doing here?”
The last thing he wanted was for her to find his romantic and impromptu visit annoying. For a moment he found his old awkward and tongue-tied feelings returning, as they always did when confronted by a woman he was attracted to. And then her scent reached out to him, warm woman and orange blossom, and he tried to draw her into his arms with a groan.
She pulled away. “I’ve rejected your proposal, Sinclair. You must believe me when I say I meant my no.”
“I can’t believe you,” he growled, low and intimate.
He thought of telling her exactly what he had done, leaving in the middle of the meal to ride to her, before changing his mind. But one never knew with women—she might laugh at him. Better that she didn’t know just how much he lusted after her. How much power she had over him.
“Sinclair . . . ?” She was peering at him, a frown creasing her brow. She reached out and touched his forehead and, drawing her hand away again, showed him the smear of blood on her fingers. “Whatever have you done to yourself?”
“The roses caught me,” he said, gesturing at the loose canes on the arbor
. “It’s nothing.”
She sat down beside him. “Is it safe for me to be outside with you?” she said.
“Of course,” he retorted. “I am a duke.”
She giggled. “That’s more like the Sinclair I know.” She reached to dab at his forehead with the end of her shawl, but he caught her hands and pulled her against him, kissing her. If she’d resisted he would have released her, but she didn’t, so he lifted her onto his lap.
Her body was soft and unrestrained by a corset, and of course that meant he had to brush his hand against her breast and, when she didn’t immediately protest, cup the firm flesh in his palm.
Her breathing had quickened.
He bent his head and breathed in the scent of her skin through the thin cloth. He could feel the jut of her nipple and covered her with his mouth, gently teasing with his tongue. Her fingers pressed him closer, tangling in his hair, and he could feel her breath, little gasps of sound.
Slowly, he warned himself. Don’t rush her. Don’t frighten her. Don’t break the spell.
She arched in his arms, and then her mouth was searching for his, needy and hot. He kissed her deeply, drawing her closer still, her soft thigh against the hard thrust of his growing erection.
He felt his control slipping. Her bodice was loosened—had he done that? He slid his hand down and felt the warm swell of her skin. This was what it would be like, if she was naked in his bed. He’d come to her every night, and they would lie together and enjoy each other until dawn.
Eugenie moved upon his lap, her hands running down his chest, restless, eager. She pulled the shirt hem from his breeches and then her palms were on his stomach, making him catch his breath. He could see her eyes shining in the darkness, imagined the flush on her cheeks, the swollen pink of her lips.
His control was slipping but desperately, determinedly, he held on. He was a mature man after all, not some callow youth.
And then her fingers closed over his cock.
Chapter 12
He went stock-still, and Eugenie wondered if she had gone too far. Suddenly she was embarrassed by her own forwardness but when she tried to remove her hand, Sinclair fumbled for her fingers and clasped them tightly in his.
“Eugenie,” he muttered raggedly into her hair.
She fitted perfectly into his arms, her head beneath his chin, her body curved to his, as if she was meant to be here.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You were touching me and it felt so nice that I thought I’d return the favor. Should I have waited to be asked? The etiquette of pleasure isn’t something I was taught at Miss Debenham’s.”
“You did nothing wrong. It is just that I am trying to keep control and when you touch me I feel as if . . .”
“As if you might ride off with me like the wicked baron?”
His chuckle was husky. “Something like that.”
She sighed. “I suppose you spend your time with blue-blooded ladies who would never dare to—to touch a duke. You forget I am a hoyden, Sinclair.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I’m beginning to think I prefer hoydens.”
She smiled against his neck. “This must stop, Sinclair,” she said, but he seemed to sense her weakness.
“Kiss me, hoyden,” he growled, and she did so, spending a very pleasurable few moments lost in the hard promise of his mouth. Her body was growing more languorous, and she knew it was just a matter of time before she lost all strength to resist him.
This really was becoming extremely perilous.
His tongue tangled with hers, stroking her, and with each stroke the heat inside her body grew hotter. Just a little longer, she told herself. How could it hurt? Just a little bit more.
His hand was cupping her breast, and she felt the jut of her nipple against his palm, the sensation almost painful, but exquisitely so, as he used his thumb to rub against her. Her body jolted, her breath caught in her throat, and she made a sound she had never made before.
He bent his head and she felt the warm, wet cavern of his mouth close over her flesh. He played with her with his tongue. The pleasure was so new and exciting, she didn’t at first realize his hand was on her thigh, beneath her skirt. Her heart began to bump more quickly as his fingers caressed her soft flesh, edging higher, closer to the moist heat she felt throbbing at her center.
And then his forefinger stroked down the swollen flesh between her thighs, bringing to life even more dazzling sensations. “I don’t think you should do—” she managed, but he didn’t give her time to finish her protest, closing his mouth on hers, while his finger stroked again.
Her body seemed to have a will of its own, savoring every instant of pleasure, wishing it could go on forever.
But it couldn’t and if she didn’t stop him now then she would be lost.
With a soft gasp she slipped out of his arms and stood, a little unsteadily, in front of him. He seemed just as reluctant to let her go but he accepted her decision. And then he glanced down at her feet.
“You are barefoot!” he said, shocked.
“Of course I am. I didn’t want to waste time finding my shoes,” she said matter-of-factly.
“I’m not having you catch a cold,” he retorted, and promptly swept her up into his arms.
“Put me down,” she protested, struggling.
He held her fast. “Stop it. I’m being purely selfish. Kissing a woman with a cold is the very devil.”
Irritably she said, “I have gone barefoot before, more times than I wish to remember.”
“Well, when you are mine, Miss Belmont, you will always be shod, whatever the circumstances. You will have shoes for every occasion.”
When you are mine.
The words were sweet, despite the fact that she knew they would never happen. She would never be his. Not in the way he imagined. Nevertheless she stopped struggling.
He was carrying her toward the house. “Speaking of something I want to do . . . I have a request to make of you, Eugenie.”
“Oh?” She looked up at him suspiciously. “What is it?”
He seemed to be carefully considering his words. “I wasn’t always a duke. Once I was young like Annabelle and I thought anything was possible. Lately I’ve been reliving those days, remembering how it was to be so caught up in my dreams that they were more real than this world we inhabit.”
“Everyone should have dreams,” she said quietly. “Just because we grow up doesn’t mean we have to abandon them.”
He gave a grunt of laughter. “You’re an idealist, Eugenie.”
“Am I? I’m not claiming that dreams always come true, you know. Just that there is nothing wrong in having them.”
“I see.”
She watched him, trying to read his mind as he seemed to be able to read hers, wondering what it was he was going to ask her. Something to do with his boyhood, his dreams?
“What did you want to ask me?” she prompted him at last.
He hesitated and then shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll tell you next time. You’re tired, Eugenie. You should be in bed.”
His voice had turned suggestive on the last word and she forgot to remind him that there wouldn’t be a next time. Her heart skipped a beat. Her skin was achy and sensitive, and the thought of him touching her again brought out goose bumps. Just for a moment she allowed herself to snuggle closer against him, breathing in his scent, and storing up memories.
When they reached the back door he set her down, steadying her a moment, before lifting her hand to his lips. “Goodnight, Miss Belmont,” he murmured, ever so polite.
But his dark eyes were not polite. They were hungry and intimate, promising her so much. In a moment she’d be kissing him again, caught up in the magic that flared between them, lost to all her good sense.
She began to close the door.
“Will you come to Somerto
n tomorrow?” he said quickly. “Bring Jack with you.”
She didn’t answer him and then the door was closed. She stood and listened to his steps retreating, telling herself she would not come.
Eugenie was halfway up the staircase when a little voice on the landing made her stop.
“Was that the duke, Genie?”
With a start, Eugenie looked up. “Jack? Whatever are you doing up?”
“I heard voices.”
She reached the landing and took his hand, steering him toward his bedroom. She lowered her voice, not wishing to wake the twins. Terry’s bed, she noticed, was empty.
“It was the duke, but don’t tell anyone. It was a—a secret visit, to invite us to go to see Erik tomorrow.” Eugenie realized too late she had trapped herself again.
“Oh.” His eyes were round. “The horses, too?”
“Of course the horses.”
She finished tucking him in and bent to kiss his cheek. He rubbed off the kiss with his shoulder automatically, as all boys tended to do when they reached a certain age.
“Goodnight, Jack,” she whispered.
His voice drifted after her. “Don’t worry, Genie, I won’t tell.”
Back in her bed, Eugenie stared into the darkness. Jack had reminded her she was playing a dangerous game. If she was caught alone with Sinclair in such circumstances as tonight then her father would certainly create havoc. There would be a scandal and the person to be hurt the most by it would be Eugenie.
Annabelle giggled as they ran through the garden and into the copse of trees planted by her grandfather when the original wood had been chopped down to make ships for the navy.
“If Mother had caught you she would have exploded,” she added, when they stopped to catch their breath. “Sometimes I am sure she will explode. She sort of puffs herself up.” Her smile faded. “She can be very frightening.”