by Sara Bennett
But one thing he knew for certain—he’d been right to seduce her.
Eventually their breathing calmed, and he cuddled her in his arms, turning his face to kiss her cheek and nuzzle her skin. “Eugenie.” Her name sounded different on his lips, and he heard the possessive note in his voice. She was his, and he wanted to lift his head and shout it.
“It isn’t fair.” Her voice was quiet with a tremble in it. “You know it isn’t fair.”
He gave a surprised chuckle. “I didn’t want to play fair,” he admitted. “I wanted you to give in and agree to everything. Be my mistress, Eugenie!”
Something warm and wet trickled down her cheek from the corner of her eye, and he was shocked to see it was a tear. Another one followed, and then she turned her head away quickly, as if she didn’t want him to see. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable, remembering that moment when he might have stopped himself, when he could have kept control. And the guilt made him irritable.
“What is it?” he said. “Eugenie?”
She shook her head but he reached for her chin, his fingers rough in his need to see her expression, to read what she was feeling. If it was hatred, if it was regret . . . he didn’t know what he’d do. She sighed and lifted her damp lashes to meet his gaze.
“Eugenie,” he said again.
Because he saw no regret, no loathing for what they had done.
Only tenderness.
She didn’t speak, but put her arms about his neck and pressed her lips to his, her heart aching, knowing she was jumping from the fire into the furnace and not caring. What did it matter now? What was done was done and she wasn’t about to act like a wronged maiden. This was her fault as much as his.
He only hesitated for a moment and then he was kissing her deeply, and the trembling excitement was rising inside her again, unstoppable in its urgency.
“I need you, Eugenie,” he whispered, bending to taste her breasts. “Why won’t you believe that?”
“I do,” she breathed, kissing his brow, his eyelids, tasting the salt on his skin. Right now, she knew, she would have believed any good thing of her duke.
Boldly, she reached between them, and felt his growing hardness. Her fingers stroked him as he had touched her, gently, curiously. He rested his head against hers, his breath ragged, prisoner to her touch.
A moment later he was sliding between her thighs, sending her into gasps of ecstasy. She closed her eyes against the candlelight, but she could still see the brilliance against her eyelids. This was pleasure as she’d always dreamed of it, all-consuming pleasure.
Eugenie struggled to shut out unwelcome thoughts, not wanting anything to interfere with her moment of physical joy, reminding her that this was not what she’d planned.
Chapter 17
It was very late. Eugenie could feel the perspiration cooling on her body. She was aching in places she hadn’t known existed until now, but again she didn’t care. She felt a wild, recklessness inside her, a throw-caution-to-the-wind type of mood that had gotten her into trouble more than once. But this was trouble of a new sort.
She sat up halfway and looked down at Sinclair. Her lover. Well, it was true, wasn’t it? He was her lover, even if it was just for one night. His hair had tumbled over his face and she brushed it back, smoothing the lines about his mouth, the firm jaw and aristocratic nose, the deep-set eyes with their thick lashes.
He murmured his pleasure at her touch, and she went farther, trailing her fingertips down over his wide throat and broad shoulders. Breathless she lay on top of him, feeling his body molding to hers, more intimate than a man had ever been. She could feel every inch of him, the heat of his skin, the rough texture, the cooling sweat from their vigorous lovemaking. She felt the tingling urge to do it all over again.
“You planned this all along, didn’t you?” she said, feeling her recklessness goading her to say things she would be better not saying.
“I’m a ruthless man. How else could I get what I want?”
“Oh Sinclair . . .”
He quirked an eyebrow. “What?”
She shook her head.
He probably expected her to ask for clothes or jewelry or a pretty barouche—all the accoutrements of being his mistress—that was the sort of world he lived in. She trailed a finger across his lips. “I cannot be your mistress. That was what I wrote in the letter . . . the other letter. I did not mean to come here at all. It would have been better if I had not. I want to end our association now and forever, Sinclair.”
He froze. She could see the shock in his eyes, before she rolled onto her back beside him on the divan. His reaction was anything but encouraging, but she had spoken now.
“What about your reputation?” he said in his most chilly voice. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Of course it does. But becoming your mistress is hardly going to mend my reputation, is it? The only way in which you can repair my reputation now, Sinclair, is to marry me.”
“Marry you?” he said, and laughed.
The words had just popped out but she instantly wished them back again.
“My dear girl,” he drawled, in a hatefully superior tone, “let me explain the facts of life to you. The reason I asked you to be my mistress was because we deal so well together; we enjoy each other’s company. If you wish me to be poetical, then you would be my sanctuary from the tedium of my everyday life. My—my bower of joy. That is what a mistress is, Eugenie. A wife—a duchess—is something else altogether.”
His voice had gained strength and certainty now, and a core of steel.
“When I marry it will be for reasons other than my own personal gratification, although I would hope to find my wife at least moderately attractive.”
“For breeding purposes,” she said, and her voice was without emotion, although her feelings were such an angry jumble she felt as if she might choke on them. Her emotions confused her—she knew she could never have married him—and yet the way he was speaking to her upset her.
“Yes, I will need an heir and a spare,” he drawled, and his lip curled. “I must marry someone with similar bloodlines to my own—and forgive me, Eugenie, but your family is hardly what I would call a suitable prospect. To be raised to such heights as Somerton would only cause them grief. No, my wife must be someone who has been brought up to put the name of my family and my position in society before any personal preference. She will do as she’s told and make no difficulties and help me to run Somerton and my other estates.”
“Make no difficulties?” Eugenie repeated, with a faint laugh. “Is there such a woman? I think you will find few of us able to subjugate our feelings to that extent, especially if we are unhappy. What if she meets someone she likes better than you? You say you will have a mistress. Can your wife have a lover?”
“If she is discrete—very discrete—and only after she has given me my heir and a spare.”
“And will you be discrete?”
“I will not cause her any embarrassment, but it is different for men.”
“Of course it is.”
“Then you do understand!” he said, relieved.
She nodded her head, and then sighed. “You’ve answered my questions completely.”
She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the divan, reaching for her discarded clothing. Her hands weren’t trembling, and yet she felt shaky. Was it anger or hurt or a combination of both? Despite all her declarations to the contrary had she wanted to marry him after all?
“You are no fool, Eugenie,” his voice went on, reasonably. “You know the rules of the world we live in. I cannot believe you really expected me to agree to marry you. Being my mistress is the best offer I can make, and I do so with all my heart.”
She turned to face him, eyes searching his face in the candlelight. If she was any other woman she might give in now and say yes to his offer,
but Eugenie knew she would never be content. When she married she wanted to be the most important woman in her man’s life, she wanted to share with him the highs and lows of marriage, to have his children and to stand beside him knowing he was entirely hers.
And if she couldn’t have that then she’d rather have nothing.
“I should go,” she said, and continued to dress, hastily now, wanting nothing more than to get away from this place. She’d been a fool, but she wouldn’t blame Sinclair for seducing her. The blame was on her side, too. She could have stopped him.
The simple truth was she hadn’t wanted to.
“Eugenie, for God’s sake,” he began, getting to his feet and coming toward her with his arms open. “Give me some hope.”
She let him embrace her but stood unmoving in his arms, and eventually he heaved a sigh and let her go.
“Very well,” he said gruffly. “But we will talk again.”
She didn’t answer him and after a moment she felt tidy enough to leave.
“May I have my letter now?” she said, holding out her hand.
He frowned, but went to a chair where he’d placed his coat and hat, and returned with the letter. Eugenie took it without looking, stuffing it hastily into her sleeve, simply relieved to have it back.
“Thank you,” she said. “And for this evening . . . this glorious evening . . .”
The words caught in her throat and she turned away and hurried out into the dank passageway and through the front door into the night. It did not occur to her to check the letter until she reached home, and by then she was too tired and shattered and fell upon her bed. So it was morning when she finally held the letter in her hands and realized she had been tricked.
Sinclair had given her a letter from his tailor and inside was a bill for a new waistcoat costing fifty pounds.
Sinclair dressed and proceeded to snuff out the candles, one by one. The fading of the light felt somehow symbolic, as if . . . well, as if now that Eugenie was gone so had the brilliance she brought to his world.
Had she even for a moment expected him to marry her? He found such an idea incredible. Marriage for a duke was a business arrangement, nothing to do with feelings of the heart, while a mistress was someone he chose himself.
The last candle fluttered out.
He stood alone in the dark.
She was young, he reminded himself, and perhaps for all her grow-up ways she still had some girlish dreams. She would come to understand the impossibility of marriage and agree to what was possible. And he would sweeten her surrender with an endless supply of presents and treats.
He smiled, imagining it. She was the one woman in the world he both admired and was intrigued by. He doubted he’d ever understand her completely, but that was part of her charm. Thinking of her now he felt his body tighten, wanting her again with a combination of tenderness and primitiveness that astonished him.
Sinclair reached to put on his coat and remembered the letter Eugenie had been so keen to secure. Barker must have taken it to the house, and no doubt it would be waiting for him there. He hadn’t told Eugenie that. She’d seemed so fidgety, as if she might run out into the night, and he’d wanted her to stay. No doubt she knew by now he’d fobbed her off with his tailor’s bill.
He smiled to himself as he imagined her expression. She could take her feelings out on him the next time they met. He just hoped it would be soon.
Chapter 18
Eugenie had barely slept a wink all night. Sinclair must have read her letter by now and she didn’t believe he would ignore it. She’d made such a fuss he’d be too curious to resist, and when he saw what she had written . . . Eugenie was under no illusions when it came to her duke; she had seen his ruthless streak.
It was still early when she heard a commotion outside and the overworked servant was sent up to her room to fetch her down. “Sir Peter says you have a visitor, miss, and to hurry.”
“Who is this visitor?”
“He didn’t say exactly, miss, but I think it’s someone wanting to buy that mare o’ his.”
Eugenie would have preferred to stay in her bed, with the covers pulled over her head, but she reluctantly rose and dressed. She felt unlike herself, despite the familiar clothing and the familiar face that stared back at her from her mirror. She was no longer the girl she’d been. Sinclair had changed her; last evening in his arms had made her someone else. Certainly she would never be able to look at the world in the same way.
How he must despise her! Even if she was able to explain to him why she had written such a letter, and why she had entered into such a plan, he would never understand. She could only hope he decided she was now beneath his contempt and would avoid her from this day forward.
Sir Peter met her at the door of his study, face beaming with smiles. “Eugenie, good, good. Look who has come to take a second look at our mare?”
Eugenie had already seen and her feet took root. Her father had to grasp her arm and tug her into the room.
“Good morning, Miss Belmont.”
His voice was even, his mouth smiled, but his eyes were full of fury.
Feeling sick, Eugenie looked away. “Your Grace.”
“The duke wants you to ride the mare for him, so that he can assess her suitability as a mount for his sister. I said you’d be only too pleased,” her father warbled on.
“I don’t think—”
Sir Peter leaned close to her, lowering his voice for her alone. “And I don’t want any excuses from you, my girl,” he warned. “You’ll do as you’re told.”
“I thought Miss Belmont and I could ride out on the lane,” Sinclair was saying in a pleasant voice, totally at odds with the expression Eugenie knew was in his eyes. “If I have your permission, Sir Peter?”
“Certainly, certainly.”
Dizzy from lack of sleep and too much emotion, Eugenie found herself out at the stables and tossed up onto the mare’s back. Behind her Sinclair was listening to her father pushing up the price, and she rode off a little way, hoping that they would fall out and she may not have to be alone with him. But the next moment Sinclair had mounted his own horse and set off through the gate and down the lane, away from the village.
Reluctantly she followed.
The lane was empty, with only a few farm workers busy in the fields either side. Eugenie’s stomach felt hollow and she remembered she’d had no breakfast. Last night’s meal of exotic fare seemed a long time in the past. Sinclair had fed her with tenderness, his smile warm, his eyes glowing with desire. The man she was riding with this morning might have been a stranger, with his face chiseled from marble and his black eyes blazing.
She’d been dawdling along the verge, hoping to turn back before he could accost her and spill his venom all over her, but now he had stopped his own progress and turned back to her, waiting for her to catch him up.
Coward that she was, Eugenie also stopped, leaving a good distance between them. Too far for conversation, at any rate. She didn’t see the puddle, but the mare did. As soon as she caught sight of her reflection, the creature started violently and jumped to one side. Eugenie, taken by surprise, was almost unseated. She screamed and clung on. Her hair, which she had tied back simply in a long braid, now came lose, hampering her efforts to regain control of the terrified animal.
He appeared at her side—the last man in the world she wanted to rescue her.
“What do you mean by such madness?” Sinclair roared. He looked furious, the icy arrogance she was used to completely vanished. Sinclair was out of control, and she had never seen him out of control.
“The puddle,” she gasped. “She’s afraid of them.”
He glared at her, his black eyes narrowed and savage.
“You read the letter then?” she said, her voice husky with dread.
“Oh yes. I read the letter.”
&
nbsp; She flinched, as though he’d struck her, but Sinclair wasn’t fooled by her act. She’d played him all along and he’d been taken in by her, but no longer would he act the besotted fool. Her written words were burned into his mind, into his soul, and he meant to pay her back a hundredfold for humiliating him.
“Perhaps you would allow me to explain . . .” she began, but her voice trailed off when she met his gaze.
“I’d like to hear your explanation,” he bit out. “Why would you write to your friends and make me a laughingstock? Tear apart my character and mock my pride and my position? Turn me into a game for your amusement!”
His voice was growing louder. He couldn’t remember ever being so angry in his life. She’d done all the things he’d accused her of, but there was something he wouldn’t say aloud. She had hurt him. Struck him to the heart. He’d trusted her as he’d trusted few women and she had betrayed him.
“I’m sorry if I made you a laughingstock,” she said, tears filling her green eyes. “I didn’t mean to. It’s all been an awful mistake. My wretched tongue ran away with itself and I was trapped and when I’m trapped I tend to make things worse . . . well, I’m not making excuses. I accept it was all my fault. I should have told them straightaway that I didn’t even know you, let alone expect to marry you. Your name just sprang into my head! I could just as easily have chosen an earl or a lord or someone else. It didn’t mean anything.”
“I’m glad my pursuit of you didn’t mean anything,” he said between his teeth. “I’m glad you were indifferent to me last night when I took your maidenhead.”
She jumped as if scalded by his anger, and it took all her courage to meet the heat in his dark eyes. “I wasn’t indifferent,” she said. “You know I wasn’t.”
He stared her down. “I thought I wanted to know why you acted as you did. I even thought I might receive an apology.”
She tried to interrupt but he held up his hand.
“Now I find I don’t care after all. You are beneath my contempt, Eugenie. I am glad I discovered what sort of woman you were before we went any further. I have had a lucky escape.”