by Sara Bennett
Pleasure curled ribbons in her stomach. She stood on her toes, and wrapped her arms about his neck, losing herself in the warmth of his lips and tongue, the rough feel of his cheek against hers. A great wave of emotion washed over her, a painful longing, and with it came memories of the wonderful sense of rightness she had felt in his arms.
Was this love?
Then where were all the flowers and butterflies? Why did it hurt so?
Sinclair’s embrace was desperate, his kisses forceful. Could he have missed her as much as she’d missed him? Was it possible that he loved her, too?
“Yer Grace?”
The voice had been repeating itself for some time. Diffident, embarrassed, and perhaps even slightly amused. Finally it penetrated the cocoon about them. Abruptly Sinclair let her go and she blinked over his shoulder at Robert, the coachman, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his tricorn hat held between his gloved hands.
“Yer Grace, we need to be going.”
Sinclair ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away the distraction she’d become. “Very well, thank you, Robert. We’ll be there in a moment.”
He turned to her as the coachman strode away, and there was a frown line between his dark brows. “I apologize for taking advantage of you. I thought all that was behind me.”
“For heaven’s sake, Sinclair,” she said in frustration, “there’s no need to apologize.”
But he wasn’t about to be interrupted. “After we bring my sister and your brother home, all of this will finally be over.”
“Will it?” Tears were shining in her eyes and she couldn’t stop them. “What if I . . . what if we don’t want it to be over?”
His eyes grew icy as they looked into hers. “This isn’t a matter of choice. It’s a matter of proper and sensible behavior. The less I have to do with you or your family the better. You have a bad effect on me, Eugenie.”
She gave a laugh that was almost a sob.
“After this is over I never want to see you again.”
He said it like a promise, or a vow—as if he really meant it with all his heart and soul. Eugenie straightened her back, pride coming to her rescue.
“That makes two of us!”
She pushed past him, hurrying out of the inn and into the stable yard. The ducks were still in the pond but she no longer saw them or paused to smile at their antics. She was determined he would not see how much he’d worked his way into her silly heart. Climbing into the coach, while Robert sat waiting, his long whip poised over the four horses, she flung herself into what had become her corner.
Blast the man! Why did he blow hot and cold like this? It was almost as if he were determined to deny his own feelings. One moment he was kissing her passionately, the next he was telling her he couldn’t see her again. It was like being on a seesaw. If she wasn’t so closely involved in it, Eugenie might have laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation.
They’d lost precious hours and Sinclair blamed Eugenie, despite the niggling sense of fairness that told him it wasn’t her fault. Her being with him meant he’d wasted time changing and washing, and then falling asleep in front of the fire. If she hadn’t been there he’d never have stayed so long. She was a distraction, a bad influence, and he wanted to be rid of her.
Just as well she isn’t my mistress, he told himself, or I’d have strangled her by now.
He looked up sharply as she made a movement, and found her eyes questioning him, although she quickly glanced away. Her profile was proud and irreproachable. Had he spoken aloud? He hoped not. Well, soon it would be over and he could go back to being the Duke of Somerton. No more of this painting nonsense. He’d make a bonfire of his canvasses and then find himself a pretty, biddable blue-blooded girl and marry her.
I shouldn’t have kissed her.
Well, that was her fault, of course it was. She’d looked up at him, her pink lips parted, her green eyes so . . . so green, and he’d lost all control. Again. And now he had the taste of her in his mouth, on his skin, and it was turning his thoughts dangerously carnal.
He’d sworn to himself all those feelings were behind him, he’d been certain they were. After the way she’d treated him his pride should have been in tatters. And now with one kiss she’d stirred it all up again.
No.
Sinclair bit back a groan. That wasn’t true; none of it was true. He’d been indulging in wishful thinking. His feelings weren’t behind him—they’d been traveling with him all along. He’d wanted her then and he wanted her now. He could rant at her all he wished, punishing her for making him feel this way, but it hadn’t changed anything.
She had wormed her way inside his skin and he had no idea how to be rid of her forever. Unless . . . would one more night in her arms do the trick? All very well but what of Eugenie? Sinclair knew that as a man of principle he could not do such a thing to her. Only a cad would use her and then discard her. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he harmed her.
Unless she wanted him to make love to her once more?
There was a thought. What if he pulled her across the coach and onto his lap? She’d protest and struggle but he sensed a rebelliousness in her that matched his own when it came to their physical attraction for each other. One last time, he would promise her. Just one more night together, you and I, and then never again. She would sigh and nod her agreement. Yes, yes, he thought feverishly. She would sit astride him, her arms about his neck, her mouth hot on his. It would only take a moment for him to flip up her skirts and run his hands up the soft, silky skin of her thighs, and then he would slide himself deep inside her. Her body would ripple around him, welcoming him, and she would make those little gasps of pleasure he remembered so well. He would gaze into her eyes, just as he . . . as he. . .
The sensation was so damned real that for a moment he was lost in this fantasy of his own making and he had no idea of what was happening in the real world.
The coach seemed to be tilting, falling, spinning through space. And suddenly Eugenie was in his arms, really in his arms, her cries shrill and frightened. All the same, the warmth of her soft body against his, the brush of her hair against his face, was too much like his daydream and he groaned and began to kiss her. His body was hard and aching with need and he was holding Eugenie, the real Eugenie, not a fantasy woman. He wasn’t sure how his dream had turned into reality but he was certainly going to make the most of it.
The sharp sting of her palm against his cheek cleared his head with a jolt.
Sinclair’s eyes sprung open.
“What . . . ?” he began, finally realizing that there was something very wrong with the coach, and he was lying on the floor between the seats with Eugenie on top of him.
The vehicle was still moving, slowing, with one corner of the body dragging along the ground. Robert Coachman was doing his best—they could hear his voice hoarse with shouting at the horses, words of encouragement interspersed with curses. A moment later the coach came to a halt, and if Sinclair hadn’t been wedged so tightly between the seats he might have been flung into the air. Eugenie, clinging to him like a limpet, her cheek pressed to his, was breathing in his ear.
He no longer felt like kissing her.
His back was aching and one of his legs seemed to be twisted beneath him. As if sensing his urge to tumble her off him, Eugenie clung even more tightly to him.
“You’re choking me,” he muttered. “Dash it, Eugenie, let me go.”
Reluctantly, it seemed to him, she withdrew her arms and pulled herself up onto the seat, kneeling there and peering down at him.
“Are you hurt?” he added. There was a red mark on her cheekbone that looked as if it might turn into a bruise. His reached up to brush her skin with his fingers and she flinched, refusing to meet his gaze.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m sorry I slapped you. You seemed to be about to
kiss me, and I didn’t want you to blame me for it.”
Her voice was stiff and he didn’t understand what she meant, although he had a feeling it was to do with what he’d said to her earlier, at the inn. He supposed it was odd, one moment insisting he never wanted to see her again, and the next kissing her. But then again he felt strange when he was around her—completely unlike himself. Not that he intended explaining that to her right now.
He sat up, then clambered to his feet, and reached for the door. The coach was on a dangerous lean, and when he looked out he saw why. One of the wheels had indeed come off. Robert was still settling the horses, and Sinclair jumped down to the ground and turned back to help Eugenie down, too. She seemed reluctant to allow him to touch her but he did so anyway, swinging her out of the crooked doorway and placing her gently on the ground.
She stepped away at once, turning her back on him.
Leaving her to her sulks, Sinclair went to speak to Robert, who was eyeing the broken coach and shaking his grizzled head.
“My fault, Yer Grace. Went through a puddle and it were deeper than it looked.”
“You should have known better.” Sinclair, normally a fair master, was feeling off kilter after his run-in with Eugenie, and not considering his words. He frowned at the damage. The wheel shaft seemed to have splintered and the axle was bent. The coach would probably be out of action for some time, and they didn’t have that long to wait if they were to catch the eloping pair before they reached their destination and were irrevocably wed.
“It is not your fault if the highway needs repairing,” Eugenie said loudly. “And if you were not such a good driver we could have overturned completely. We could have been killed.”
Robert shuffled a bit and was clearly embarrassed by her championing of him. “I should’ve known.”
“Nonsense, how could you?”
Sinclair gave her an impatient look. “I am not blaming Robert for our accident, Miss Belmont.”
“You are not blaming me, either.”
They glared at each other and then Sinclair sighed, giving up on winning this battle, and turned back to concentrate on his coachman. “Take one of the horses back to the inn and get the staff to help.”
“And what of you, Yer Grace? You don’t want to be waiting here with the lady. Lord knows how long I’ll be. Rumor has it the woods up ahead are full of thieves and highwaymen. Won’t yer come with me and wait at the inn?”
Sinclair shook his head. “I want to go on. Miss Belmont and I will take two of the horses and ride on. You can take the other two with you, and then at least they will be safe from any thieves. Once the coach is repaired, or you can get hold of another one, follow on after us. I’ll make certain we leave directions for you, and by then—with luck—we may even have caught up with the runaways.”
Robert Coachman knew to obey his master’s instructions, whatever they might be, and he obeyed them now. “Aye, Yer Grace. What of your luggage?”
“Miss Belmont only has one bag, and I will put what I need into another.”
Eugenie waited, huddled into her cloak and stamping her feet to keep warm, as Sinclair collected such items of clothing as he considered necessary. She saw him reach into the coach and take a pistol from a pocket between the seat and the door, adding it to his saddlebag. The bags were then attached to his horses.
Robert Coachman set off, and without him it seemed very still and quiet, because of course Eugenie could not speak to Sinclair.
The coach horses had no saddles, and the traces were unwieldy, but Eugenie was an experienced horsewoman and had no trouble riding bareback. He took a moment to admire her seat. Much as he disliked Sir Peter, he knew he was right when it came to his daughter’s riding abilities. Eugenie would have made a fine addition to the local hunt.
They set off at a comfortable pace.
“It can’t be far to the next village,” Sinclair called to her over his shoulder.
Eugenie had allowed him to go first, so that she didn’t have to speak to him. She didn’t answer him now. She had a great deal to think about, and it suited her to remain at a distance from the duke while she did so.
There was the problem of him trying to kiss her in the coach, after he had insulted her so thoroughly at the inn. She’d slapped his face and enjoyed doing it. It had certainly soothed her hurt feelings, but it didn’t seem to have affected him greatly. Instead he had continued to treat her with scrupulous politeness. Why couldn’t he be rude and arrogant again, so that she could hate him as he deserved?
If Eugenie hadn’t felt so confused herself she may have realized Sinclair was feeling no better. That he kept glancing over his shoulder at her made her uneasy, and his treatment of her after the coach collapsed, as if she was as fragile as a porcelain doll, made her want to slap him again. Honestly, she didn’t know what to think anymore.
Chapter 24
The woods were as dark and villainous-looking as Robert had warned. Sinclair, who had taken his pistol from his bag and slipped it into the waistband of his breeches, could imagine every sort of rascal hiding among the trees, watching them pass. The rain grew heavier, which didn’t help. Whenever he glanced back to see if Eugenie was still following him, she had the hood of her cloak pulled low over her head and he couldn’t see her face.
She was sulking about something, although he didn’t know what. Women had always confounded him. As a boy of seventeen he’d loved drawing their bodies but what went on inside their heads was a complete mystery. It didn’t help that she wouldn’t ride beside him, so that he could speak to her or at least keep a watch on her. No, she had to keep back, too far for him to converse with unless he wanted to shout. He told himself for the hundredth time how lucky he was not to have done anything irrevocable, like making her his mistress.
Although, of course, the fact that he’d wanted to and it had been Eugenie who denied him, was something he preferred not to remember. Better to believe the decision had been entirely his; certainly more soothing to his self-esteem. And right now his self-esteem needed all the soothing it could get.
By the time they reached a tavern in a small village in the forest, Sinclair was soaked to the skin. Which certainly didn’t improve his temper. But like the gentleman he told himself he was he waited for Eugenie and helped her down to the cobbled yard beside him. She swayed a little, stiff from riding, and he held her longer than necessary, worried she might fall, worried she might be ill.
“I should never have agreed to you coming on this mad journey,” he said.
Her head came up, her green eyes narrowed in her white face. “You’ve already made your feelings perfectly clear, Your Grace,” she said in a voice as icy as the weather. Tugging herself free she whirled around and began to make her way toward the door leading into the low, smoky-looking and rather dismal establishment.
Sinclair ground his teeth. Once again she’d misunderstood him—deliberately he was sure. Maybe she was right in not speaking at all. Yes, they would proceed in deathly silence; it was the only way they could manage to be together without arguing.
But as he went to follow her he saw that she’d stopped and was standing perfectly still. Puzzled, he drew closer. Something had caught her attention and a moment later he saw what it was.
A child of about seven or eight with a pale, peaked face and dirty dark hair. It was standing by what looked like a pile of old straw and stable rakings. Wide, suspicious eyes flicked between Eugenie and the duke, and the child took a step back. His—Sinclair thought it was a boy—feet were bare and he was wearing clothes that had been roughly cut down to fit his skinny frame.
Forgetting they were not speaking to each other, Eugenie reached out to grasp Sinclair’s arm. “Oh,” she whispered. “The poor thing must be frozen.”
The sight of such children gave Sinclair no pleasure, but London was full of them, and he was currently busy trying to catch
up with his sister, as well as getting his coach repaired or arranging for a new one, and more important getting Eugenie out of the rain and into whatever comfort this poor hostelry could offer.
“Come on,” he said gruffly, and brushed past her, leading the way into the building, confident she would follow.
But she didn’t follow. After waiting impatiently and stamping his feet, he was forced to retrace his steps. As he expected she was still with the child, only now she was kneeling at the boy’s feet, holding his hands, her skirts dragging in the muddy water of the yard while droplets of rain ran down her cheeks from her sodden curls.
The first emotion he was aware of was shock. And then the gentle compassion of her face, in her eyes, caught his heart and squeezed so tight he reached out to grasp the doorjamb, to steady himself. No woman he knew would act with such wholehearted love and compassion; no woman he knew would behave in such a way without worrying what her fellows might think. Would they laugh at her, snigger at her, tell her that she was behaving in a manner that ladies did not behave in?
One does not allow oneself to show emotion in public.
It was his family’s mantra. And yet here was Eugenie, completely unaware that she was breaking all of society’s rules. They simply did not matter to her as much as the plight of this child.
He didn’t know what to feel. A part of him knew he should drag her roughly to her feet and tell her she was disgracing herself, and him, by kneeling in the dirt before the urchin. That was what he should do. But the other part, the part that had been closed off for so long, wanted to wrap his arms about her and hold her. Eugenie was a woman completely oblivious to the petty rules of his world, and if she had known them then she wouldn’t have cared.
He was confused. Until now it seemed as if everything had been clear and precise, laid out before him so that he knew exactly how he was supposed to act and what he was meant to do. And now . . . Eugenie had shown him that those rules were like paper in the wind.