To Pleasure a Duke

by Sara Bennett

  He smiled without humor. “You mean, was I blinded by her pretty face?”

  “I am not blaming you for that,” she said earnestly. “Annabelle has a great many admirers. She does not mean to break hearts and disappoint, it is just that she has been brought up to think only of herself.”

  “You need not make excuses for her, Lizzie. Or for me. And you needn’t fear I will run away and leave you both. I won’t do that. I have been brought up as a gentleman, even if the duke does not consider me one. I started this madness and I will see it through, at least until you and Annabelle are safe.”

  “I know you will,” she said gently.

  They wandered listlessly through the grubby streets and smoky alleys.

  “Do you know I have never been farther north than Gloucester?” she said. “This is a great adventure for me, and I am determined to look upon it in that way. My life so far has been very boring.”

  Terry wondered what she would think of his family, his scheming father and Jack with his menagerie and the wild twins. Her blue eyes would grow very round. And yet he had the sense she would not judge them, but she would enjoy them and accept them for what they were.

  However it was unlikely he would see his family for some time and possibly never again if he did not sort out his current problems. The riding on horseback idea hadn’t worked. Could he afford to hire another coach? He knew he could not. He could probably afford a two-wheeled dog cart. Pity Erik the goat was back at home, he was always good at pulling carts. He imagined the look on Annabelle’s face if he drove up to the door of the inn in such a vehicle.

  The image struck him as funny and he began to chuckle and then laugh, and then he couldn’t stop. Lizzie, concerned, tried to discover what was wrong, her worried face close to his. Finally he sagged against a brick wall, weak at the knees, wiping the tears from his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sobering. “I have gone a little mad, I think.”

  And then he noticed that they had walked to where there was a canal running right through the city. An idea came to him and, grasping Lizzie’s hand, he climbed up onto a hump-backed bridge that spanned the canal and they leaned over the edge, watching as narrow barges made their busy way along the greasy stretch of water, drawn along by tow ropes attached to horses and steered by the bargees at the helm.

  “Do you think we could hire a barge?” Terry said, grinning at her. “I have heard the canals run into the north. We could travel a good distance without needing to ride in a coach or on horseback.”

  Surely Annabelle would not be able to complain about that?

  They began to walk along the canal until they found one of the barges being loaded with bags and boxes and dressed timber, and made some inquiries. The deal was quickly done and by the time they headed back toward the inn Terry felt his old self again. Indeed his step was quite jaunty, and Lizzie, squeezing his arm and smiling up at him, appeared merry, too.

  Maybe, just maybe, he told himself, everything was going to turn out right after all.

  Chapter 31

  Lord Ridley’s narrow boat was a long low craft, designed to move easily through the narrow waterways, with their aqueducts and locks and bridges. It was painted in bright blues and yellows and reds, and as Eugenie picked her way down the stairs into the inside of the vessel, she found it quite pleasant and roomy. The captain, known as Johnno, was a short wide man with tattoos of mermaids on his forearms, who informed them he had once sailed the oceans but after one shipwreck too many had decided the inland waterways were far safer.

  “Rufus will get you to Wexham,” he said, nodding to where a large feathery footed shire horse stood on the towpath, tethered to the boat by the length of the tow rope. Rufus would pull them along the canal while his master steered.

  “As long as we make good time,” Sinclair said brusquely.

  The captain gave him a look and a nod. “Never you mind. Lord Ridley has given me me orders, Your Grace.”

  Why didn’t that fill him with confidence? Sinclair asked himself, as he went below. Uneasily he glanced about at his surroundings. The interior of the narrow boat was very luxurious, almost dangerously so in the circumstances. They were on a mission to rescue his sister, after all, not taking a holiday.

  “I knew this was a mistake,” he said. “At least I know where I am with horses.”

  “You hated that coach, remember?”

  “We could have had my uncle’s coach.”

  “We’ll find them,” Eugenie soothed, feeling the need to say something positive when he looked so dour.

  But Sinclair was no longer listening to her. He was staring at a small pencil sketch hanging on the wall. He took a step closer, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, and then with a curse he swung around and caught Eugenie’s arms, hustling her back toward the stairs.

  “What is it?” she cried nervously, trying to see behind him. “Sinclair, whatever is the matter?”

  “We can’t stay here,” he muttered.

  “Sinclair, what are you talking about? We have no choice. Stop it!”

  He did stop, and met her eyes, and she saw that there was something in his that was close to fear. It struck her as so unlike the Sinclair she knew that she pulled away, stepping around him, and making her way purposefully toward the framed sketch.

  “Please, Eugenie. Don’t.” He made another grab for her, but she avoided him, and then she was standing before the sketch.

  It was a drawing of a naked woman, standing by an open window, her hair unbound and curling about her hips. Eugenie didn’t consider herself a prude, and there was nothing obscene about what she saw now, but it was very sensual. There was the sense of something, or someone, beyond the window who had caught the subject’s attention and the fact that she was standing naked led Eugenie to believe whoever was outside was the woman’s lover.

  Sinclair had followed her, and was standing behind her. He was very still, almost as if he was holding his breath. She understood then that it wasn’t fear she had seen in his eyes, but vulnerability. She saw it now in his stance, in his expression, as his dark eyes searched hers as if waiting for an axe to fall.

  “Whatever is the matter?” she said. “Sinclair?”

  And then she remembered the conversation she’d had with Robert Coachman and she turned again to the framed sketch and searched for the artist’s signature at the bottom. Just as she’d thought: S St. John. This was one of Sinclair’s works from his brief career as an artist.

  “You did this?”

  He nodded his head, but his eyes remained on hers, searching, as if he was desperately uncertain of her reaction. As if her opinion mattered. Of course he would feel like that after his mother’s attitude to his art, but he should have known Eugenie would never destroy his confidence in such a way.

  “Sinclair, it’s beautiful,” she said gently. “Really beautiful.”

  His shoulders relaxed, his mouth twitched into a relieved smile.

  “Although of course I disapprove of you having naked women in your company. Who was she?”

  His eyes gleamed with humor. “A model I hired. I didn’t know any young women willing to undress for me then.”

  Eugenie tilted her head, examining the sketch again. “Why did you stop?” she said blithely, as if she didn’t know.

  He didn’t answer, saying instead, “I’ve wondered whether you might be willing to pose for me. With your clothes on, of course.”

  She smiled a wicked little smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  He reached for her, tugging her close. She tilted back her head, watching the heat gathering in his eyes, waiting for what she knew would come.

  To her surprise he didn’t carry her to the bed, but lifted her onto the table in the central part of the boat, edging her thighs apart and standing between them. Slowly, intently, he began to unfasten her b
odice. Her breath caught in her throat as first his fingers and then his mouth began an intense exploration of her breasts. She cupped the back of his head, pressing him close, lost in sensation.

  By the time he reached beneath her skirts, she was damp and aching, wanting him urgently. It was her fingers which opened his breeches and caressed the hard length of his cock, drawing him to the entrance to her body, wrapping her thighs about his hips as he drove forward.

  Voices sounded outside and then their captain, his voice drifting down from the deck. “We’re about to head off. Do you need anything, Your Grace?”

  Their eyes met. Eugenie bit her lip. “No, thank you,” Sinclair called in reply. “I have everything I need right here.”

  The boat rocked, began to move.

  With his eyes closed and beads of sweat on his brow, Sinclair groaned softly as he thrust again, taking his time. Their buildup to ecstasy was gradual, relentless, and she wondered if she would ever reach her peak, and then when she did it was so tumultuous she felt as if her heart might stop altogether.

  Afterward they clung together, weak and shaken. Dreamily she said, “Why did your uncle hang that sketch?”

  He lifted her in his arms and she clasped her hands about his neck, resting her head against his shoulder.

  “He admired it,” Sinclair admitted. “He was the only one who didn’t think I should take up more gentlemanly pursuits, like horse racing. He even encouraged me to keep drawing and painting. He did a little sketching himself but he always claimed he didn’t have my talent.”

  “And yet you stopped?”

  “Yes. At least . . . lately I’ve been playing about with my paints again,” he said wryly. “Much to my mother’s disgust.”

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned you can paint from dawn to dusk.”

  The words came out before she considered them, and then she flushed and hid her face from him. “That is, if I had anything to say about it. Which obviously I don’t.”

  He set her down on the lavish bed and she watched him as he began searching through some of the drawers in the table. “My uncle said he’d left some here somewhere . . .” Soon he found what he was looking for, a sketch pad and pencils, and held them up.

  “You said you wouldn’t mind,” he reminded her, rather diffident.

  Eugenie, who wasn’t at all sure about this, managed to put on an air of ease. “How should I . . . eh . . .”

  “Just like that. Perhaps lean back a little, and hold the blanket to your breasts. Like that.” He smiled at her. “Oh yes, very nice.”

  After a moment, with the silence broken only by the scratching of his pencil on the paper, she said, “You won’t hang this one in someone’s boat, will you, Sinclair? I don’t think my family would appreciate it.”

  He grinned. “This one is strictly private,” he answered her. “This one is for me.”

  “Good.”

  They smiled at each other and Eugenie knew with a sense of sheer relief that Sinclair, her Sinclair, was back.

  She’d fallen asleep.

  He wasn’t surprised. She must be exhausted after all their adventures, despite their brief respite at Framlingbury. He leaned back in his chair, stretching out stiff muscles, raising his arms over his head, opening and closing his fingers. He’d enjoyed drawing her, and then watching her sleep. Her riotous hair fell over her cheek, tangled strands tumbling down over the side of the bed toward the floor. Her arm, soft and pale and rounded, was caught in a shaft of light from a narrow strip of window in the deck above, and she breathed softly, peacefully, like an innocent child.

  He felt happy. A sense of deep contentment he couldn’t remember ever feeling before. The movement of the narrow boat, the occupation of his eyes and his fingers, the making of a work of his talent and imagination. All in the company of a woman he was besotted with. If only life could always be like this.

  But of course it couldn’t. How could it be? The world was still outside and soon it would interfere with them, tearing them apart.

  There was another possibility.

  Sinclair rubbed his hand across his jaw, feeling the beginnings of a beard. He could take Eugenie’s hand in his and they could face the world together. People might sneer and mock, but such things couldn’t hurt them.

  Not unless they allowed them to.

  Chapter 32

  For two days they made their way along the waterways, feeling as if they were in a secluded world all of their own. Captain Johnno went about his work with Rufus for company, saying little and paying them no attention. Lord Ridley had chosen him well, Eugenie thought. She wondered, too, whether Sinclair’s uncle might have had something else in mind when he insisted they take the canals north. Something other than catching up with Annabelle and Terry, that is.

  Could His Lordship be playing matchmaker for his favorite nephew? Was he giving them the present of this idyllic time together before the real world intruded once more?

  Sinclair sketched her in various stages of undress, all of them flattering in Eugenie’s eyes. But the one she liked best was a sketch he did of her face, half turned away, a little smile tugging at her lips and her lashes lowered, as though she was thinking pleasant and slightly wicked thoughts.

  She probably was, and all of them about Sinclair.

  And then they made love, for hours, lying in each others arms, falling asleep and then waking up to make love again. She had never been so happy and she believed Sinclair felt the same. Perhaps that was why neither of them mentioned what might happen when this interlude was over. They did not speak of the future, or even the possibility of a future.

  To speak of it was to make it all too real and then they would have to make decisions. Every other time they had begun to discuss their future they had fallen out. So Eugenie preferred to drift, with the narrow boat, and enjoy each moment as it came.

  But of course their journey had an ending, and now it was fast approaching. When Johnno informed them they were approaching the last lock on this stretch of canal, the last lock before Wexham, where they would take to the road once more, Eugenie was shocked. The last lock had a certain significance. She could no longer pretend they would go on forever, drifting like flotsam, careless of what was ahead.

  Sinclair seemed to feel it, too, although he didn’t say so. But he was quieter, more introverted, caught up in his own thoughts.

  Of course she didn’t ask what those thoughts were, and if he wondered the same about her, then Sinclair didn’t ask, either.

  The lock consisted of wooden gates and levers, and by the working of these the lockkeeper allowed the narrow boat to pass into a closed off section of the canal. The gate behind the boat was then closed while the level of water was altered by sluice gates. When the level was the same as the canal in front of the boat, the other gate was opened to allow the boat to continue on its journey.

  Sinclair and Eugenie had already passed through numerous lock gates on their journey, and rather than staying on board they climbed up onto the towpath while the sluice gate was opened and the water rushed in, raising the level of the river. This was an isolated stretch of canal, with meadows and fields surrounding the lockkeeper’s cottage, and they strolled through wildflowers and long grass, the sun warm on their heads.

  Eugenie expected Sinclair to speak about his uncle’s horses waiting at Wexham and the journey north and what they must do, but he said nothing of it. There were willows growing in the marshy land south of the lock gates, and instead they found a place to sit in the shade, watching the water birds going about their daily tasks.

  Sinclair was wearing shoes without stockings—he’d taken to wandering around barefoot lately—his trouser bottoms rolled up, as were his sleeves. He’d taken to the narrow boat as if he’d lived on one all his life, and the change in him was remarkable. Eugenie, glancing at him surreptitiously, wondered how long it would be before
he reverted to the arrogant duke, once he got back to Somerton.

  She dreaded that.

  But still she said nothing.

  When he reached for her hand, turning it over in his, lifting her palm to his lips, she smiled at him. She knew there was love in her eyes and that he could probably read it plainly, if he wanted to, but she didn’t care.

  He sighed and rose to his feet, bringing her with him. The sun was lowering in the sky, the day waning. Another day gone, another day closer to whatever lay before them. Suddenly cold, Eugenie shivered.

  Sinclair didn’t ask why. He simply slipped his arm about her waist and held her close.

  On their way back to the narrow boat the lockkeeper’s wife spotted them and called out to them. Would they have tea in her cottage?

  Her name was Mrs. Burdock and she sat them down at the tiny table in her little kitchen and proceeded to set out her best teacups, blue with pink flowers. As Mrs. Burdock chatted away, her northern accent difficult for Eugenie to understand, she glanced at Sinclair and caught his smile. And for a moment she felt as if they were an ordinary couple.

  “Such a pretty time of year,” Mrs. Burdock went on. “You wouldn’t believe how cold it gets in the winter. Frost an inch thick on the canal some mornings.”

  Eugenie’s gaze rested on a tall dresser opposite her, with its proud display of patterned china, her best wares probably. Mrs. Burdock had been baking and now she produced a plate heavy with large flat cakes with jam in the middle. Eugenie accepted one with pleasure, and the warm crusty texture crumbled into her mouth, the jam sweet and hot on her tongue.

  Sinclair complimented Mrs. Burdock on them and she promptly handed him another.

  “Captain Johnno says that you’re an artist, sir.”

  “I . . .” Sinclair pushed a lock of his hair off his forehead. Under the table his feet in their shoes and no stockings were truly Bohemian. He gave Eugenie a smiling glance and said, “Yes, I am.”

  She thought it was probably the first time he’d ever called himself an artist out loud and was proud of him.