To Pleasure A Duke (The Husband Hunters Club #3)

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I t was only the second time Eugenie had been to Somerton. The first time was when she and her parents had visited while the duke’s family was away and the grounds were thrown open to the public. Although she had not been able to enter the house—that was locked up tight—and could only stand gazing at it from various corners of the garden, she had found it quite dazzling. And she took the time to discover a little of its history.

Somerton in its present incarnation was built by the first duke, in the seventeenth century, after he’d covered himself in glory during the wars on the Continent, but parts of an older house remained hidden behind the new, grand facade. The Italian Renaissance architecture was meant to impress—after all this was one of England’s premier families—and one was not allowed to forget it.

“Are you sure you’ve got this right, Jack?” Terry ruffled his brother’s hair. “You’re not having us on? Are you really welcome here?”

Jack ducked away from his hand. “I’ve been before, you know,” he said irritably. “I’m allowed to visit anytime I like. The duke said so.”

“I was there when Erik introduced himself to the duke,” Eugenie reminded Terry. “And I think Jack has made quite an impression with the groom. You know how he is with horses.”

Terry shrugged, playing at being unimpressed. His hair was falling into his eyes, his neck cloth was untied, and he lounged as if there were no bones in his body. It was all an act, she knew that, but she wished he wouldn’t behave that way. She shuddered to think what the duke would think of him. Indeed she shuddered whenever she imagined the duke in the company of any of her family.

But then, she reminded herself, the duke wasn’t likely to come out to meet them personally. Why should he? He must have far more important things to do. Just because her wretched tongue had set her on an impossible course—a husband who had everything she would never have, and who was everything she wished her family could be—did not mean he was going to fall into her hands. . .

And then her thoughts stopped.

A tall, elegant figure was moving toward them, a figure she recognized all too well, and she felt the drummer boy begin his rapid drumming on her heart.

He had come to meet them after all!

“This is your chance, Eugenie,” she heard her friends’ voices in her head, as clear as if they had joined hands and were circling about her, urging her on in this madness. “You must make him notice you. Fascinate him, ensnare him, wind his heart around your finger. Make him fall in love with you. You may not get another chance like this, Eugenie!”

She felt quite giddy and took a deep breath. He certainly made an elegant and imposing figure. She couldn’t help but admire him. If this was a novel he would find her equally fascinating in her ancient dress which was an inch too short at the hem, but unfortunately such things did not happen in real life.

Beside her Terry was still slouching. She dug her elbow into him, making him jerk upright just as Sinclair came striding up to join them.

He was impeccably dressed, his dark hair brushed into the latest style, his boots like mirrors. She felt no warmth from him, only that chilly reserve as he greeted them in measured tones. After Eugenie had dipped her curtsey, she introduced her brother.

“How d’you do,” Terry drawled.

She wanted to elbow him again.

Sinclair lifted his brows and, ignoring Terry, settled his gaze on Eugenie. “Back from finishing school, Miss Belmont. Tell me, how did you find it?”

So he had remembered! She didn’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed that that awful moment had lodged in his memory.

“Most instructive, Your Grace,” she replied breathlessly, ignoring Terry’s snort. “I learned an awful lot.”

His eyes were as coal black as she remembered. Strangely they no longer seemed cold. In fact a smile was lurking in them, a glimmer of something tentative, as though he wanted to reach out to her but didn’t know how. Eugenie knew she must be imagining it. Why would Somerton want to be her friend? It was utterly preposterous. And yet she was aware of her own giddy feelings, that sense of having skipped over her last bridge.

Foolish and ill-conceived her plan may be but she was going to do it. She really was. She was going to go husband hunting for the duke.

* * *

The twins were led off by a young lad to find Erik, but Jack expressed a wish to see the stables first. Sinclair showed the way, with Eugenie hurrying to keep up.

“Thank you, Your Grace, for your generosity in allowing Jack to visit Erik. And your stables,” she said raising her voice as he drew farther away. “He is very excited to see so many beautiful horses.”

“Genie,” Jack murmured, with a disgusted glance.

Now Sinclair did smile. “Just so, Jack,” he agreed heartily. “These are not ‘beautiful horses,’ these are prime horseflesh. Come and I will introduce you to my latest hope for Newmarket.”

Terry mooched along at Eugenie’s side. “Must be easy to be generous when you have everything,” he muttered, unable to hide his envy.

Eugenie frowned. “Do behave yourself, Terry. You promised me.”

He gave a grunt but thankfully said no more. There was even a spark of interest in his gaze as he took in the sleek animals and for a short time he was almost the boy he used to be.

Jack was content to remain in the stables with the grooms, and Sinclair returned to the door, where Eugenie was standing, to ask if she would care for some refreshment. “Terrence, too, of course,” he added, with a cool look at Terry.

“Thank you, that is very—” Eugenie began to answer for them both.

“Do you have any Moroccan punch?” Terry said eagerly.

Sinclair curled his lip. “Good God no,” he said in what Eugenie could almost have called a sneer—a far more credible sneer than Terry’s earlier attempt. “Surely that is only for bounders?”

They set off across one of the wide paths that crossed the immaculate lawn, shaded by old beeches and oaks. After his set-down Terry wasn’t in a hurry to keep up with them, lagging behind like a sulky child.

“I’ve often remembered our meeting in the lane,” Sinclair said, sneer gone.

“Oh?” Eugenie felt herself flushing at her own memories. “I hoped you might forgive and forget, Your Grace,” she ventured.

“I never forget and rarely forgive,” he answered swiftly.

She gave him a doubtful glance.

“Jack has shown himself an incredible horse handler,” he went on.

Of course, he was talking about Jack! she realized, disappointed.

“I would be happy to offer him work here at Somerton when he is of age. What plans does your father have for his schooling? I understand he has lessons with the local parson?”

He made it sound far direr than it was, and Eugenie sprang to the defense of her family. “Reverend Kearnen is an Oxford man. He taught Terry and will be taking on the twins soon.”

Did Sinclair give a shudder?

How extremely rude of him! Even if his attitude was understandable, having met them on one of their worst possible days, she would have expected better manners from him. Sinclair may be the most eligible man in England but he was certainly not the most perfect.

“Do you think your father would be amenable to Jack coming to Somerton?”

Eugenie knew what Jack would wish to do, and she suspected her father would be more than happy to grant him that wish. If the price was tempting enough.

“You must ask him about that,” she said uncomfortably.

His smile was enigmatic, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

The silence drew on.

“Your Grace, I want to apologize for my father’s behavior regarding Erik. Asking for—for money from you, when you had been so generous. It was inexcusable. I hope you did not think I knew anything of the matter, for I assure you that I did not. I have told my father he should return your ten guineas immediately.”

He looked down into her eyes, so green and fierce it was difficult for him to look away. “Never mind that,” he said gruffly, when only a moment before he’d been seething over the very same matter. “I was glad to take care of Erik, despite his propensity to send my gardeners flying.” His lips curled, but this time it was into a smile. “Did you know he broke out of his yard and made a foray into the vegetable garden? We were worried he’d overeaten but he came through. He seems to have a taste for turnips and they don’t like him. Or so I’m told.”

Eugenie was trying not to laugh. “Oh dear,” she said shakily, putting a hand to her mouth. “I am sorry. We should have p-paid you to keep him, not the other way around.”

“Yes.”

She gave him a sharp look and he wondered whether he’d overstepped the mark. He had a habit of putting peoples’ backs up—not that it worried him particularly. Well, not normally. But in this case he found himself wishing to be thought well of by Miss Belmont. He much preferred her smiles to her frowns. And he felt an uncharacteristic urge to flirt with her and tightened the reins on it. The Duke of Somerton did not flirt, especially not with girls like Miss Eugenie Belmont.

“Would you like a tour of the house? The gardens are sometimes open to the public, but my mother refuses to have the masses tramping their muddy boots through the house.” He spoke the words before he remembered she was one of “the masses.”

She was looking at him with her deep green eyes, as if she could read his very heart, and he held his breath. But all she said was, “We’d love a tour of your house, thank you, Your Grace.”

We. He’d forgotten about the brother.

Despite what he’d said earlier Sinclair thought his butler might have the makings of Moroccan punch hidden away somewhere in his pantry, for the odd occasion when it was needed. Perhaps he should offer it to the boy and get him completely sloshed. Teach him a lesson.

But maybe not, he decided, glancing at Eugenie. If he wanted to keep in her good books then he’d best be nice to her brother. Brothers, he corrected himself. All of them.

It didn’t occur to him to wonder why it was he felt he needed to stay in her good books.

* * *

Somerton was just as imposing inside as it was out. Eugenie gazed about, her awe mixed with terror. Could she ever be mistress of this place? Could she become used to ordering the servants and discussing menus and saying things like, “Yes, let’s have a ball for the whole county and invite the queen!” as if the words came perfectly naturally to her.

Of course she was being wildly optimistic. But the thing was, whenever she looked into his eyes, she felt wildly optimistic.

And surely there was nothing wrong in placing a bet with long odds? Her father did it all the time, and sometimes, very occasionally, he won.

She glanced sideways at Sinclair, who had shortened his long strides to match hers, and tried to pay attention. He was lecturing her on the history of his family, and she could hear the pride in his voice, the arrogance. But surely arrogance was acceptable when one came from such an illustrious family? Although, come to think of it, she had heard exactly the same pride in her father’s voice when he boasted about having fleeced someone too foolish to know he was being fleeced. But Sinclair’s pride was different, surely? He would never do anything that was not respectable or proper, certainly nothing as underhand as selling a horse long past its galloping days as a prime racer.

He had stopped speaking and was looking down at her. He seemed to be waiting for her reply to some point he had made or perhaps he’d just noticed her attention drifting. Eugenie cast around for something intelligent to say.

“I suppose your lofty position comes with a great many responsibilities, Your Grace?”

“Naturally.”

His lip curled. Earlier the sneer had been for Terry, but this time it was aimed at her. She felt like pointing out that the curl of his lip made him look less attractive, but perhaps this wasn’t the time. He might take her criticism badly and she was trying to get him to think well of her.

“My father built several almshouses in the village,” he was saying in a pompous tone, “and since I became duke I have built several more. I have tenants who need barns repaired and fences fixed, and villagers who depend upon our charity. The Somertons take their responsibilities to those less fortunate very seriously, Miss Belmont. It is part of being in a position of power.”

“I suppose you think of Jack as a responsibility.”

He appeared surprised. “Your brother is a remarkable lad.”

“He is.”

Sinclair gave her one of his quizzical looks, but at least he wasn’t curling his lip at her. “I don’t believe I think of him as a responsibility, although when he comes to Somerton in my employ then of course matters will change.”

“If.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said ‘when he comes.’ If he comes to Somerton, Your Grace. Such an outcome is far from being decided.”

He said nothing for a moment but she thought that perhaps she had stung him a little. This was no way to go about capturing a husband. She should be flattering him and boosting his good opinion of himself, but she never thought it a good thing to puff someone up with flummery. Sinclair had quite enough consequence; he didn’t need any more.

They were passing through a gallery where the ceiling rose high above them and was covered with a crisscross of ancient plasterwork and murals of heroes in armor hacking off the heads of vicious-looking creatures who had more to do with mythology than nature. Clearly the Somertons were a warlike bunch. Up ahead the statue of a horseman guarded the marble floor, and there were more statues and busts and portraits against or upon the walls. A fearsome array of weapons interspersed them, their sharp edges glinting in the light shining through the long windows.

So this was Sinclair’s history, thought Eugenie, as she warily examined her surroundings. She doubted the Belmont heritage could have been set out like this to be admired. How would such things as gambling away several fortunes, running off with unsuitable women, drunken revels and being royal on the wrong side of the blanket be artistically displayed?

Sinclair was no longer behind her. Eugenie turned and found him standing stiff as a poker watching as Terry fought a mock battle with a sharp-looking sword, having taken it down from its place on the wall.

“Terry, please be careful!” she cried. “That doesn’t belong to you!”

“It’s only an old sword,” he said scornfully, feinting a thrust at an imaginary foe. But the weight was too much for him, and the tip struck the marble floor with a loud ring.

“That ‘old sword’ belonged to the first duke,” Sinclair spoke in frozen tones. “It is a family treasure and I would prefer it to remain in one piece.”

Terry, his confidence dented by his almost accident, replaced it with an uneasy glance at the present duke. “I was only trying it out,” he said sulkily.

“Learn to use it first,” Sinclair snapped.

Behave yourself! Eugenie mouthed at her brother as she turned away.

She resumed her walk. A sideways glance showed the duke was not amused by her brother’s antics, his mouth straight and thin, his chin jutting. “I apologize, Your Grace. Terry has hopes of joining the army. He imagines himself as a gallant officer fighting off the enemy.”

“Hmm.” He gave her a considering look.

Eugenie smiled. “He is young, Your Grace. Do you remember what you were like at that age? I’m sure he will improve with time.”

He searched her face, a crease appearing between his brows.

“As yet there has been no suitable commission,” Eugenie added, wondering what it was he could see that was so fascinating. The truth, probably. That they could not in fact afford a commission, suitable or unsuitable. She gave him another smile, and strolled on, nervous about the manner in which he continued to stare at her.

Eugenie was starting to feel as if this gallery would never end.

“Miss Belmont.” His voice was abrupt. “I beg your pardon but . . . Have we met before? Not in the lane, of course I do not mean that. I mean some time ago. Just now I had the strangest feeling that we had met somewhere before. That would explain why I’ve been thinking about you all—” He stopped as abruptly as he’d started, his lean cheeks flushed.

Startled, Eugenie shook her head, meeting the intent look in his eyes. “I am certain we have not.”

“Your smile . . . Yes, there is something familiar about it. I am not going mad,” he went on, and now he was quite flushed. “Have we met? I demand you tell me at once.”

“I assure you I would if I could. I can honestly swear to you that we hadn’t met before the day in the lane.”

“You have no sisters who resemble you?”

“I have not.”

“Cousins?”

“Alas, no.”

“Then I am flummoxed,” he said. “Never mind, it will come to me.”

Eugenie could not help but hope it would not. It was probably something uncomfortable, like being pointed out to Sinclair in the village as that Belmont hoyden or Belmont’s ramshackle daughter. From experience she just knew it could not be anything good.

To her relief they were nearing the end of the gallery. A few portraits hung upon the walls, several enormous canvasses showing the Dukes of Somerton doing heroic deeds or seated on fat horses with small heads. There was even one of Boudicca—or at least she thought it was Boudicca—with her bosom barely covered with a flimsy robe and her hair streaming behind her as she drove her chariot toward her glorious end. The smile on her face seemed rather unlikely, unless she was laughing at fate.

“Aha!”

His cry made her jump. He was clutching her arm, his hand large and warm, his fingers tighter than was comfortable. With his other hand he pointed triumphantly at the vast painting.

“You see! I knew I had seen you somewhere before!”