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

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

S inclair’s frustration was growing by the moment. Here he was, forced to make conversation with any number of red-faced worthies, when all he really wanted to do was press Eugenie Belmont into a dark corner and kiss her. Thoroughly. Completely.

That is what I’ve come here to do, after all.

The force of his acknowledgement surprised him, even shocked him. Over more recent years he’d convinced himself he was a man of mild passions—women had tried to ensnare him but he hadn’t felt the least bit in danger. Until now. This emotion he was experiencing didn’t feel mild, far from it. Eugenie had brought him here—Eugenie and her dare—and now he wanted to collect his due.

Why not admit that she’d been in his thoughts ever since she laid down the challenge, and that the more he tried to shut her out, the more she returned to taunt him with her pink smiling lips and clear green eyes? He could tell himself that a man in his position had a responsibility to remain aloof from a woman so far beneath him.

But it was no use.

He even dreamed of her at night, and awoke hot and flustered and aroused. Sometimes he was surprised by the erotic fantasies he indulged in where she was concerned.

And now here he was in the same room as her and yet he might as well be in another country.

The music was giving him a headache. The fiddle player in particular was excruciating. Not that Annabelle seemed to care. He’d watched her dance every dance so far, although thankfully not all of them with Terry Belmont. Sinclair was keeping a close eye on that situation. If Eugenie was unsuitable for a Somerton then her brother was ten times worse. He had made some inquiries after their visit and learned that the boy was mixing with unsavory sorts at the Five Bells, drinking and gambling and probably carousing with the village girls. The consensus was that he was his father all over again.

The Belmonts were a thoroughly bad lot.

“Your Grace?”

His heart jolted. He would have spun around like a callow lad, except that at the last moment he remembered who he was and what was due to his position. So instead he turned slowly, in control of himself, and stared haughtily down into her flushed, smiling face.

And then he spoiled it all.

“Thank God,” he growled. “Now can we talk in private?”

She pretended to give it due thought but he could see the laughter in her eyes. “First we’ll need to dance.”

“Dance?” he said, as if she’d asked him to stand on his head.

“Come, Your Grace, it is not difficult. I can show you the steps. Well, some of them. I am not so good at the more intricate country dances but I can waltz. Miss Debenham was very particular about the waltz.”

“I am perfectly capable of dancing,” he said. “ That is not the issue.”

But all the same he led her onto the floor and they took up their places. She was light on her feet and seemed to enjoy herself as they strove to find enough room in the sweaty crush to perform their steps. Grimly, Sinclair set himself to get through it, but after a while found it was not so bad. At least it gave him an excuse to hold her close, and he found the scent of her hair as intoxicating as the finest wine in his cellar. Lithe and graceful, her waist slim beneath his hand, he suspected she had underplayed her prowess when it came to dancing.

“Miss Debenham taught you well.”

“Do you think so?” She flushed with pleasure at his small compliment. “I always enjoyed the lessons. Well, far more than embroidery or Italian.”

“I promise not to start a conversation in Italian.”

“Thank you.”

“Or ask you to embroider me a handkerchief.”

A crease drew her brows together. “You would be sorry if you did.”

By the time the music finished he was smiling.

“Now, Your Grace,” she spoke in an unnecessarily loud voice, “supper is this way.” She pre-ceded him through a door and into a narrow passageway. They paused to allow a group of giggling girls to pass through a farther door, which opened into a room even more crowded than the last. Inside, Sinclair could just hear the ring of silverware against china above the chatter and laughter. Behind them the music had started up again and his head began to throb. His headache, forgotten for a moment, was getting worse.

Eugenie had changed direction, darting down a small flight of steps, and he hurried after her. She glanced back at him and then opened a low door and slipped inside. He followed without hesitation, closing the door behind him, and suddenly found himself in a small, dimly lit ante-room. Above him the noise of dancing made the ceiling shake and his head pound.

Eugenie smiled at him. Behind her old bunting was stacked against the wall and what looked like a set of broken chairs was piled into a corner. An empty barrel sent out a reek of sour wine. The dust on the floor was a good inch thick.

Eugenie followed his gaze and grimaced. “I know. It’s rather horrid, isn’t it?”

“You little wretch,” he said, surprising himself with his lack of good manners. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough. Come here.”

It was her fault, he told himself, as he pulled her into his arms. She’d made him wait far too long and he’d be dashed if he’d wait any longer. It was her fault he had a headache, too. It was probably a combination of unrequited lust and the appalling music.

She was gazing up at him, startled, but not struggling. He took that as agreement and kissed her, his mouth pressing hard to hers.

She gave a little gasp and he almost let her go, but a moment later she relaxed into his arms, winding her own about his neck and clinging there as his mouth slid along the full warm sweetness of hers. Now he knew what her pink lips tasted like—ripe summer fruit—and he was relieved to discover she was not too shy to kiss him back. Perhaps she was not as innocent as he’d thought? But her next words disabused him of that.

She smiled and touched her lips. “I don’t think I have ever been kissed like this before. In fact, my experience of kissing is rather limited.”

“I can remedy that.”

Eugenie searched his eyes with hers, as if trying to decide whether he was teasing or not. He’d sounded more serious than he’d meant.

“Well, have I won your dare?” he said. “Is this reckless enough for you, Miss Belmont?”

“I’m glad you decided to take up my challenge, Your Grace,” she said with a husky laugh. “I like you better when you’re reckless.”

Her slender body was soft and pliant against his and he drew it closer, enjoying the feel of her, the fact that she was finally in his arms. He rested his overheated brow against her cool forehead and groaned.

She reached to touch his face, her fingers gentle. “You are very warm, Your Grace,” she ventured.

“I have the devil of a headache,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes closed. Even the dim light in here hurt.

She slid her arm about his waist, helping him take several steps, and the next moment he was sitting on the upended wine barrel. She stood before him, frowning at him, and he felt her hands cup his face, ecstatically cool against his overheated skin.

“I am rather good with headaches,” she said in a quiet voice. “My aunt Beatrix suffers from them and she has a Chinese doctor who uses a special massage to reduce the pain. He showed me when I stayed with her some years ago.”

Above them the music began again, but he concentrated on her fingers, stroking his head and face, finding little areas of pain and pressing gently against them. The pressure never became too much to bear before she released it, and gradually the pain began to slip away. Soon he felt able to open his eyes.

She didn’t notice him watching her at first. She was too busy concentrating on what she was doing. She skimmed her fingers along his brow, massaging his temples with her thumbs in circular movements. He could see her slender neck and shoulders above the white lace of her dress, the pale sheen of her skin. The swell of her breasts were just visible above her bodice, and he wished he could see more. He wished he could undo a button or two and investigate what lay beneath all that clothing.

Instead he reached to encircle her waist with his hands and drew her into the wedge of his thighs and the heat of his body, his breath teasing wisps of her hair. “Thank you,” he whispered against her ear, and felt her shiver. His lips caressed her earlobe and then her jawline, working their way toward her mouth. By the time he reached it her lips were parted, her own breath quick and sharp, and she gave a little moan when he took her mouth with his.

This time the kiss went on far longer and when she pulled away she was breathless, her eyes dark and dreamy.

“Is your headache better?” she said, and stepped back and away, out of reach.

“Oh yes,” he growled, reaching for her again.

But she darted to the side, avoiding him. “Your Grace, we have been away long enough. It will be noticed.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do,” she said primly.

Frustrated, he strode to the door then back. “I need to see you alone again,” he declared.

“Then we must think of another dare,” she said. “Something more difficult. This was far too easy.”

“Oh was it, minx!”

He was watching her, wishing his good manners weren’t so ingrained in him. If he was one of his ancestors, the Norman baron perhaps, he would have no hesitation in snatching her up and riding off with her into the night.

“Why are you smiling?” she said with a hint of suspicion.

He told her and watched her eyes widen. “Ride off with me?” she squeaked. Then, her green eyes opened even wider and she cried, “I wonder if you dare. I wonder if I dare!”

He frowned with impatience. “What is it you are daring me to do?”

She giggled mischievously.

“Eugenie,” he growled, taking a step toward her around the barrel. “I warn you, I am not climbing up the church steeple.”

“Goodness, I would not ask that.”

“Then what is making you laugh?”

“I’m sorry. It isn’t really funny but you reminded me with your Norman baron. At Miss Debenham’s we discussed history and visited the ruins of a nearby castle.”

“I thought finishing schools were all about manners and deportment?”

“Miss Debenham was interested in turning out well-rounded girls,” she retorted, with a twinkle in her eye. “Do you want to hear or not?”

He sighed. “Tell me then.”

“The baron who once owned the castle had a wicked reputation. In those days there were very little manners and even less deportment. Not nearly as civilized as now. This baron was prone to riding about his lands on a big black horse and abducting any girl who took his fancy. He’d ride back to his castle and . . . well, the lesson didn’t go that far. But I . . . well, my friends actually, found the idea of being abducted rather appealing, much to Miss Debenham’s dismay.”

He shook his head at her. “You really are the oddest creature. So that is your dare? For me to abduct you?”

For a moment he thought she was going to deny the whole thing. Doubt and a hint of fear clouded her eyes. She was an innocent young lady, he reminded himself once again, and more than likely a virgin. He was dabbling with fire where she was concerned. But Sinclair was too far gone to care. The vision of himself as a baron riding off with her to ravish her had taken hold of him and he was damned if he’d relinquish it now.

“I’m afraid I don’t have a castle,” he said quietly, “and I can hardly ride up the drive way at Somerton with you over my saddle. What would the servants say?”

She smiled, and he was relieved to see that her fear was gone. “You could meet me in the lane, where we first met.”

“I could. Yes, that would be the perfect place to sweep you up onto my horse and ride off with you.”

“Not far, of course,” she added swiftly and a little breathlessly. “Just a little way will do. Just to win the dare.”

His eyes narrowed, but excitement was already coursing through his veins. “I am not in the habit of abducting young ladies in laneways,” he drawled.

“I know. That’s why it’s a dare,” she teased with a smile.

“And when does this abduction take place?”

“Tomorrow? After the morning ser vice?”

“You’re not going to change your mind?” he said. “You’re not one of those girls who promises something and then breaks her word?”

As he suspected, his words stung her pride. “Indeed I am not! I will be there.”

“Then so will I,” he said. Those feelings were stirring inside him. There was excitement. And lust. And longing. And a sense of coming alive after a long sleep.

“I demand another kiss, as surety,” he said, and this time the barrel was shoved determinedly out of his way.

She had no time to struggle, as he wrapped her in his arms and pinned her against his chest and took her mouth, every inch of it, thoroughly. Despite her innocence there was a natural passion in her response—perhaps inherited from her wicked ancestress. Her efforts to kiss him in the same way he was kissing her increased his desire and numbed any conflict he may have felt for her position if he’d been thinking more clearly.

By the time he’d done she was having difficulty standing, and he was unashamed to feel an odd pride in that. Her eyes were sleepy, her lips reddened, her cheeks flushed. What he’d really like to do was lift her in his arms and find a bed, but Sinclair knew—as lost to reason as he was—that it was far too soon for that. Instead he bowed and backed away.

“Until we meet again,” he said, his voice husky, and left her there.

* * *

Alone, Eugenie made a sound between a sob and a laugh.

Was she insane? She was playing a very dangerous game, a game to which she barely knew the rules. If she had any sense she would stop now, refuse to meet him tomorrow, tell him it was impossible for her to continue.

And yet her heart was beating fast and hard, his touch had brought her to life in a way she’d never known possible, and his lips on hers made her delightfully dizzy.

It seemed a shame to halt the game just now, when it was getting so interesting. Besides, what would she tell her friends? Wasn’t the Husband Hunters Club all about using one’s feminine wiles to capture one’s prey? Of course there was a difference between capturing one’s prey and becoming the prey.

Eugenie wasn’t a na?ve fool. Her family had been through enough scandals for her to understand what it was to step beyond society’s boundaries and how that might affect her life. But it wasn’t as if she had any great prospects, was it? And kissing the duke had been such a pleasurable experience.

“I will stop before anything really dreadful happens,” she told herself firmly, ignoring the thought that perhaps her great-grandmamma had told herself the same thing, just before she climbed into King George’s bed.

* * *

Annabelle was breathless from dancing. Her chaperone, Miss Lizzie Gamboni, steadied her and suggested she sit down for a moment, which was a suggestion Annabelle rejected. Of course.

Lizzie sighed. Her charge, a girl only two years younger than herself, was beautiful and headstrong, no doubt about that. Lizzie was beginning to think Annabelle was far too strong-willed for her. She supposed if she had had so fortunate birth as Annabelle then she might believe anything in the world was possible, but Lizzie, the eldest daughter of a vicar in a family of twelve, knew differently. Her life had been sacrificed to the will of others, or so it sometimes seemed, although she tried hard to be grateful for what she had been given.

“May I have this dance, Your Ladyship?” a well-scrubbed farmer said, eyes bright with admiration. And Annabelle was off again before Lizzie could say a word. She had seen the duke watching them and hoped he wouldn’t blame her for his sister’s romp. She could not afford to lose her position at Somerton and she did not know where she might get another.

“Miss Gamboni.”

Lizzie started. It was Terry Belmont, the very person the duke had warned her of, a handsome young man with a bad reputation, and—she admitted this secretly to herself—a heartbreaking smile.

“Mr. Belmont,” she said, and hoped she sounded like a stern chaperone and not an insecure young woman.

But he wasn’t looking at her, instead he was gazing across the bobbing heads to Annabelle. “Is Lady Annabelle’s card full?”

Lizzie smiled. “I don’t think she has a card with her tonight, Mr. Belmont.”

“I did hope to have more dances with her,” he said, longingly.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Lizzie spoke sympathetically. All the young men fell for Annabelle and breaking hearts seemed to concern her not at all. “The duke is watching.”

Terry smiled and she felt her heart do a little dance of its own. He really was very charming and she reminded herself once again that she must be the stern and grim-faced chaperone, or at least pretend.

And then he asked, “Do you ever dance, Miss Gamboni?”

Startled, she looked up at him wide-eyed. “D-dance?” she stammered, before she could stop herself.

He took that as a “yes” and, taking her in his arms, whirled her through the crowd and onto the dance floor. And Lizzie, who hadn’t danced for ages, found herself enjoying herself very much.

* * *

The supper was as awful as Sinclair had feared, but he forced himself to make polite conversation and then he went to find Annabelle. She didn’t want to go so soon but he insisted, so with a sulky pout she allowed him to escort her and her chaperone—looking suspiciously flushed—back to the carriage.

On the way home to Somerton Annabelle was quiet, but then so was he. He found he had a great deal to think about.

And an abduction to plan.