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

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

B y Friday morning Sinclair was up and ready, his temper on a short leash. Annabelle eyed him uneasily over breakfast. He could tell she wanted to speak to him but wasn’t certain how to broach the subject. If it was about her marriage to Lucius he would rather she remain silent, but Annabelle was not one to shirk a conversation just because it may cause difficulties to herself or others.

“I have had a letter from my friend Greta,” she said at last, setting down her teacup on its saucer with a rattle of china.

“Indeed.”

“She lives in Bedfordshire, Sinclair.”

“And you are telling me this because . . . ?”

“Stop it, Sinclair. You are obviously in a bad mood but I will not let it affect me. I am telling you about Greta because I want to stay with her before I am hemmed about by convention as Lucius’s bride-to-be. She has promised me a party and visits to other friends.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I have no objections, Annabelle, as long as your mother and your husband-to-be have none.”

“What has Lucius to say to anything?” she snapped. “We are not married yet.”

“If I remember correctly Greta was always a little unconventional. Perhaps this isn’t the moment to visit her, Annabelle. We do not want a scandal.”

She scowled. “You don’t want me to have any friends. You want me to be miserable, Sinclair.”

“Annabelle, now you are being ridiculous. You will have plenty of friends to see when you go to London. Who knows, you may even make some new ones.”

She rose from the table and fled the room.

Miss Gamboni stumbled to her feet. “I am sorry, Your Grace,” she began, but he waved a hand at her, dismissing her apology.

“Perhaps you could turn her mind in some other direction, Miss Gamboni.”

“I will try, Your Grace.”

He was getting used to such departures from his sister, and he didn’t allow it to bother him for long. He had other matters to mull over.

His paints had arrived from London and he was itching to lock himself away in his attic room and begin painting. He’d already done some sketches of Eugenie from memory, and thought they were rather good. He still had to capture that sweet mischief in her expression, but he thought he could make a start.

Alas, after breakfast, he had to spend some time with his land agent, and then he needed to write several letters in regard to tenants who had asked him for help in the repair of their cottages or stone fences. As he worked he thought about how much responsibility his position placed upon him. For the past ten years he’d lived without complaint, doing as was expected of him, inhabiting his role as duke, not really thinking about what he was becoming.

Dull, boring.

And now, suddenly, Eugenie had changed that, challenging him to take risks and make changes, showing him that even the dullest life could be exciting. He couldn’t imagine going back to the way he’d been without her.

He finished the last letter and tossed his pen aside, uncaring when it splattered ink. Done! At last, he was free to set out on his latest adventure.

Today was cool, with the threat of rain, but it could have been blazing sunlight for all he noticed or cared. He galloped all the way to his rendezvous, arrived half an hour early and had to wait, impatiently striding up and down beside the ruins of what had once been a grand manor house. During the Wars of the Roses there had been a battle fought here and unfortunately the building was in the thick of it. Now it was a picturesque ruin.

She was late.

He hated it when people were late for appointments. Then he began to worry she wasn’t coming, the knot in his stomach twisting tighter. Should he leave, teach her a lesson in punctuality? Of course he knew he couldn’t do that. He needed to see her, he wanted to see her . . . and then he heard a horse’s hooves galloping toward him.

She came over the hill, her hair flying, her skirts barely decent about her stockinged legs. She was riding the mare from the horse fair! He laughed aloud as the creature came to an unwilling halt, rolling its eyes and stamping about nervously.

“I thought you’d sold that mare,” he said, as he reached up to take her reins and hold the beast firm.

Eugenie was flushed and breathless, her green eyes bright. “They brought it back,” she said, with a shrug. “No new dress for me.”

His brows rose in inquiry.

“My father promised me a new dress if he sold the mare,” she explained, as she landed on her feet on the ground and shook her skirts back into a more respectable form.

Impulsively he reached out and cupped her cheek. “I will buy you a new dress for every day we are together,” he said hoarsely, “and every night.”

And then he saw the expression in her eyes.

* * *

There was a tremble in her belly, deep inside. Eugenie conquered it, raising a hand to brush back her unruly curls. “I would need a very large wardrobe for all those dresses,” she said coolly.

He didn’t smile back. “Should I apologize again?”

To give herself time to think, Eugenie led her mare to the ruined wall.

She’d decided not to come but then she began to think of writing to Averil, telling her she wasn’t going to marry the duke after all, and what Averil would say to the others. They would think she’d made the whole thing up—which of course she had—but that wasn’t the point.

Eugenie had her pride, too much sometimes. In the end she convinced herself she would give Sinclair one last chance to do the decent thing. Or maybe she was just too weak to refuse to see him again. Kiss him again.

She blushed as she began looping the reins through what appeared to be a hole made by a cannon ball. To fill the silence she began to tell him about the mare.

“The silly creature shied at a puddle and frightened her new owner, although thank goodness the girl wasn’t hurt. I did warn them about puddles. Anyway, her grandfather wasn’t best pleased with my father.”

“I don’t suppose he was.”

“If I don’t tie her up she runs away,” she added. “But at least she runs home. It just means I’d have to walk.”

“Rather inconvenient then.”

“Yes. She doesn’t mean any harm; she’s just highly-strung.”

“So I see.”

The subject of the mare exhausted, she was forced to face him. He was gazing at her as if he’d like to eat her up.

“Eugenie, I think you can understand how much you would gain if you allowed me to look after you. Believe me when I tell you that you would want for nothing. I would treat you with the greatest care and consideration. I would protect your reputation. And if our—our association should falter—although I cannot imagine it, but these things must be thought of—then I would see to it that you retained all the benefits of your position until you decided whether you wished to marry or—or take up with another gentleman.”

He was insulting her.

Take up with another gentleman.

She knew he didn’t see it that way, but nevertheless in her heart this felt like a grave insult. “No,” she said, striving not to let her voice to tremble for the sake of her pride.

“No?” He sounded surprised, as if he’d believed his offer was too good to refuse. “Just no? Nothing more? Surely you’d like to consider? Think it over?”

“I have never been asked to be a gentleman’s mistress before. You must pardon my clumsiness . . . my lack of experience. I didn’t expect a proposal such as this to ever come my way. I certainly would never have sought it.”

“And I have never asked a woman to be my mistress before,” he retorted, and then chuckled at the expression on her face. “Did you really think I had a dozen or so already? That’s very flattering of you, Eugenie.”

Eugenie was surprised and couldn’t hide it. She’d imagined he’d some little dancer tucked away—innocent as she was, she knew that was the usual situation with rich and powerful men. And a duke could afford more than one, surely?

He read the questions in her eyes—he seemed able to see inside her head with startling ease. “I want you, Eugenie, and only you. I don’t know why it is. Cannot fathom it. I find myself looking for you wherever I go. Looking forward to seeing you, speaking to you, holding you in my arms.”

He didn’t mean to flatter her; quite the opposite in fact. He spoke of his emotions reluctantly, as if he found them incomprehensible. And yet she was flattered. Not that she could take him up on his offer.

“We deal well together, don’t you think?” he went on, clearly wanting an answer.

“We barely know each other,” she said bluntly.

He rested his hand on the curve of her neck, stroking her skin softly, gently, as if she were one of his precious racehorses. “I know all I need to know.”

The touch of his hand, the sensation of being caressed so, caused the trembling to increase inside her. Eugenie turned her head and met his eyes, seeking the heat in them, and knew a temptation such as she’d never known before—to place herself in his power and let him do whatever he wished with her.

For one wild, insane moment she actually considered accepting his offer. Jumping into the fire and letting herself be burned. But the next moment her powerful determination and her sense of self-worth bobbed to the surface. She could never take second best, and that’s what being his mistress—any man’s mistress—would mean. She’d rather remain a spinster all her life than accept less than being a wife.

Sinclair couldn’t see it and probably never would, but in her heart Eugenie knew that despite her lower birth and her rackety family she would make him a perfect wife. They would be happy together—if they could get over the scandal that society was bound to make of them. A pity the gulf between the two of them was so insurmountable.

“Sinclair . . .”

His fingers were still brushing against her skin, lightly, back and forth. That surprising and tantalizing heat increased inside her, bringing with it a need that was building by the heartbeat. Building so strongly in fact that she knew she was going to have to exercise a great deal of willpower and fortitude to resist him.

She reached up to remove his hand, but he clasped hers, linking their fingers.

“Please, Sinclair, stop. You make me breathless,” she said, and she sounded as if she’d been running.

“At least you haven’t fainted. Does that mean you’re willing to reconsider my proposal?”

“I’m not the kind of girl who faints.”

He bent his head and despite her protests she found herself stretching up, lips apart, eager for his kiss. His breath brushed her skin, teasing. His kiss had barely begun before it ended, and she knew she wanted more. The hunger inside her demanded to be satisfied.

She made a sound, searching for his lips, and he laughed triumphantly and kissed her again, more forcefully this time.

“I want your answer,” he said, his voice a low growl in his throat. “Say you will be my mistress, Eugenie.”

Her eyelids lifted slowly, sensuously. She reached to touch his jaw with her fingertips, enjoying the feel of his rougher skin. “No.”

He stepped back, frowning, still holding her. He’d been so certain of her answer that now he seemed staggered. “No?” he demanded, his old arrogance surfacing. “Just ‘no’?”

Eugenie glanced up at him in a manner at once shy and coquettish. It had the desired effect. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her again, and this time it was difficult for both of them to stop. It was as if he was placing his mark on her, claiming her as his in some primitive masculine way. When he finally drew away his chest was rising and falling heavily, and there was a flush on his cheeks.

“That doesn’t feel like a ‘no,’ ” he said huskily. “You want me, too, don’t you? Be your blunt and honest self, Eugenie.”

Eugenie didn’t need a mirror to know her eyes were dark with desire. “I won’t lie to you,” she agreed, placing her palms against his chest. She could feel the heat of his body, and the heavy thud of his heart. “When you kiss me I feel as if I might do something dangerous. And to be your mistress would be dangerous, Sinclair. Whatever you might think of me, I am a gentlewoman. At Miss Debenham’s Finishing School I learned how to make conversation and behave politely in all situations, how to dress, how to organize and run a household, how to stitch neatly and arrange flowers. I did not learn how to be a duke’s mistress.”

He moved to protest but she put her finger against his lips.

“Hush, I am not done.”

When he seemed to be resigned to letting her continue, she went on.

“Sinclair, I am very sorry but the final answer must be no.”

“I don’t believe you,” he snapped. “If you think a man like me cannot protect you from scandal, then you do not know me at all. I will keep your reputation safe, Eugenie. I can make it so that no one knows our true situation but you and I.” His brows drew together and there was anger in his face as well as hunger. “I want you and I mean to have you.”

“It always amazes me that men like you think they can have anything they desire. Well, you can’t have me, Sinclair. My answer is still no.”

She moved to walk away but he caught her, pulling her back into his arms. “Men like me?” he mocked. “You may fool yourself with your denials, Eugenie, but you can’t fool me.” His mouth swooped down, hot and hard against hers, as if he might turn her to his will by sheer force. Eugenie knew her lips would be bruised and swollen by his treatment of her—and she would have to hide that from her family—but the other part of her didn’t give a fig for swollen lips. Indeed, she was reveling in his forceful passion.

And she was enjoying herself too much to stop.

She gave her fingers permission to roam through his dark hair, mussing it up, exploring the texture of it. His skin smelled of sandalwood and man, and when she kissed him she could taste the passion for her on his mouth. He meant what he said all right. He really did lust after her.

His own fingers were cupping her face, his lips against her eyelids, her cheeks, then her throat and she found herself arching back, so that he could kiss the hollow there, before working his way down to the thin strip of lace that bordered her neckline. He dipped his finger beneath it, brushing the swell of her breast before encountering the well-laundered cotton of her chemise.

Eugenie’s knees trembled. Her skin burned. She ached to have his hand delve farther, exploring the peak of her breast. She imagined his mouth closing over her, hot and moist, and experienced such a jolt of desire her head spun.

It happened so quickly. This loss of control, this need to give herself to him completely. The voice in her head was telling her that nothing mattered except this. Why worry? Everything would be all right. Don’t stop, don’t stop.

But she knew that she had to stop, that everything wouldn’t be all right. She had to stop now. At once. Before it was too late.

Reluctantly, shakily, she dragged herself out of his arms, and then walked away, taking deep steadying breaths. When she felt able to turn he was standing where she’d left him, looking like a man who had just awoken from a dream and was still more than half asleep.

“Eugenie,” he groaned, demanding and begging at the same time.

The temptation to run back into his arms was irresistible, but somehow she resisted. The distance between them was not wide enough, and she took several steps backward, increasing it until she felt calmer. Safer.

“I apologize,” he said, running a shaking hand through his hair. “I was rather more brutal than I intended. It’s your fault.”

She laughed and shook her head. “My fault? You can’t blame me for your behavior, Sinclair.”

His stare was almost beseeching. One sign from her and Eugenie knew he would rush toward her and take her in his arms again, and then they would both be lost.

“I must go,” she said quickly. “My mother will be looking for me. I have chores to do. We do not have quite as many servants as you do.”

“We will meet again? How can I persuade you to change your mind if we do not meet again?”

“No. This is the end of the matter.”

She went to where she’d tied her mare, not waiting for another argument. Suddenly his hands closed about her waist and, briefly, he drew her back against his chest, his lips pressed to her nape. She shivered as desire returned in full force, and then felt herself lifted and tossed into the saddle. Even that brief touch caused her to tremble and burn, but she fought for composure. It didn’t help that his hand was resting on her stocking-covered ankle, possessively, as if she was already his.

“Good-bye, Your Grace,” she said, with a cool nod.

He shrugged and stepped back, letting her go. She gave her mare its head, riding away without looking back, knowing he was watching her. A strange sort of feminine triumph blazed inside her but she damped it down. What was the use of having such a power over the duke when she could not gain the prize she wanted? He would not marry her. But someone else would; someone who saw her fine qualities and would love her for who and what she was.

Someone she was yet to meet.

Eugenie spent her time on the ride back thinking of her mystery man, of how she would wake up with him every morning and dine with him every night, of walking at his side as his wife. Bearing his children. Their days full of the small pleasurable moments between two people who loved and respected each other.

It was a pity that even in her daydreams her mystery man seemed to acquire the face and personality of Sinclair. Eugenie just hoped the duke hadn’t spoiled her for anyone else.