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

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

S inclair was even more determined to get his way with Eugenie. Her lack of interest in his proposal stirred the coals of his desire into a roaring inferno.

Most men of his class and social standing had a mistress—it was expected, even if it wasn’t spoken of in polite circles. A mistress was de rigueur and until now he’d denied himself that pleasure, but with Eugenie all of that had changed.

And by God, he deserved her!

As a man who was restrained and responsible, an almost-Puritan who’d always put his position and his family first, it was time he looked to his own desires. Yes, for once he was going to put himself and his own needs first.

And why not?

It wasn’t as if he was going to marry her. He wasn’t about to lose his head and create a scandal, like some peers were wont to do, making themselves laughingstocks in the process. He’d keep her private, a secret lover.

As Sinclair grew more and more determined to make his wishes come true, the need to have Eugenie became a fait accompli, he was so certain he could persuade her—or if necessary bribe her—to say yes.

He’d come home from their meeting at the ruined manor and gone straight up to the attic room, beginning work on his painting. Hours passed, he became lost in the joy of his work, and it wasn’t until one of his servants cleared his throat outside his door that he realized how late it was.

Hurriedly he dressed for dinner and joined his mother and sister at the table. But it was difficult behaving normally when he no longer felt like that man. Being with Eugenie had changed him, and he found himself thinking about their wild and passionate kisses, and squirming in his chair like a restless child. His body ached and throbbed with the need to have her in his arms again, only this time he would undress her, peeling her garments from her one by one until she was naked. Pale and beautiful upon his sheets, her wild curls spread about her, her green eyes warm and promising so much.

She represented a world that until now he had never known, and one that he was now desperate to enter.

“Whatever is the matter, Sinclair?”

His mother’s chilly tones drifting down the long table brought him up short. She was watching him over her soup spoon, her arched brows even more arched, her thin nostrils pinched with disapproval.

“Nothing is the matter, Mother. Are you enjoying the soup?”

“Soup is much the same wherever one eats it,” she retorted. “I was never overly fond of soup.”

Sinclair stifled a sigh. His mother had decided to make a brief visit to Somerton on her way to friends farther west in the Cotswolds. They must be good friends to draw her out of London, which was her permanent home these days. She had always loathed the country, and their father’s body was barely tucked away in the family mausoleum before she’d packed up and left, telling her son that he was the duke now and she was trusting him not to do anything to tarnish the Somerton name.

He didn’t miss his father; it would be a lie to say he did. The old man had been stiff and distant and full of pride, and Sinclair had barely known him. Strange that it was often said that he was very like his father. He’d attuned his out-ward behavior to his father’s on purpose, because he’d been brought up to believe that was the way dukes behaved. It was now second nature to him. He considered the chilly demeanor part of his heritage. Why not? The Duke of Somerton was a title to wear with pride.

But beneath the facade, Sinclair had become aware that he was lonely. With all his wealth and power, he was a man alone.

It had taken Eugenie to bring him to that realization.

“Sinclair, whatever is wrong with you?”

His mother was staring at him again. The servants were clearing the soup in preparation for the next course, their faces blank, pretending not to listen. He found himself wondering what they thought of him, of his mother—minutiae that had previously been beneath his notice.

“Sinclair is probably thinking of ways to increase his consequence,” Annabelle quipped.

She’d been unnaturally quiet since their mother’s arrival, and looking at her now he noticed her pallor and the shadows under her eyes. Was she fretting about her marriage to Lucius? Sinclair was aware it was unpalatable to her but the life of a duke’s sister could never be as free and easy as a servant girl’s. She must accept that lesson or expect heartbreak for the rest of her life.

Just as he had accepted.

“Of course the wedding will be at St. James’s,” the dowager duchess enthused. “And afterwards those guests we choose to invite can come to the London house for champagne and cake. I think we will have enough room. People are talking about it already, and once the invitations are sent . . . I do believe it will be the event of the year, Annabelle.”

Annabelle smiled, her lashes sweeping down to hide her eyes. “Yes, Mama,” she said like an obedient daughter.

Miss Gamboni gave her a sharp glance before looking down at her plate.

Sinclair frowned. Was there something in his sister’s smile that should make him uneasy? What did Miss Gamboni see that he didn’t? But before he had time to consider the matter his mother was talking again, describing how she intended to decorate the London house, the colors she would use, the theme she had in mind. Then she went on to describe some event she had recently attended, and who was there and what they were wearing. Appearance was all to her.

Suddenly Sinclair was bored with it.

Completely, utterly, and unbearably bored.

He stood up from the table. Three pairs of eyes lifted to his in amazement. “Sinclair?”

He was behaving completely out of character, but he didn’t care.

“My apologies,” he said, moving away. “I have remembered something I must do and I’m afraid it cannot wait.”

“Sinclair, really! I’m sure you can get someone else to do it for you. You cannot rush off halfway through dinner—”

“I have apologized, Mother.”

The door closed behind him and he took a deep breath. He’d actually walked out during dinner. Something he had never done before. Something he would never have thought of doing before. And he felt quite giddy with the thrill of it.

He wanted to see Eugenie.

Now! This moment.

“Have my horse saddled,” he called to one of the servants as he strode across the marble hall. “I have an urgent appointment.”

“Your Grace?” His startled gaze ran down over Sinclair’s dinner clothes. “Aren’t you going to change first, Y-your Grace?”

“Of course I am,” he frowned, as if he’d never forget such a minor detail. The fact was he had. Completely.

Upstairs he waved his valet away, dressing himself with unusual carelessness, and hurrying down the backstairs to the stables. By then his mount was ready and he set off at a gallop, out into the starry night, feeling remarkably free and reckless, and quite unlike himself.

* * *

Belmont Hall was not exactly ablaze with lights.

Evidently the family kept early hours. It occurred to him that he hadn’t had the foresight to discover which was Eugenie’s bedchamber; however, by the use of his wits he saw one of the windows had a flowery curtain, more suited to a young girl. Probably it had not been replaced as she grew up, and he could not imagine Jack or the other boys with such a curtain on their window. Well, not for long, anyway.

It was a chance the old Sinclair would never have taken. What? Risk embroiling himself in a scandal? But this was the new Sinclair and he was a very different creature.

Standing in the darkness, below the faintly candlelit window, he knew he was behaving erratically. Some would say he had lost his wits. There was a moment when he almost turned away and rode home, but before the urge could take hold, before the old Sinclair could spoil his fun, he bent down and picked up some pebbles from the drive and threw them against the glass in the casement.

They made a satisfying rattle.

A shadow appeared against the candlelight, and then the curtain was drawn aside and there she was. Eugenie. She stared down into the garden, trying to see who was there, and then threw open the casement and leaned out.

Her hair hung loose about her, a waterfall of tumbling curls within which her face was a pale oval.

An angel.

“Terry? Is that you?” she hissed. She sounded annoyed.

Not quite an angel, then.

“It’s not Terry,” he said.

She gasped, her hand creeping to her throat. Or maybe she was holding her nightgown up so that it didn’t dip too far and disclose too much of her pale, curved flesh.

“Sinclair?” she whispered loudly. “What on earth—” She began to shut the casement. “Go away. I don’t want to see you again.”

“Come down. If you don’t I’ll ring the doorbell.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed. Then she saw the stubborn expression on his face in the moonlight. “Wait there. I’ll be down in a moment.”

Sinclair decided he wouldn’t wait under her window. The doorbell threat had been a bluff, and it suddenly seemed far too risky even for his new self to lurk about here. Good God, he wouldn’t put it past Eugenie’s father to demand he call the banns! He saw what looked like an arbor in the shadows behind him, set in the far corner of the garden.

It was an arbor. He ducked under the arch with its overgrown climbing rose, and sat down on a cold stone bench. Probably damp, too, he thought uneasily. He stood up, knocking his head against the arch and its thorny canes, cursed, and sat down again.

If Eugenie was anything like other women he’d known he could be waiting here until dawn while she primped and preened, trying on dress after dress, seeking to make herself beautiful for him.

But he already knew Eugenie wasn’t anything like those other women and that was a big part of her appeal.

Just then she appeared from the shadows, in a simple dress hastily thrown on, a shawl cast about her shoulders, her hair still loose. For a moment she stood, looking all about her, and then he called her name, and she hurried through the garden to the arbor and, arriving breathless, stood before him.

“Sinclair,” she said, sounding annoyed. “What are you doing here?”

The last thing he wanted was for her to find his romantic and impromptu visit annoying. For a moment he found his old awkward and tongue-tied feelings returning, as they always did when confronted by a woman he was attracted to. And then her scent reached out to him, warm woman and orange blossom, and he tried to draw her into his arms with a groan.

She pulled away. “I’ve rejected your proposal, Sinclair. You must believe me when I say I meant my no.”

“I can’t believe you,” he growled, low and intimate.

He thought of telling her exactly what he had done, leaving in the middle of the meal to ride to her, before changing his mind. But one never knew with women—she might laugh at him. Better that she didn’t know just how much he lusted after her. How much power she had over him.

“Sinclair . . . ?” She was peering at him, a frown creasing her brow. She reached out and touched his forehead and, drawing her hand away again, showed him the smear of blood on her fingers. “Whatever have you done to yourself?”

“The roses caught me,” he said, gesturing at the loose canes on the arbor. “It’s nothing.”

She sat down beside him. “Is it safe for me to be outside with you?” she said.

“Of course,” he retorted. “I am a duke.”

She giggled. “That’s more like the Sinclair I know.” She reached to dab at his forehead with the end of her shawl, but he caught her hands and pulled her against him, kissing her. If she’d resisted he would have released her, but she didn’t, so he lifted her onto his lap.

Her body was soft and unrestrained by a corset, and of course that meant he had to brush his hand against her breast and, when she didn’t immediately protest, cup the firm flesh in his palm.

Her breathing had quickened.

He bent his head and breathed in the scent of her skin through the thin cloth. He could feel the jut of her nipple and covered her with his mouth, gently teasing with his tongue. Her fingers pressed him closer, tangling in his hair, and he could feel her breath, little gasps of sound.

Slowly, he warned himself. Don’t rush her. Don’t frighten her. Don’t break the spell.

She arched in his arms, and then her mouth was searching for his, needy and hot. He kissed her deeply, drawing her closer still, her soft thigh against the hard thrust of his growing erection.

He felt his control slipping. Her bodice was loosened—had he done that? He slid his hand down and felt the warm swell of her skin. This was what it would be like, if she was naked in his bed. He’d come to her every night, and they would lie together and enjoy each other until dawn.

Eugenie moved upon his lap, her hands running down his chest, restless, eager. She pulled the shirt hem from his breeches and then her palms were on his stomach, making him catch his breath. He could see her eyes shining in the darkness, imagined the flush on her cheeks, the swollen pink of her lips.

His control was slipping but desperately, determinedly, he held on. He was a mature man after all, not some callow youth.

And then her fingers closed over his cock.