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

Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

E ugenie was helping Cook carry in the pudding—rice custard and cream—when Jack gave her a wink. Presumably that meant all was well and Barker had taken the reply for the duke. She refused to dwell upon what that meant. Yes, there had been pleasant moments between her and the duke—dangerously illicit moments!—but the risk was far too great.

She sat down and had taken up her spoon when a nasty thought occurred to her. She only hesitated a moment before she began to eat, because of course the idea that she could do something so stupid was impossible. She had been rushing and in a bit of a state, but . . . No, impossible! But a moment later the same thought occurred to her again, and this time she put down her spoon.

Knowing she wouldn’t be able to relax until she’d made certain, Eugenie excused herself from the table and went into the hall. All letters to be posted were placed in a basket there, and she took out the letter she’d written earlier to her friends. The envelope was addressed correctly—to Marissa, who would pass it on to the others—and yet it felt thin. Surely her letter had been bulkier than that? It was Sinclair’s letter that had been thin.

Fingers shaking now, heart thudding, Eugenie tore open the missive and stared at the paper inside.

Dear Sinclair. . .

Oh dear Lord! It could not be; and yet it was!

Her tale of woe had gone to the very man she’d written about. He would read it and know all she had said and planned. Her face was already scarlet at the very thought that he would see her as such a scheming hussy. She could not bear him to think so badly of her, she really couldn’t, especially when she had been in such a high moral position when she broke off with him.

And it wasn’t even as if she had ever intended to marry him. It had all been a terrible mistake.

With a whimper, she ran up the stairs to her room, clutching the crumpled paper in her hand. There was only one thing to be done. She must meet him at the old Jobling manor house. She must . . . she must . . . somehow she must get the letter back before he opened it. And if he had opened it then she would apologize and explain.

Because Eugenie knew in her heart she could not let things between them end in such a horrid fashion. She must at least try to smooth it over or she would never be able to think of him again without cringing in shame.

* * *

It was already dark when Eugenie set off determinedly on her mare, although the stars were bright enough to light her way. This journey was not one she wanted to make. She didn’t know what she would say when she got there. No doubt something would occur to her—it always did. She could only hope she was in time to retrieve the letter and avert Sinclair’s anger and her embarrassment. Remembering what she had written to amuse her friends made her quiver and groan aloud, as well as curse her wayward Belmont tongue.

When would she learn?

The old Jobling manor house was really a large farmhouse, once owned by a local squire, before his family died from illness and he sank into a depression. The house was set in a field and hidden by overgrown shrubs and rampant brambles, although the dark line of the roof and a crumbling pair of chimneys were visible against the night sky. No wonder it was known in the village as the haunted house. At night, lights were said to shine from the windows and ghostly figures were said to dance to long forgotten tunes. Eugenie told herself she didn’t believe in ghosts; she found the house rather sad, abandoned, and tumbling down as it was.

Perhaps Sinclair had been expecting her to cling to him in terror? Well, in that case he’d be disappointed. Eugenie might be a hoyden but she was courageous when it came to the supernatural. It was the thought of that letter in Sinclair’s hands that was frightening her.

When she reached the haunted house, her mare’s wicker of recognition led her to Sinclair’s horse, already tethered in the bushes and hidden from passing prying eyes. Eugenie dismounted and, with wobbling legs and a courageous determination she was far from feeling, set off toward the front door.

The bleak weather didn’t help to make the place look any more inviting. Dark shadows filled the windows and the damp patches on the brickwork looked like misshapen faces.

“You took your time.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice.

He was standing just inside the open door, looking impossibly elegant and completely out of place.

“I wasn’t going to come,” she said breathlessly. “I wouldn’t have, only . . .” She stared up at him, trying to read his expression and failing. “I sent you a letter.” The words were like stones down a well.

“A letter?”

“Yes. Jack gave it to Barker. Is it here?”

He eyed her curiously for a moment. “Barker put it down inside somewhere. I haven’t had a chance to read it. Why, was it important?” His eyebrows rose. “What did it say?”

“Nothing,” she said, relief washing through her so that she could hardly stand. “No, it wasn’t important.”

Surprisingly, he seemed to believe her.

He held out his hand to her. “Come in.”

Now that she knew the letter was inside she had no choice. Eugenie put her fingers in his and stepped over the threshold, lifting her skirts so that they didn’t trail in the dust.

“Why choose this place?” she asked.

“Your brother Jack happened to mention it to me.”

“Jack is a mine of information, isn’t he?” she said wryly.

“It seems this house has quite a reputation in the area. No one comes here; they believe it to be haunted. Ideal for my dare, wouldn’t you say?”

“Because we don’t want to be seen together?”

He gave her a predatory look over his shoulder. “No, Eugenia. Because we don’t want to be disturbed.”

She gave him a sharp look. “I don’t think that’s likely.”

He smiled as if he had a secret and strode off down the gloomy corridor. Eugenie, wanting to turn and run the other way, again had no choice but to follow after him. There were probably spiders and creepy-crawlies lurking in the corners, she thought miserably, but it was thankfully too dark to see them. The air smelled musty, and it was cold. She folded her arms about herself, hoping he wasn’t expecting her to linger too long.

She would find the letter, hide it in her clothing, and then she would leave. Although, now she’d destroyed the other letter, explaining to Sinclair their association was “utterly and completely over,” she would need to tell him face-to-face. Well, she told herself briskly, she would do that and then she would most definitely leave.

Ahead of her, Sinclair paused and with a flourish flung open a door at the end of the passage.

Light spilled out, and he gestured for her to enter.

Eugenie, not sure what to expect, glanced up into his face as she went by, and found it full of sup-pressed excitement. A smile was twitching at the corners of his lips and his eyes were glittering, as if he had some overwhelming secret and he was bursting to tell her.

And then she looked into the room and understood all.

Candles were everywhere, standing on the floor and windowsills and tables, their golden light illuminating the scene. The walls had been draped with silken cloth, and a divan took pride of place, weighed down with cushions and fabrics that looked as if they wouldn’t be uncomfortable in a courtesan’s boudoir. Underfoot were the softest, most luxurious carpets she had ever seen, swirling with exotic patterns. A table had been laid, with champagne in an ice bucket, and food arrayed like bright jewels on silver platters.

He gave a deep chuckle at her gasp.

“How . . . ?” she stammered in amazement.

“I have a faithful servant or two left, and I swore them to silence. They did rather well for outdoor servants,” he added, looking pleased.

“I think you would need an army of servants for this,” she said bluntly.

“Do you like it? I thought we could be private here while we discuss our future.”

“I don’t think a well-bred young lady would discuss anything in this room,” she said nervously. “It screams seduction.”

“I would like to make you scream, Eugenie,” he said, his voice dropping low. “Scream with pleasure.”

She understood him all too well. Looking about her again, she thought: He has done all of this for me. He is trying his best to win me. I should be flattered.

She was flattered, and touched, but she was frightened, too. This was not a place she should be—she did not trust herself to behave. Sinclair had a very bad influence on her.

“Where’s my letter?” she burst out, and then wished she hadn’t.

His expression grew suspicious. “Why are you so interested in this letter?”

“I wrote something in it that I . . .” She gazed up at him pleadingly. “Sinclair, I wish you would give me my letter back. If you were a gentleman, you would.”

He considered her request. “I will give you your letter back if you stay here with me for a little while,” he said evenly.

Eugenie gave a nervous glance at her surroundings. But as she dithered he made the decision for her, taking her hand gently but firmly in his, and leading her toward the divan.

“Please be seated, Eugenie.”

With an uncertain little smile she sat down and promptly sank deep into the cushions. “Goodness,” she said breathlessly, “there is only one way to tackle this piece of furniture and that is to lounge upon it.”

“You lounge very nicely,” he teased, and began to gather together a selection of foods onto a fine china plate. He set the plate before her, then poured her a glass of champagne, which bubbled and sparkled as he placed it into her hand.

“To us,” he said, holding up his own glass and smiling over the rim, his eyes full of reflected candlelight.

She drank, mesmerized, and then he sank down beside her on the divan and began to feed her from the plate. There were exotic fruits, bright as jewels, and creamy cheeses and spicy meats. It seemed to her, or perhaps she was imagining it, that everything was sharper and more flavorsome than it could possibly have been, while the feel of the silken fabrics against her skin resembled the gentle wash of the warm ocean.

“It’s not every day I am fed by a duke,” she said, trying for levity, as he popped some pomegranate seeds between her lips.

“It is entirely the duke’s pleasure,” he replied, then bent closer to capture one of the seeds which had landed on her chin. As she watched him, he slipped it into his own mouth.

Something in her stomach dived. She was giddy. Was it the champagne, or desire, or both? Whatever it was it was too late to run away, because suddenly his mouth was on hers and she was in his arms and they were both sinking like drowning sailors into the seductive depths of the divan.

* * *

Sinclair’s senses were swimming in the warm, sweet scent of her skin. The silky cloth of her dress slid under his palm and he felt the firm mounds of her breasts beneath. His body ached. For a heartbeat he wondered if he was going to be able to control the urge to ravish her and make her his in the quickest time possible, but his training as a gentleman stood him in good stead.

Lightly, tenderly, he turned her over and pressed kisses to the pale skin of her back as he unbuttoned her bodice. Her hair was held up with pins and combs, and he slid them out, enjoying the rich color as it tumbled into his hands. He buried his face in her curls, breathing in their clean scent, and then pressing his mouth to the sensitive place on the nape of her neck.

She shivered and made a little sound of pleasure. Or perhaps she was asking about that damned letter.

He kissed her again, and slid her loosened sleeves down her arms, caressing her bare shoulders. She turned in his arms, her mouth finding his, wrapping herself close. He kissed her until she lay languid, her lashes veiling the shine of her eyes, her skin flushed with desire. The lacy edge of her chemise had caught on her bodice, and when he released it, he realized she wasn’t wearing a corset. Her small, perfect breasts rose above the silk cloth and lace, her nipples pink and engorged, and he bent and took one in his mouth.

She moaned, arching toward him.

He rolled her nipple with his tongue, before bending to work on the other one. Her fingers shook as they crept through his hair, clinging, drawing him closer. She was slender and yet perfect, her skin like ivory and rose, and he wanted to sample every inch of it before he let her go.

Until now he hadn’t been sure why he’d gone to so much trouble tonight. He’d simply wanted to see her. But of course it was all about seduction; making her his. Bringing her to the realization that there was only one outcome possible between them.

Giving her no choice but to be his mistress.

* * *

His touch, his caress, was sending little aches and thrills into all parts of her body. She wanted to squeeze her thighs together, as if to hold on to the pleasure building there, in her secret places. She felt abandoned, free, no longer bound by anyone’s rules or regimen, and the wonder of it went to her head.

He’d taken off his jacket and she ran her hands up his arms, feeling the soft silk of his shirt and the firm muscles beneath. There was a knotted necktie to pick apart and open, and then buttons to undo so that she could finally place her palms against his bare skin. Dark hair grew on his chest, and she pressed her cheek to it, and then her nose, breathing him in, enjoying the roughness of his masculine body.

“So this is how a duke smells,” she murmured, and heard his chuckle deep in his chest.

Her dress was about her waist, and as she leaned against him she felt him tug it down over her hips, and then the heat of his hands cupping her bottom through the thin cloth of her undergarments. He drew her closer and she could hear her breath loud and irregular against his skin, her heart rising to pound in her throat. His fingers slid down, finding the opening of her bloomers, and the warm, slick skin between her thighs.

Eugenie went very still. She felt as if she dare not move, that all her energy was devoted to feeling his gentle exploring touch. She felt swollen, and hot, as if her body was readying itself for something momentous. He continued to stroke her with his fingers while his lips were against her hair, whispering words into her ear that she hardly heard and yet seemed to increase her pleasure unbearably.

“Please.” She was saying the word over and over again, her voice ragged, her pulse jumping.

* * *

Sinclair knew what he should do. He should give her the release she was asking him for. A few more strokes of his fingers, a little pressure on her eager little nub, and she would be there. She’d be grateful, too. But of course then she’d pull herself together and make her excuses and leave him sitting here, alone.

And that wasn’t what he wanted. Selfish he may be, but he wanted to thrust his body into hers, claim her in the most primitive way. So he made a conscious decision. They would enjoy this moment together, even though he knew that once it was over there’d be no going back.

He lay her down on the divan, and rested on top of her, taking his weight with elbows and knees, kissing her mouth, his fingers stroking her breasts. “You are beautiful,” he told her, “so beautiful.”

She opened her clear green eyes and gazed up at him with passion and trust. Complete trust.

He almost changed his mind.

Almost.

But then his fingers were on the top of her stockings, then the warm skin of her bare thighs. She was ready for him; the damp heat of her made him groan. It was an easy matter to unbutton his trousers and free himself, and then press the head of his cock against her slick entrance. She wound her arms about his waist, rubbing against him, as if she couldn’t wait for him to be inside her.

“Eugenie,” he said, his voice hoarse with longing, “are you sure . . . ?”

He didn’t know if she heard him. She seemed to be listening to something else, something inside, and he pressed the advantage, entering her a little before withdrawing, some distant part of his brain reminding him that she was more than likely a virgin.

She gasped.

In pain or pleasure? He didn’t want to take the chance it was the former, and reached down to stroke her with his fingers, this time not stopping as he felt her body gathering itself for release, and when she arched upward with a soft, surprised cry of pleasure, he finally drove his body deep into hers.

Resistance was slight and then she was his.

She felt like velvet, squeezing him, tremors of ecstasy shaking her and him, until they both clung together in breathless abandon. He’d felt sexual pleasure before, but not like this. This was something beyond his experience and he was shaken by it. Changed by it.

But one thing he knew for certain—he’d been right to seduce her.

Eventually their breathing calmed, and he cuddled her in his arms, turning his face to kiss her cheek and nuzzle her skin. “Eugenie.” Her name sounded different on his lips, and he heard the possessive note in his voice. She was his, and he wanted to lift his head and shout it.

“It isn’t fair.” Her voice was quiet with a tremble in it. “You know it isn’t fair.”

He gave a surprised chuckle. “I didn’t want to play fair,” he admitted. “I wanted you to give in and agree to everything. Be my mistress, Eugenie!”

Something warm and wet trickled down her cheek from the corner of her eye, and he was shocked to see it was a tear. Another one followed, and then she turned her head away quickly, as if she didn’t want him to see. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable, remembering that moment when he might have stopped himself, when he could have kept control. And the guilt made him irritable.

“What is it?” he said. “Eugenie?”

She shook her head but he reached for her chin, his fingers rough in his need to see her expression, to read what she was feeling. If it was hatred, if it was regret . . . he didn’t know what he’d do. She sighed and lifted her damp lashes to meet his gaze.

“Eugenie,” he said again.

Because he saw no regret, no loathing for what they had done.

Only tenderness.

* * *

She didn’t speak, but put her arms about his neck and pressed her lips to his, her heart aching, knowing she was jumping from the fire into the furnace and not caring. What did it matter now? What was done was done and she wasn’t about to act like a wronged maiden. This was her fault as much as his.

He only hesitated for a moment and then he was kissing her deeply, and the trembling excitement was rising inside her again, unstoppable in its urgency.

“I need you, Eugenie,” he whispered, bending to taste her breasts. “Why won’t you believe that?”

“I do,” she breathed, kissing his brow, his eyelids, tasting the salt on his skin. Right now, she knew, she would have believed any good thing of her duke.

Boldly, she reached between them, and felt his growing hardness. Her fingers stroked him as he had touched her, gently, curiously. He rested his head against hers, his breath ragged, prisoner to her touch.

A moment later he was sliding between her thighs, sending her into gasps of ecstasy. She closed her eyes against the candlelight, but she could still see the brilliance against her eyelids. This was pleasure as she’d always dreamed of it, all-consuming pleasure.

Eugenie struggled to shut out unwelcome thoughts, not wanting anything to interfere with her moment of physical joy, reminding her that this was not what she’d planned.