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

Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

F or two days they made their way along the waterways, feeling as if they were in a secluded world all of their own. Captain Johnno went about his work with Rufus for company, saying little and paying them no attention. Lord Ridley had chosen him well, Eugenie thought. She wondered, too, whether Sinclair’s uncle might have had something else in mind when he insisted they take the canals north. Something other than catching up with Annabelle and Terry, that is.

Could His Lordship be playing matchmaker for his favorite nephew? Was he giving them the present of this idyllic time together before the real world intruded once more?

Sinclair sketched her in various stages of undress, all of them flattering in Eugenie’s eyes. But the one she liked best was a sketch he did of her face, half turned away, a little smile tugging at her lips and her lashes lowered, as though she was thinking pleasant and slightly wicked thoughts.

She probably was, and all of them about Sinclair.

And then they made love, for hours, lying in each others arms, falling asleep and then waking up to make love again. She had never been so happy and she believed Sinclair felt the same. Perhaps that was why neither of them mentioned what might happen when this interlude was over. They did not speak of the future, or even the possibility of a future.

To speak of it was to make it all too real and then they would have to make decisions. Every other time they had begun to discuss their future they had fallen out. So Eugenie preferred to drift, with the narrow boat, and enjoy each moment as it came.

But of course their journey had an ending, and now it was fast approaching. When Johnno informed them they were approaching the last lock on this stretch of canal, the last lock before Wexham, where they would take to the road once more, Eugenie was shocked. The last lock had a certain significance. She could no longer pretend they would go on forever, drifting like flotsam, careless of what was ahead.

Sinclair seemed to feel it, too, although he didn’t say so. But he was quieter, more introverted, caught up in his own thoughts.

Of course she didn’t ask what those thoughts were, and if he wondered the same about her, then Sinclair didn’t ask, either.

* * *

The lock consisted of wooden gates and levers, and by the working of these the lockkeeper allowed the narrow boat to pass into a closed off section of the canal. The gate behind the boat was then closed while the level of water was altered by sluice gates. When the level was the same as the canal in front of the boat, the other gate was opened to allow the boat to continue on its journey.

Sinclair and Eugenie had already passed through numerous lock gates on their journey, and rather than staying on board they climbed up onto the towpath while the sluice gate was opened and the water rushed in, raising the level of the river. This was an isolated stretch of canal, with meadows and fields surrounding the lockkeeper’s cottage, and they strolled through wildflowers and long grass, the sun warm on their heads.

Eugenie expected Sinclair to speak about his uncle’s horses waiting at Wexham and the journey north and what they must do, but he said nothing of it. There were willows growing in the marshy land south of the lock gates, and instead they found a place to sit in the shade, watching the water birds going about their daily tasks.

Sinclair was wearing shoes without stockings—he’d taken to wandering around barefoot lately—his trouser bottoms rolled up, as were his sleeves. He’d taken to the narrow boat as if he’d lived on one all his life, and the change in him was remarkable. Eugenie, glancing at him surreptitiously, wondered how long it would be before he reverted to the arrogant duke, once he got back to Somerton.

She dreaded that.

But still she said nothing.

When he reached for her hand, turning it over in his, lifting her palm to his lips, she smiled at him. She knew there was love in her eyes and that he could probably read it plainly, if he wanted to, but she didn’t care.

He sighed and rose to his feet, bringing her with him. The sun was lowering in the sky, the day waning. Another day gone, another day closer to whatever lay before them. Suddenly cold, Eugenie shivered.

Sinclair didn’t ask why. He simply slipped his arm about her waist and held her close.

On their way back to the narrow boat the lockkeeper’s wife spotted them and called out to them. Would they have tea in her cottage?

Her name was Mrs. Burdock and she sat them down at the tiny table in her little kitchen and proceeded to set out her best teacups, blue with pink flowers. As Mrs. Burdock chatted away, her northern accent difficult for Eugenie to understand, she glanced at Sinclair and caught his smile. And for a moment she felt as if they were an ordinary couple.

“Such a pretty time of year,” Mrs. Burdock went on. “You wouldn’t believe how cold it gets in the winter. Frost an inch thick on the canal some mornings.”

Eugenie’s gaze rested on a tall dresser opposite her, with its proud display of patterned china, her best wares probably. Mrs. Burdock had been baking and now she produced a plate heavy with large flat cakes with jam in the middle. Eugenie accepted one with pleasure, and the warm crusty texture crumbled into her mouth, the jam sweet and hot on her tongue.

Sinclair complimented Mrs. Burdock on them and she promptly handed him another.

“Captain Johnno says that you’re an artist, sir.”

“I . . .” Sinclair pushed a lock of his hair off his forehead. Under the table his feet in their shoes and no stockings were truly Bohemian. He gave Eugenie a smiling glance and said, “Yes, I am.”

She thought it was probably the first time he’d ever called himself an artist out loud and was proud of him.

“And your wife? Are you an artist, too, ma’am?”

Eugenie shook her head. Her hair was tied back loosely with a ribbon and her curls danced about her. Sinclair had made her a daisy chain on their stroll through the meadow and set it on her head like a yellow crown.

She could feel Sinclair’s eyes still on her, caressing her, and the warmth flooded her body as she thought about what they would do, later, when they returned to the boat. Although now her anticipated pleasure was streaked through with the unhappy knowledge that this may be their last time together. Maybe another day, or another hour, but soon it would end.

“Well,” Mrs. Burdock was looking from one to the other of them with an indulgent smile, “you’re young and together. I don’t think it matters as long as you’re together, eh? Especially when anyone can see you’re so much in love. I can remember when me and my Jack first married, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.” She gave an earthy chuckle. “My father was against our wedding from the first, made all sorts of excuses why we’d never be happy. But we went ahead anyway and here we are, forty-two years later, still in love. Just shows it doesn’t go to pay too much attention to other people when your own heart is telling you what’s best.”

“Yes,” Eugenie whispered. She reached over and touched the woman’s reddened, work-worn hand. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Burdock’s merry face creased in a frown. “My dear, what is it?”

Eugenie shook her head, her throat closing, suddenly very near to tears.

“Now you take heart,” the woman insisted. “No matter what others do and say, you still have your love for each other, and if you hold firm that will pull you through the bad times. Believe me, ’cause I know.”

Abruptly a call came from outside, and then voices arguing.

Mrs. Burdock lifted her head. “Now who could that be?” she murmured, puzzled. “We’re not used to this many customers in a day.”

But Eugenie had recognized the voices and she knew who it was.

* * *

Sinclair recognized them, too. He rose to his feet. He’d hardly worn shoes since they boarded the narrow boat and now when he put them on they felt tight and pinching, as if his freedom were somehow being curtailed by their restriction. If he’d had time, he might have drawn parallels between his shoes and society, and his need to be free of them both, but there was no time for philosophizing.

“Why did you let me persuade you into doing this?” Annabelle’s voice was a wail, on the verge of tears. He knew that tone well.

“I must have been out of my mind,” another voice groaned, and he recognized Terry Belmont.

Eugenie jumped up out of her chair and was hurrying to the door of the cottage. He reached it just behind her.

Outside by the lock gates a strange scene confronted them.

Annabelle was standing on the towpath while Terry was walking away, to where the upper lock gate had opened up to let Lord Ridley’s narrow boat through. A slight fair-haired woman stood between the two of them, as if caught in the middle of their argument—Miss Gamboni. There was a barge tied to the bank by the narrow boat, facing away from Wexham. Terry and Annabelle’s? The lockkeeper, Mr. Burdock, and Captain Johnno stood close together, attention fixed on the arguing couple, enjoying this unexpected entertainment.

“You must hire a fast coach, one that doesn’t rock about.”

“And how will I do that? All my money is gone.”

“When I return to London and marry Lucius, I will repay you every penny.”

“Do you expect this Lucius to want to marry you? Now? What about your reputation?”

“Terry . . .” Miss Gamboni warned, but it did no good.

Annabelle choked. “You are hateful to remind me! What will I do? Oh what will I do?”

Terry sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, as if it was now a common refrain. He turned back to her and tried to take her in his arms, as if to comfort her, but Annabelle pulled away. She was close to the towpath and when her foot slipped she teetered on the edge of the canal. Terry made a grab for her but it was too late, she was already falling. The next moment she hit the water with a splash.

Eugenie cried out and Mrs. Burdock clasped her arm tightly, as if afraid she might jump into the canal, too. Sinclair ran toward the towpath where Terry stood, his face chalk white, almost colliding with Miss Gamboni, who was also running. He pushed them both out of the way in his impatience to save his sister.

He could see Annabelle’s dark hair beneath the brown water, her clothing rising up in clouds as the air bubbled out of it. He had only a few brief moments before she was dragged down into the depths, vanishing forever in the muddy canal.

He jumped in as close to her as he dared.

The water was very cold. His body was shocked into inaction. He could not even catch his breath. And then he gasped and flailed out, hunting for his sister in the murky water. He dived, feeling with his arms for any sign of her, but there was nothing. When his head rose above the surface again, he heaved in a deep breath and then another.

Terry was above him.

“There!” he shouted, pointing a little to Sinclair’s right.

Sinclair caught sight of a fold of cloth, drifting down. He struck out, grasping at it with his out-stretched hand, and felt the material brush his fingers. His grip tightened, and then he was reeling the folds of cloth in toward him. She was heavy, weighed down with skirts and petticoats. Then he felt her body, limp, and pulled her close.

Her head tumbled forward, dark hair trailing in ribbons, and he lifted it out of the water, onto his shoulder. Her face was white, eyes closed. Was she breathing? But he couldn’t worry about that now. He had to get them both out of this freezing water. Sinclair struggled toward the steep bank of the canal.

“Here you go, sir.” The lockkeeper was there with a pole, and Sinclair caught hold of the end of it, using it to help him onto the wooden ladder that hung down from the path. Then there were hands, pulling him upward, lifting Annabelle’s limb body from him. It seemed only a moment later he was sprawled on the towpath, shivering with cold and shock.

A group had gathered, hiding the prone body of Annabelle from his view. He couldn’t see what was happening and he was too exhausted to get up. Seconds passed, then minutes. He began to believe the worst. Then there was a shout, and Eugenie came hurrying over to him, her face alight with good news.

“She is breathing. Sinclair. She is alive.”