by Sara Bennett
She gave him a doubtful glance.
“Jack has shown himself an incredible horse handler,” he went on.
Of course, he was talking about Jack! she realized, disappointed.
“I would be happy to offer him work here at Somerton when he is of age. What plans does your father have for his schooling? I understand he has lessons with the local parson?”
He made it sound far direr than it was, and Eugenie sprang to the defense of her family. “Reverend Kearnen is an Oxford man. He taught Terry and will be taking on the twins soon.”
Did Sinclair give a shudder?
How extremely rude of him! Even if his attitude was understandable, having met them on one of their worst possible days, she would have expected better manners from him. Sinclair may be the most eligible man in England but he was certainly not the most perfect.
“Do you think your father would be amenable to Jack coming to Somerton?”
Eugenie knew what Jack would wish to do, and she suspected her father would be more than happy to grant him that wish. If the price was tempting enough.
“You must ask him about that,” she said uncomfortably.
His smile was enigmatic, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
The silence drew on.
“Your Grace, I want to apologize for my father’s behavior regarding Erik. Asking for—for money from you, when you had been so generous. It was inexcusable. I hope you did not think I knew anything of the matter, for I assure you that I did not. I have told my father he should return your ten guineas immediately.”
He looked down into her eyes, so green and fierce it was difficult for him to look away. “Never mind that,” he said gruffly, when only a moment before he’d been seething over the very same matter. “I was glad to take care of Erik, despite his propensity to send my gardeners flying.” His lips curled, but this time it was into a smile. “Did you know he broke out of his yard and made a foray into the vegetable garden? We were worried he’d overeaten but he came through. He seems to have a taste for turnips and they don’t like him. Or so I’m told.”
Eugenie was trying not to laugh. “Oh dear,” she said shakily, putting a hand to her mouth. “I am sorry. We should have p-paid you to keep him, not the other way around.”
“Yes.”
She gave him a sharp look and he wondered whether he’d overstepped the mark. He had a habit of putting peoples’ backs up—not that it worried him particularly. Well, not normally. But in this case he found himself wishing to be thought well of by Miss Belmont. He much preferred her smiles to her frowns. And he felt an uncharacteristic urge to flirt with her and tightened the reins on it. The Duke of Somerton did not flirt, especially not with girls like Miss Eugenie Belmont.
“Would you like a tour of the house? The gardens are sometimes open to the public, but my mother refuses to have the masses tramping their muddy boots through the house.” He spoke the words before he remembered she was one of “the masses.”
She was looking at him with her deep green eyes, as if she could read his very heart, and he held his breath. But all she said was, “We’d love a tour of your house, thank you, Your Grace.”
We. He’d forgotten about the brother.
Despite what he’d said earlier Sinclair thought his butler might have the makings of Moroccan punch hidden away somewhere in his pantry, for the odd occasion when it was needed. Perhaps he should offer it to the boy and get him completely sloshed. Teach him a lesson.
But maybe not, he decided, glancing at Eugenie. If he wanted to keep in her good books then he’d best be nice to her brother. Brothers, he corrected himself. All of them.
It didn’t occur to him to wonder why it was he felt he needed to stay in her good books.
Somerton was just as imposing inside as it was out. Eugenie gazed about, her awe mixed with terror. Could she ever be mistress of this place? Could she become used to ordering the servants and discussing menus and saying things like, “Yes, let’s have a ball for the whole county and invite the queen!” as if the words came perfectly naturally to her.
Of course she was being wildly optimistic. But the thing was, whenever she looked into his eyes, she felt wildly optimistic.
And surely there was nothing wrong in placing a bet with long odds? Her father did it all the time, and sometimes, very occasionally, he won.
She glanced sideways at Sinclair, who had shortened his long strides to match hers, and tried to pay attention. He was lecturing her on the history of his family, and she could hear the pride in his voice, the arrogance. But surely arrogance was acceptable when one came from such an illustrious family? Although, come to think of it, she had heard exactly the same pride in her father’s voice when he boasted about having fleeced someone too foolish to know he was being fleeced. But Sinclair’s pride was different, surely? He would never do anything that was not respectable or proper, certainly nothing as underhand as selling a horse long past its galloping days as a prime racer.
He had stopped speaking and was looking down at her. He seemed to be waiting for her reply to some point he had made or perhaps he’d just noticed her attention drifting. Eugenie cast around for something intelligent to say.
“I suppose your lofty position comes with a great many responsibilities, Your Grace?”
“Naturally.”
His lip curled. Earlier the sneer had been for Terry, but this time it was aimed at her. She felt like pointing out that the curl of his lip made him look less attractive, but perhaps this wasn’t the time. He might take her criticism badly and she was trying to get him to think well of her.
“My father built several almshouses in the village,” he was saying in a pompous tone, “and since I became duke I have built several more. I have tenants who need barns repaired and fences fixed, and villagers who depend upon our charity. The Somertons take their responsibilities to those less fortunate very seriously, Miss Belmont. It is part of being in a position of power.”
“I suppose you think of Jack as a responsibility.”
He appeared surprised. “Your brother is a remarkable lad.”
“He is.”
Sinclair gave her one of his quizzical looks, but at least he wasn’t curling his lip at her. “I don’t believe I think of him as a responsibility, although when he comes to Somerton in my employ then of course matters will change.”
“If.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said ‘when he comes.’ If he comes to Somerton, Your Grace. Such an outcome is far from being decided.”
He said nothing for a moment but she thought that perhaps she had stung him a little. This was no way to go about capturing a husband. She should be flattering him and boosting his good opinion of himself, but she never thought it a good thing to puff someone up with flummery. Sinclair had quite enough consequence; he didn’t need any more.
They were passing through a gallery where the ceiling rose high above them and was covered with a crisscross of ancient plasterwork and murals of heroes in armor hacking off the heads of vicious-looking creatures who had more to do with mythology than nature. Clearly the Somertons were a warlike bunch. Up ahead the statue of a horseman guarded the marble floor, and there were more statues and busts and portraits against or upon the walls. A fearsome array of weapons interspersed them, their sharp edges glinting in the light shining through the long windows.
So this was Sinclair’s history, thought Eugenie, as she warily examined her surroundings. She doubted the Belmont heritage could have been set out like this to be admired. How would such things as gambling away several fortunes, running off with unsuitable women, drunken revels and being royal on the wrong side of the blanket be artistically displayed?
Sinclair was no longer behind her. Eugenie turned and found him standing stiff as a poker watching as Terry fought a mock battle with a sharp-looking swo
rd, having taken it down from its place on the wall.
“Terry, please be careful!” she cried. “That doesn’t belong to you!”
“It’s only an old sword,” he said scornfully, feinting a thrust at an imaginary foe. But the weight was too much for him, and the tip struck the marble floor with a loud ring.
“That ‘old sword’ belonged to the first duke,” Sinclair spoke in frozen tones. “It is a family treasure and I would prefer it to remain in one piece.”
Terry, his confidence dented by his almost accident, replaced it with an uneasy glance at the present duke. “I was only trying it out,” he said sulkily.
“Learn to use it first,” Sinclair snapped.
Behave yourself! Eugenie mouthed at her brother as she turned away.
She resumed her walk. A sideways glance showed the duke was not amused by her brother’s antics, his mouth straight and thin, his chin jutting. “I apologize, Your Grace. Terry has hopes of joining the army. He imagines himself as a gallant officer fighting off the enemy.”
“Hmm.” He gave her a considering look.
Eugenie smiled. “He is young, Your Grace. Do you remember what you were like at that age? I’m sure he will improve with time.”
He searched her face, a crease appearing between his brows.
“As yet there has been no suitable commission,” Eugenie added, wondering what it was he could see that was so fascinating. The truth, probably. That they could not in fact afford a commission, suitable or unsuitable. She gave him another smile, and strolled on, nervous about the manner in which he continued to stare at her.
Eugenie was starting to feel as if this gallery would never end.
“Miss Belmont.” His voice was abrupt. “I beg your pardon but . . . Have we met before? Not in the lane, of course I do not mean that. I mean some time ago. Just now I had the strangest feeling that we had met somewhere before. That would explain why I’ve been thinking about you all—” He stopped as abruptly as he’d started, his lean cheeks flushed.
Startled, Eugenie shook her head, meeting the intent look in his eyes. “I am certain we have not.”
“Your smile . . . Yes, there is something familiar about it. I am not going mad,” he went on, and now he was quite flushed. “Have we met? I demand you tell me at once.”
“I assure you I would if I could. I can honestly swear to you that we hadn’t met before the day in the lane.”
“You have no sisters who resemble you?”
“I have not.”
“Cousins?”
“Alas, no.”
“Then I am flummoxed,” he said. “Never mind, it will come to me.”
Eugenie could not help but hope it would not. It was probably something uncomfortable, like being pointed out to Sinclair in the village as that Belmont hoyden or Belmont’s ramshackle daughter. From experience she just knew it could not be anything good.
To her relief they were nearing the end of the gallery. A few portraits hung upon the walls, several enormous canvasses showing the Dukes of Somerton doing heroic deeds or seated on fat horses with small heads. There was even one of Boudicca—or at least she thought it was Boudicca—with her bosom barely covered with a flimsy robe and her hair streaming behind her as she drove her chariot toward her glorious end. The smile on her face seemed rather unlikely, unless she was laughing at fate.
“Aha!”
His cry made her jump. He was clutching her arm, his hand large and warm, his fingers tighter than was comfortable. With his other hand he pointed triumphantly at the vast painting.
“You see! I knew I had seen you somewhere before!”
Chapter 4
Eugenie stared up at the painting, trying to see what the duke saw. As far as she could tell Boudicca bore no resemblance to herself, none whatsoever. Perhaps the hair was somewhat similar, although far redder than her own, and the eyes had a hint of green in their mad glare . . . but the likeness was extremely nebulous.
“This came from an eighteenth century royal household, I believe,” Sinclair was saying, dredging up his memory of the painting. “My ancestor bought it because there seemed to be very few women hanging among our ancestors and he considered Boudicca an acceptable addition. I wonder, Miss Belmont, if this might be your ancestress? George’s mistress?”
Eugenie made a sound that could have meant anything. The woman in the painting was fierce and pagan, neither of which Eugenie considered part of her own character. Sinclair seemed rather excited by his conclusions but all she wanted to do was stroll on and leave her unsavory great-grandmamma—if indeed it was her—behind.
“Good Gad, Genie, is that you?” Terry was standing, mouth open, staring up at Boudicca.
“It’s very like, isn’t it?” Sinclair said, forgetting for a moment his dislike of the boy.
“Could be twins,” Terry agreed obligingly.
“Well, I can’t see it,” Eugenie burst out uncomfortably.
Sinclair and Terry exchanged a look.
“No need to take it like that, Genie,” her brother murmured. “You should be flattered.”
“Well, I’m not,” she said, and strode off down the final stretch of the gallery, not caring whether the duke followed her or not.
Sinclair found her in the yellow saloon, standing before the French windows and gazing out over the terrace and a fine sweep of the gardens. Her slim back was very straight, rigid almost, as if she was determined to show she didn’t care about the painting.
Now that he considered the matter he realized the resemblance wasn’t all that great. Just enough to strike a chord in him. Certainly not as apparent as her brother claimed, which was no doubt to repay his sister for her admonishment over the sword.
Sinclair rang for tea, and Terry threw himself in a chair covered in striped pink satin and yawned rudely. “I haven’t been to bed yet,” he announced with pride, as if he expected to be congratulated.
“Nothing ages a person more than lack of sleep,” Eugenie said, turning from the window.
“I agree,” Sinclair put in, meeting her eyes. She looked a little pale but her gaze was as clear as ever. “I knew a man once, looked at least sixty. He was barely thirty. No sleep, you see. Wore him out before his time.”
Her mouth twitched but she bit back her smile.
Suspiciously Terry glanced from one to the other of them. “You must think I’m an idiot. Lack of sleep isn’t fatal.”
“But can you be sure?” Sinclair retorted.
Now Eugenie did smile. He was back in her good books again, he thought with relief and then wondered why he cared so much. It was a mystery to him, just as most things to do with women were a mystery; it was just that normally he didn’t care and with Eugenie he did.
Tea arrived and with it polite conversation. Eugenie took over the pouring of the beverage as if she’d done it all her life, handing out cups, sorting through the trays of cake and sandwiches so that both Terry and the duke were given their choice.
Here, she was in her element.
Eugenie knew polite conversation was one of her strong points—she was particularly good at putting others at ease—and she proceeded to do so. The awkwardness of the moment in the gallery was gone and, thankfully, the duke did not mention it again. They were getting on so well, chatting about this and that. Just for a moment she let herself imagine that Sinclair was thinking what a wonderful duchess she would make.
I knew at that moment I had to marry her.
She pictured the wedding, or tried to, but she had never attended a society wedding and the detail eluded her. And things in her fantasy kept going wrong. When she got to the point where her brothers and Erik the goat were running wild down the aisle, she gave up on it and asked the duke if he wanted more tea.
Sinclair handed over his cup. He wasn’t thinking about Eugenie’s conversational skill or that she
would make a wonderful duchess.
Sinclair was imagining what it would be like to kiss her.
The idea came upon him with shocking abruptness, like a dash of cold water on a hot day. He’d been staring into her green eyes, which really were like the clearest of ocean pools, and then his gaze wandered to the dear little freckles sprinkling her nose. After a moment he found himself watching her lips as she spoke—her words could have been babble for all he was listening—and trying to decide on their exact shade of pink. She smiled a great deal, her mouth curling at the edges rather delightfully. In fact her natural repose was smiling.
And that’s when he knew he wanted to kiss her.
He, who never did anything which might undermine his importance or interfere with his lofty position, wanted to kiss a woman whose family were so far below his own they were almost invisible. He who never knew what to say to a woman once the social niceties were done wanted to get intimate with the by-blow of a randy old king and his chambermaid. He glanced across at her appalling brother and found he’d slipped out of the room. Probably gone to pocket the silver, he thought darkly.
“My mother is currently in London,” he heard himself saying. “She enjoys seeing her friends and attending the opera and the theater. She is far more of a social butterfly than me, I’m afraid.”
“You prefer the country, Your Grace?”
“Yes, I do. What of you, Miss Belmont? Are you heading to the metropolis now you’ve been ‘finished’?”
To look for a rich husband, he almost said.
“My aunt has offered to put me up in London, but I haven’t decided yet. I am required here for the moment—my mother needs help with the twins.”
The twins would be too much for any woman, no matter how much help she had, Sinclair thought.
They were silent, sipping their tea. Eugenie was sitting up straight, her slim figure elegant, her profile turned to him as if she was deep in her own thoughts. Visitors to Somerton were often uncomfortable with its grandeur, overwhelmed by surroundings far above their own, but Eugenie did not seem overwhelmed.
