To Pleasure a Duke

by Sara Bennett

  “Oh Sinclair, do calm down. I am your mother and it is my job to keep an eye on you. You were always inclined to stray from the path, although I admit that until recently you have been behaving exactly as your father and I would have wished. When I heard you had returned to your old ways I could not understand what it was that had caused it. Until now.”

  Sinclair didn’t know what to say. There were so many words in his head it was as if a storm were roaring inside his brain. But he knew well enough that shouting and stamping would not work with his mother. She did not understand feelings with any heat in them and did not approve of such displays.

  “Yes, I am the Duke of Somerton,” he said with dangerous quiet, “and I am a grown man of twenty-seven. I do not take instruction from anyone. Not even you, Mother. You should know better than to try to organize my life.”

  “There is no need to be rude,” she retorted. “I have your best interests at heart, and that will not change no matter how old you are. Need I remind you that the Dukes of Somerton have a long and proud tradition, and I do not want to see it tainted by foolish behavior? You have always had an odd kick in your stride, Sinclair. I feared for you when you were young. You reminded me very much of my father.”

  Her face grew pinched. His mother did not speak of her father and suddenly he wondered whether there was something unpleasant in her past, something that made her the person she’d become.

  “Was your father an artist?”

  Her eyes fixed on him. “A Bohemian, you mean,” she said icily. “He ruined my mother’s life, and mine. If he had not squandered our money on—on . . . if he had not squandered our money I would not have had to marry your father.”

  This was news indeed. “You did not want to marry my father?” he ventured, knowing that at any moment she would close up whatever doorway had opened to her past.

  “He was my senior by forty years,” she whispered.

  So old! Sinclair had known his father was an old man when he was born but he hadn’t considered it in relation to his mother, hadn’t thought how such a marriage must have affected her, and whether or not she’d been agreeable to it. She always seemed so very much the Duchess of Somerton, as if she’d been born to the role.

  “Speaking of marriage,” she said, and he realized she had regained her poise. The angry, bitter woman he’d seen hiding behind her eyes was gone. “Perhaps it is time we spoke about a suitable wife for you, Sinclair. Of course she would need to have the correct background, suitable family ties, and a reasonable dowry. I have been giving it some thought and I believe I know just the young lady—”

  “Mother, I am perfectly capable of finding my own wife when the time comes.”

  “And when exactly will ‘the time come’?” she mocked.

  “When I am ready.” Were his teeth really gritted? He felt as if they were. His jaw was so tightly clenched it was aching.

  “And this lack of enthusiasm for marriage has nothing to do with the young person I saw with you earlier?” His mother’s voice had dropped several more degrees.

  “Miss Belmont?” He forced out a disbelieving laugh. “Miss Belmont is hardly wife material. She is an acquaintance, that is all. I enjoy her company.”

  But he could see she was not fooled. Her eyes, fixed on him knowingly, made him want to squirm as he had when he was a little boy and had been caught in some misdemeanor. And that made him angrier still.

  “I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, Sinclair, but it seems I must. If you were to make a misalliance then I would refuse to see you or speak to you again. I would not be able to hold my head up if our great name was brought low by your actions. Your sister would suffer, too, by association, and would necessarily have to cut all ties with you. Your friends would snigger as you passed by and your wife would never be invited to their homes. You would be a pariah. So think very hard, Sinclair, before you do anything foolish.”

  He had a terrible urge to tell her he was marrying Eugenie, just to spite her. Just to see her expression. How dare she speak to him in this way? How dare she try to manage him at this stage of his life?

  But Sinclair had been brought up too strictly to find rebellion a simple matter, and even as the urge rose up in him to throw aside the traces that had kept him in line all his life, he found he could not do it. Obedience had been fed to him with his childhood bread and butter, and was now part of his flesh and bones.

  “There is no need for you to say anything,” Sinclair said, wondering why he felt so dispirited. After all, he agreed with her assumptions in regard to Eugenia and her suitability as a wife. He had even listed them himself, when he explained why she could only ever be his mistress. These were facts, the harsh facts, of the society he lived in and were not to be disputed.

  “Is there not?” The dowager duchess was watching him closely.

  “I am fully aware of what is expected of me and I will marry accordingly. Now, I beg of you, can we leave the subject?”

  But of course she could not. “So you will not see this Belmont woman again, Sinclair?”

  It would have been a simple matter to tell her what she wanted to hear, but instead some devil made him say, “Of course I will see her again, Mother.”

  “Sinclair!”

  “I have said I will not marry her. Isn’t that enough for you?” He rose to his feet, telling himself he was in perfect control of his temper. “Now, please excuse me. I have letters to write.”

  He could see she was bursting to speak, but he didn’t wait to hear her arguments. He closed the door on her, and took a relieved breath. The days when his mother could browbeat him into doing as she wished were over. If he wanted to paint, then he would. He would hang his pictures all over the house. But Sinclair was not naïve. He knew there were some rules he must not break.

  He could not marry Eugenie.

  But even his mother would have to admit a duke was allowed a mistress. Indeed, it was almost de rigueur.

  So, Eugenie would be his mistress.

  He smiled. Like his painting, Eugenie had brought color to his life and he was damned if he would let her go.

  “What on earth have you done to Mother?”

  Annabelle gave him a curious look as she stood in the open study door. Sinclair glanced up and then continued writing his letter.

  “What makes you think I have done anything?”

  “She is like an icicle. I am afraid to touch her in case I freeze my fingers. She only looks like that when someone has denied her something she set her heart on. And I know she was closeted with you earlier today.”

  “It was a private matter, Annabelle.”

  But if Annabelle heard the warning in his voice she ignored it.

  “Did she see you with Miss Belmont? She would insist on going down to the stables to see who you were meeting. I don’t know how she knows these things; I believe the servants spy for her.” Annabelle shuddered. “When I have my own home I will insist on having complete loyalty. If anyone so much as tells Mother what I ate for breakfast they will be dismissed.”

  Sinclair smiled grimly. “I wish you luck.”

  “You like Miss Belmont, don’t you, Sinclair?”

  He gave her a sharp look but she seemed to be merely stating a fact, not making sly accusations. “Yes, I find her good company.”

  Annabelle walked to the window at his back and stared out. He heard her sigh.

  Sinclair set down his pen and turned his chair to her. Her face was pale, her mouth down turned, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. “What is it?” he said gently.

  But she wouldn’t meet his eyes, continuing to stare out into the garden.

  “Annabelle? You know you can speak to me. I may not always agree with you, but I will always listen.”

  She shrugged her shoulder, something her mother abhorred. “I was thinking about how unfair life is. Wit
h so many interesting things to do and people to meet you would think we wouldn’t have a moment to feel lonely or bored or sad, but the trouble is we never get to do or meet most of them. We live in a—a made-up world.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there are rules and regulations. We must not do that or this, or see that person or speak to this one. Sometimes I feel as if I cannot breathe, Sinclair. Do you ever feel that?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “Why don’t you fight them then? Break the rules? I don’t understand how you can bear it.”

  “Being the Duke of Somerton is a great privilege,” he reminded her, “but it comes with those rules you speak of. I knew that when I became duke.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to marry Lucius,” she said in a small voice.

  “I thought you liked him when you first met?” Sinclair reminded her. “You said he was handsome and kind.”

  Annabelle moved restlessly. “I did. He is. It is the life I will lead that depresses me. I am not like Mother or you. I do not find it easy to obey rules.”

  If only she knew, he thought wryly.

  She smoothed down her skirts, and he knew the discussion was over.

  “I think you’d better spend some time making up to Mother before she leaves Somerton. Please.”

  “Very well.”

  She smiled, hesitated a moment, and then left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Annabelle had something more on her mind than she’d disclosed to him, but he hoped she’d resigned herself to marriage with Lucius and the grand affair her wedding promised to be.

  Now he turned back to his desk and tugged a second note out from under the letter, the one he had hidden as soon as Annabelle opened his door. It was brief and to the point and addressed to Eugenie. With a smile twitching his lips he folded it and slipped it into an envelope. He thought about ringing for one of the servants but changed his mind. He could not trust any of those in the house. He knew Barker would ride to Belmont Hall for him in the morning and never tell. He would walk down to the stables and find the man, then he could seek out his mother.

  It would be easier to keep his temper with her knowing he had a pleasant interlude to look forward to. One she had no chance of putting a stop to.

  Chapter 15

  Jack brought the note to her, slipping it into her hand under the breakfast table. His eyes were bright and he put his finger to his lips when she would have asked what it was. So a reluctant Eugenie hid it away until she was able to read it in private.

  But there seemed to be more problems to deal with than usual in the Belmont household. The twins were up to their usual mischief, causing her mother to retreat to her parlor with palpitations and leaving Eugenie to smooth matters over. Terry had gone to market with Mr. Belmont, and returned with a filly his father said had cost his son far too much blunt.

  “You’ll see,” Terry retorted. “I’ll double it and more.”

  It seemed unlike her brother to exert himself in such a way but Eugenie was pleased that at least he was doing something other than playing cards and drinking at the Five Bells. He and Jack were out with the new filly as soon as they’d finished luncheon, discussing how they were going to train it into a prize-winning champion.

  With a sigh of relief, Eugenie retired to her room and closed the door. A moment later she’d broken the seal on the note and was seated on the bed, reading it with a growing sense of anger.

  Eugenie, I have a new dare for you.

  Let me see how fearless you are.

  Come to the old Jobling house tonight and I will be waiting.

  Sinclair

  The tap on her door startled her, and she quickly slipped the note under her skirts and sat on it. But it was only Jack.

  “Barker brought it,” he explained, when she asked how he’d come by the note. “He told me not to tell anyone but you. He’ll come by later for a reply. Is it a secret, Genie? Is it from Somerton?”

  “Yes,” she said, cautiously, “but Barker is right. You mustn’t tell anyone, Jack.”

  Jack nodded. “I wish I had a secret, like you and Terry,” he said, a little wistfully.

  Eugenie was about to ask him what Terry’s secret was, but his next words drove all other thoughts from her mind.

  “Are you and Somerton lovebirds?”

  “Goodness no!” she burst out. “How could we be? He is a duke, Jack.”

  He looked so disappointed she relented.

  “I suppose you could call us friends.”

  “Oh.”

  “But even friends have to be careful. Father wouldn’t approve, and neither would Somerton’s mother, so it’s best if we keep it to ourselves, Jack.”

  “You don’t have to remind me to stay quiet,” he said, with a roll of his eyes. “Terry’s already been on and on at me. Are you going out tonight, too?”

  Too? What was Terry up to now?

  “Better tell everyone you have a headache then or they’ll be knocking on your door. In fact, if I was you, I’d tell them you were sick and bring up a bowl with you, and then you can be sure the twins won’t be bothering you. They’re terrified of vomit.”

  Eugenie giggled at his practical advice, despite her present state of emotional upheaval. “Thank you, Jack.”

  When he’d gone, she lay back on the bed and stared at her ceiling. She wasn’t going to meet Sinclair. He could wait all night if he liked but it was over and done. She’d already told him so, and if, in his arrogance, he chose not to believe her then that was his problem.

  As if to emphasize the fact, she rose determinedly from her bed and went to her dressing table drawer, where she kept paper and ink. Full of righteous zeal, she began to compose a letter to her friends from Miss Debenham’s Finishing School. Soon she was so caught up in her comical tale of woe she barely noticed the time slipping by.

  Alas, my friends, I will never be the Duchess of Somerton.

  At first she decided to stick to the truth—more or less—in saying that the dowager duchess would never approve. But soon she was embroidering the story to make them laugh. She giggled as she finished the letter and signed her name, setting it aside to be posted.

  Her next chore was not quite so enjoyable.

  Eugenie wrote a brief reply to the duke’s note, telling him she would not be meeting him and it was over. Completely and utterly over.

  I request you not to approach me again. We are unsuited in every way and you must see that yourself.

  She signed her name and, suddenly remembering Erik, wrote a postscript that if there was ever any trouble with the goat she would prefer it if Barker contacted Jack.

  It was done. Quickly, Eugenie addressed the letters and slipped them into their envelopes. The letter to her friends could go by post, but the one to the duke would return via Jack and the groom, Barker.

  “Do you think it will work?” Annabelle asked anxiously, eyes big and dark in the twilight.

  She had slipped out into the garden but said she couldn’t stay long. Her mother would be looking for her and she seemed to have a sixth sense for mischief. Lizzie had promised to guard her bedchamber door like a little lioness, swearing Annabelle had a migraine if anyone asked, but Annabelle was dismissive of Lizzie’s tale-telling abilities.

  “It has to work. Then we will have enough money to get to Scotland.”

  For a duke’s sister, Terry had discovered, Annabelle was always short of blunt. Everything was bought for her or sent from London. When she was married—so she told him—she would receive an allowance, but for now she had nothing.

  “You just have to make him believe you are set on the filly and nothing else will do.”

  Annabelle nodded, although he could see she didn’t like the idea of using her brother in this way. Sh
e probably saw it as underhand and dishonest. But what choice had they? To Terry’s relief she seemed to realize that herself and asked no more questions.

  “I long to be safe in Scotland,” she murmured, with a glance over her shoulder. “I will live the life of an ordinary girl. I will call myself Miss St. John and—”

  “Perhaps you should think of another name. Something less distinctive.”

  “Miss Penniless?” she teased.

  “Miss Mysterious?”

  She laughed, glancing over her shoulder again. “I’d better go back to the house. It would be awful if we were discovered now, just when our plans are going so well. Good-bye, Terry.” She pressed his hand and was gone, her pale skirts drifting through the dark garden. Terry watched her go, until there was nothing left but the call of the night birds and the hum of the insects.

  “Well, it is all arranged,” Annabelle said, a tremor of excitement in her voice, as she flung herself onto her bed.

  Lizzie watched her uneasily. “What is all arranged?”

  “My future,” Annabelle said mysteriously, and then laughed.

  “Annabelle, you know that Terry Belmont is not suitable as a husband for you. Your brother would never allow it.”

  Annabelle gave her a knowing smile. “I’m not marrying him, Lizzie. No need to worry.”

  Lizzie closed her lips tightly. She was worried sick about her charge and yet she felt compelled to keep her secrets. If she went to the duke or the dowager duchess, Annabelle would deny everything and then insist she was sent home to the vicarage. Apart from the ignominy of it, Lizzie knew if she wasn’t here then there would be no one to stop Annabelle’s headstrong rush to destruction.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  Annabelle was watching her, a little gleam in her dark eyes, a curve to her lips. Lizzie pretended not to understand.

  “Terry Belmont,” Annabelle explained. “You like him, Lizzie, and don’t pretend you don’t.”

  “I don’t like or dislike him. He is nothing to me.”

  “You’re fibbing, Lizzie. I didn’t think vicar’s daughters were allowed to tell lies.”