“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.”