It wasn’t as if he was going to marry her. He wasn’t about to lose his head and create a scandal, like some peers were wont to do, making themselves laughingstocks in the process. He
’d keep her private, a secret lover.
As Sinclair grew more and more determined to make his wishes come true, the need to have Eugenie became a fait accompli, he was so certain he could persuade her—or if necessary bribe her—to say yes.
He’d come home from their meeting at the ruined manor and gone straight up to the attic room, beginning work on his painting. Hours passed, he became lost in the joy of his work, and it wasn’t until one of his servants cleared his throat outside his door that he realized how late it was.
Hurriedly he dressed for dinner and joined his mother and sister at the table. But it was difficult behaving normally when he no longer felt like that man. Being with Eugenie had changed him, and he found himself thinking about their wild and passionate kisses, and squirming in his chair like a restless child. His body ached and throbbed with the need to have her in his arms again, only this time he would undress her, peeling her garments from her one by one until she was naked. Pale and beautiful upon his sheets, her wild curls spread about her, her green eyes warm and promising so much.
She represented a world that until now he had never known, and one that he was now desperate to enter.
“Whatever is the matter, Sinclair?”
His mother’s chilly tones drifting down the long table brought him up short. She was watching him over her soup spoon, her arched brows even more arched, her thin nostrils pinched with disapproval.
“Nothing is the matter, Mother. Are you enjoying the soup?”
“Soup is much the same wherever one eats it,” she retorted. “I was never overly fond of soup.”
Sinclair stifled a sigh. His mother had decided to make a brief visit to Somerton on her way to friends farther west in the Cotswolds. They must be good friends to draw her out of London, which was her permanent home these days. She had always loathed the country, and their father’s body was barely tucked away in the family mausoleum before she’d packed up and left, telling her son that he was the duke now and she was trusting him not to do anything to tarnish the Somerton name.
He didn’t miss his father; it would be a lie to say he did. The old man had been stiff and distant and full of pride, and Sinclair had barely known him. Strange that it was often said that he was very like his father. He’d attuned his outward behavior to his father’s on purpose, because he’d been brought up to believe that was the way dukes behaved. It was now second nature to him. He considered the chilly demeanor part of his heritage. Why not? The Duke of Somerton was a title to wear with pride.
But beneath the facade, Sinclair had become aware that he was lonely. With all his wealth and power, he was a man alone.
It had taken Eugenie to bring him to that realization.
“Sinclair, whatever is wrong with you?”
His mother was staring at him again. The servants were clearing the soup in preparation for the next course, their faces blank, pretending not to listen. He found himself wondering what they thought of him, of his mother—minutiae that had previously been beneath his notice.
“Sinclair is probably thinking of ways to increase his consequence,” Annabelle quipped.
She’d been unnaturally quiet since their mother’s arrival, and looking at her now he noticed her pallor and the shadows under her eyes. Was she fretting about her marriage to Lucius? Sinclair was aware it was unpalatable to her but the life of a duke’s sister could never be as free and easy as a servant girl’s. She must accept that lesson or expect heartbreak for the rest of her life.
Just as he had accepted.
“Of course the wedding will be at St. James’s,” the dowager duchess enthused. “And afterwards those guests we choose to invite can come to the London house for champagne and cake. I think we will have enough room. People are talking about it already, and once the invitations are sent . . . I do believe it will be the event of the year, Annabelle.”
Annabelle smiled, her lashes sweeping down to hide her eyes. “Yes, Mama,” she said like an obedient daughter.
Miss Gamboni gave her a sharp glance before looking down at her plate.
Sinclair frowned. Was there something in his sister’s smile that should make him uneasy? What did Miss Gamboni see that he didn’t? But before he had time to consider the matter his mother was talking again, describing how she intended to decorate the London house, the colors she would use, the theme she had in mind. Then she went on to describe some event she had recently attended, and who was there and what they were wearing. Appearance was all to her.
Suddenly Sinclair was bored with it.
Completely, utterly, and unbearably bored.
He stood up from the table. Three pairs of eyes lifted to his in amazement. “Sinclair?”
He was behaving completely out of character, but he didn’t care.
“My apologies,” he said, moving away. “I have remembered something I must do and I’m afraid it cannot wait.”
“Sinclair, really! I’m sure you can get someone else to do it for you. You cannot rush off halfway through dinner—”
“I have apologized, Mother.”