“You are no fool, Eugenie,” his voice went on, reasonably. “You know the rules of the world we live in. I cannot believe you really expected me to agree to marry you. Being my mistress is the best offer I can make, and I do so with all my heart.”
She turned to face him, eyes searching his face in the candlelight. If she was any other woman she might give in now and say yes to his offer,
but Eugenie knew she would never be content. When she married she wanted to be the most important woman in her man’s life, she wanted to share with him the highs and lows of marriage, to have his children and to stand beside him knowing he was entirely hers.
And if she couldn’t have that then she’d rather have nothing.
“I should go,” she said, and continued to dress, hastily now, wanting nothing more than to get away from this place. She’d been a fool, but she wouldn’t blame Sinclair for seducing her. The blame was on her side, too. She could have stopped him.
The simple truth was she hadn’t wanted to.
“Eugenie, for God’s sake,” he began, getting to his feet and coming toward her with his arms open. “Give me some hope.”
She let him embrace her but stood unmoving in his arms, and eventually he heaved a sigh and let her go.
“Very well,” he said gruffly. “But we will talk again.”
She didn’t answer him and after a moment she felt tidy enough to leave.
“May I have my letter now?” she said, holding out her hand.
He frowned, but went to a chair where he’d placed his coat and hat, and returned with the letter. Eugenie took it without looking, stuffing it hastily into her sleeve, simply relieved to have it back.
“Thank you,” she said. “And for this evening . . . this glorious evening . . .”
The words caught in her throat and she turned away and hurried out into the dank passageway and through the front door into the night. It did not occur to her to check the letter until she reached home, and by then she was too tired and shattered and fell upon her bed. So it was morning when she finally held the letter in her hands and realized she had been tricked.
Sinclair had given her a letter from his tailor and inside was a bill for a new waistcoat costing fifty pounds.
Sinclair dressed and proceeded to snuff out the candles, one by one. The fading of the light felt somehow symbolic, as if . . . well, as if now that Eugenie was gone so had the brilliance she brought to his world.
Had she even for a moment expected him to marry her? He found such an idea incredible. Marriage for a duke was a business arrangement, nothing to do with feelings of the heart, while a mistress was someone he chose himself.
The last candle fluttered out.
He stood alone in the dark.
She was young, he reminded himself, and perhaps for all her grow-up ways she still had some girlish dreams. She would come to understand the impossibility of marriage and agree to what was possible. And he would sweeten her surrender with an endless supply of presents and treats.
He smiled, imagining it. She was the one woman in the world he both admired and was intrigued by. He doubted he’d ever understand her completely, but that was part of her charm. Thinking of her now he felt his body tighten, wanting her again with a combination of tenderness and primitiveness that astonished him.
Sinclair reached to put on his coat and remembered the letter Eugenie had been so keen to secure. Barker must have taken it to the house, and no doubt it would be waiting for him there. He hadn’t told Eugenie that. She’d seemed so fidgety, as if she might run out into the night, and he’d wanted her to stay. No doubt she knew by now he’d fobbed her off with his tailor’s bill.
He smiled to himself as he imagined her expression. She could take her feelings out on him the next time they met. He just hoped it would be soon.
Chapter 18
Eugenie had barely slept a wink all night. Sinclair must have read her letter by now and she didn’t believe he would ignore it. She’d made such a fuss he’d be too curious to resist, and when he saw what she had written . . . Eugenie was under no illusions when it came to her duke; she had seen his ruthless streak.
It was still early when she heard a commotion outside and the overworked servant was sent up to her room to fetch her down. “Sir Peter says you have a visitor, miss, and to hurry.”
“Who is this visitor?”
“He didn’t say exactly, miss, but I think it’s someone wanting to buy that mare o’ his.”
Eugenie would have preferred to stay in her bed, with the covers pulled over her head, but she reluctantly rose and dressed. She felt unlike herself, despite the familiar clothing and the familiar face that stared back at her from her mirror. She was no longer the girl she’d been. Sinclair had changed her; last evening in his arms had made her someone else. Certainly she would never be able to look at the world in the same way.
How he must despise her! Even if she was able to explain to him why she had written such a letter, and why she had entered into such a plan, he would never understand. She could only hope he decided she was now beneath his contempt and would avoid her from this day forward.