To Pleasure a Duke (The Husband Hunters Club 3)

“You’re not going to change your mind?” he said. “You’re not one of those girls who promises something and then breaks her word?”

As he suspected, his words stung her pride. “Indeed I am not! I will be there.”

“Then so will I,” he said. Those feelings were stirring inside him. There was excitement. And lust. And longing. And a sense of coming alive after a long sleep.

“I demand another kiss, as surety,” he said, and this time the barrel was shoved determinedly out of his way.

She had no time to struggle, as he wrapped her in his arms and pinned her against his chest and took her mouth, every inch of it, thoroughly. Despite her innocence there was a natural passion in her response—perhaps inherited from her wicked ancestress. Her efforts to kiss him in the same way he was kissing her increased his desire and numbed any conflict he may have felt for her position if he’d been thinking more clearly.

By the time he’d done she was having difficulty standing, and he was unashamed to feel an odd pride in that. Her eyes were sleepy, her lips reddened, her cheeks flushed. What he’d really like to do was lift her in his arms and find a bed, but Sinclair knew—as lost to reason as he was—that it was far too soon for that. Instead he bowed and backed away.

“Until we meet again,” he said, his voice husky, and left her there.

Alone, Eugenie made a sound between a sob and a laugh.

Was she insane? She was playing a very dangerous game, a game to which she barely knew the rules. If she had any sense she would stop now, refuse to meet him tomorrow, tell him it was impossible for her to continue.

And yet her heart was beating fast and hard, his touch had brought her to life in a way she’d never known possible, and his lips on hers made her delightfully dizzy.

It seemed a shame to halt the game just now, when it was getting so interesting. Besides, what would she tell her friends? Wasn’t the Husband Hunters Club all about using one’s feminine wiles to capture one’s prey? Of course there was a difference between capturing one’s prey and becoming the prey.

Eugenie wasn’t a naïve fool. Her family had been through enough scandals for her to understand what it was to step beyond society’s boundaries and how that might affect her life. But it wasn’t as if she had any great prospects, was it? And kissing the duke had been such a pleasurable experience.

“I will stop before anything really dreadful happens,” she told herself firmly, ignoring the thought that perhaps her great-grandmamma had told herself the same thing, just before she climbed into King George’s bed.

Annabelle was breathless from dancing. Her chaperone, Miss Lizzie Gamboni, steadied her and suggested she sit down for a moment, which was a suggestion Annabelle rejected. Of course.

Lizzie sighed. Her charge, a girl only two years younger than herself, was beautiful and headstrong, no doubt about that. Lizzie was beginning to think Annabelle was far too strong-willed for her. She supposed if she had had so fortunate birth as Annabelle then she might believe anything in the world was possible, but Lizzie, the eldest daughter of a vicar in a family of twelve, knew differently. Her life had been sacrificed to the will of others, or so it sometimes seemed, although she tried hard to be grateful for what she had been given.

“May I have this dance, Your Ladyship?” a well-scrubbed farmer said, eyes bright with admiration. And Annabelle was off again before Lizzie could say a word. She had seen the duke watching them and hoped he wouldn’t blame her for his sister’s romp. She could not afford to lose her position at Somerton and she did not know where she might get another.

“Miss Gamboni.”

Lizzie started. It was Terry Belmont, the very person the duke had warned her of, a handsome young man with a bad reputation, and—she admitted this secretly to herself—a heartbreaking smile.

“Mr. Belmont,” she said, and hoped she sounded like a stern chaperone and not an insecure young woman.

But he wasn’t looking at her, instead he was gazing across the bobbing heads to Annabelle. “Is Lady Annabelle’s card full?”

Lizzie smiled. “I don’t think she has a card with her tonight, Mr. Belmont.”

“I did hope to have more dances with her,” he said, longingly.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Lizzie spoke sympathetically. All the young men fell for Annabelle and breaking hearts seemed to concern her not at all. “The duke is watching.”

Terry smiled and she felt her heart do a little dance of its own. He really was very charming and she reminded herself once again that she must be the stern and grim-faced chaperone, or at least pretend.

And then he asked, “Do you ever dance, Miss Gamboni?”

Startled, she looked up at him wide-eyed. “D-dance?” she stammered, before she could stop herself.

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He took that as a “yes” and, taking her in his arms, whirled her through the crowd and onto the dance floor. And Lizzie, who hadn’t danced for ages, found herself enjoying herself very much.

The supper was as awful as Sinclair had feared, but he forced himself to make polite conversation and then he went to find Annabelle. She didn’t want to go so soon but he insisted, so with a sulky pout she allowed him to escort her and her chaperone—looking suspiciously flushed—back to the carriage.

On the way home to Somerton Annabelle was quiet, but then so was he. He found he had a great deal to think about.