And an abduction to plan.
Chapter 7
Sinclair lifted the lamp and felt a wave of sadness as he saw the state of what had once been his secret room, his sanctuary, the hub of his dreams. He hadn’t been up here in the attic for years and he should have expected neglect, but the dangling lace of cobwebs and the thick dust made the place appear even more forlorn than he’d feared.
Sinclair hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d lain in his bed remembering kissing Eugenie Belmont, the flushed pink of her cheeks and the wild curls of her hair, and as her picture grew clearer in his mind he finally realized what that itching sensation was that was keeping him from slumber. So he’d risen from his bed, lit a lamp and climbed the stairs to the little room in the attic.
Had it really been ten years since he’d been here last?
The memories were still sharp of the day he’d locked that door on his hopes and dreams. Misery and defeat had followed him when he’d turned away and retraced his steps down the stairs; it had felt as if he was turning his back on more than a room. He was rejecting an ideal. He was walking away from the person he’d longed to be and the life he’d wanted to lead.
His mother had blamed his tutor at Eton.
At seventeen years of age, Sinclair had been lit by the fire of paint and canvas and the Royal Academy. He had talent—his tutor said so—and there was talk of him showing some of his sketches and paintings. He’d begun in high hopes, spending hours on his masterpieces, losing himself in the world of his imagination.
Until his mother put a stop to it.
Gentlemen didn’t become artists, she said. Gentlemen rode to hounds and went into politics and gambled in gentlemen’s clubs. An artist was a seedy Bohemian, a disgrace to his name and his family, and that was something she would never allow Sinclair to be. He was a Somerton and he should remember it and live accordingly.
There was no arguing with her, although he’d tried. His maternal uncle, Lord Ridley, had sided with him, but he was a bit of a Bohemian himself—a “loose cannon”—and according to his mother he didn’t count. There was a bitterness in her recriminations, a gleam in her eyes, that frightened him more than he’d admit. She made him ashamed of his own dreams and afraid of the possibility that she was right. But he remained strong and determined, on the outside anyway, certain he could get his way. It was when she broke down in tears, sobbing about his selfishness and how could he do this to her, begging him to reconsider, that he knew she had won.
So he had locked the door on all that he’d longed to be, and turned into the Duke of Somerton, cold and proud and haughty.
Until now, when somehow Eugenie had brought back those boyhood dreams. The itch was there, the urge to pick up a pencil or a paintbrush, and it seemed as strong as ever. Stronger. He wasn’t sure if this was a good development but he was eager to let it take its course. After all, what harm could it do?
Setting down his lamp, he uncovered the easel. The last canvas he’d worked on was waiting there, paint flaking from it, dust discoloring the surface. He wondered if he still had the talent to capture an image. Because he knew exactly who he wanted to paint.
Eugenie.
Eugenie as she was tonight in his arms, flushed and sensuous and beautiful.
And now that he was a grown man there was no one to tell him nay. Oh, if his mother found out she might act shocked, she might wipe a tear from her eye, but she couldn’t stop him. Why should she want to? He’d proved himself a worthwhile duke and a responsible head of the family. No, she had no reason to. The only person who could stop him was himself.
He wondered idly what Eugenie would think if he asked her . . . if he dared her to sit for him. Would she laugh in his face or act appalled? He didn’t think she’d do either. The Eugenie he was beginning to know would probably say yes.
Sinclair smiled. He would ask one of his more trustworthy servants to tidy up in here tomorrow. The paints were all dried up so he would need new ones, but he could order them from London. He supposed his friends and acquaintances would think he’d lost his mind, but they needn’t know about his little hobby. No one need know.
Sinclair closed the door softly behind him, feeling very different from the last time he’d been here. He was looking forward to renewing his acquaintance with the brush, and there was a sense of anticipation stirring in his soul. After all these years he was beginning to understand just how much he’d missed his Bohemian hobby.
Lizzie couldn’t sleep. She wished she could put all of the nonsense out of her head and drift into nothingness, but she couldn’t. She was worried about Annabelle; the girl was up to something. At The Acorn she had seen the glances that passed between her and Terry Belmont, and she was beginning to think there was something more serious to their friendship than a silly flirtation.
Lizzie knew it was her duty to report any fears she might have to the duke, but she also knew Annabelle would consider such tattling as treason and never speak to her again, or else insist she be dismissed. The thing to do was to keep a careful watch on matters without overreacting. Annabelle was marrying Lord Lucius soon. Surely she could not get up to any mischief before then?
Lizzie sighed restlessly and rolled over.
Unfortunately, knowing Annabelle, she could, and would!
It had been easier than Eugenie thought to escape the company of her younger brothers. All she’d had to do was make the excuse that she was taking a basket to “the sick” and after some face-pulling they’d gone off to play games, leaving Eugenie to set off with an appropriate-looking basket. Once out of sight she hid it in the hedgerow and, shaking out her grass green skirts and her white lacy cuffs, she hurried off to her abduction.
Trepidation made her knees tremble.
Would he come? He had last time. She couldn’t help but remember the way his lips had fitted so perfectly to hers, the sensation of being held tightly in his arms. She’d never experienced such intimacy with a man before, never expected the sheer sensual pleasure of it. The way his body was hard where hers was soft, the manly confidence of his grip, the scent of his skin, and the faint roughness of his jaw against her tender skin.
Everything had been so new, and yet so perfect at the same time. She felt herself full of optimism and hope, although she wasn’t convinced the duke would go down on his knees and propose marriage to her. Not yet, anyway. But for now she was happy to go in whatever direction fate was taking her and savor the unexpected experience of being pursued by a duke.
There was a drumming of hooves up ahead and then the silhouette of a rider approaching against the sun. Her heartbeat quickened. He’d come, as he’d promised. Perhaps, like her, he’d lain awake all night longing for morning to creep through his window and the church service to be finished.
Sinclair’s horse slowed to a walk as he reached her, giving her time to take in his tight breeches and shiny boots, and the billowing white shirt open at the throat. He looked romantic rather than dangerous, with his dark hair windblown and the flush along his cheeks. When her gaze reached his, she found his eyes glowed with an emotion that echoed a chord in her.