“I will, but first I think I should mention the time you have been spending playing with your paints. I know my brother encouraged you but I thought we had dealt with that problem years ago. It is childish and pointless, Sinclair, and you must stop it. All those shameless hussies. If you had wanted to paint landscapes perhaps I could have accepted it, but naked females! Such things are not for gentlemen and particularly not for dukes. I simply will not allow you.”
He was speechless, and then he was angry. “How do you know . . . ?”
“I always commanded loyalty from my servants, and they still tell me what is happening at Somerton.”
She sounded smug, and that infuriated him even more. “How dare you set your spies on me!”
“Oh Sinclair, do calm down. I am your mother and it is my job to keep an eye on you. You were always inclined to stray from the path, although I admit that until recently you have been behaving exactly as your father and I would have wished. When I heard you had returned to your old ways I could not understand what it was that had caused it. Until now.”
Sinclair didn’t know what to say. There were so many words in his head it was as if a storm were roaring inside his brain. But he knew well enough that shouting and stamping would not work with his mother. She did not understand feelings with any heat in them and did not approve of such displays.
“Yes, I am the Duke of Somerton,” he said with dangerous quiet, “and I am a grown man of twenty-seven. I do not take instruction from anyone. Not even you, Mother. You should know better than to try to organize my life.”
“There is no need to be rude,” she retorted. “I have your best interests at heart, and that will not change no matter how old you are. Need I remind you that the Dukes of Somerton have a long and proud tradition, and I do not want to see it tainted by foolish behavior? You have always had an odd kick in your stride, Sinclair. I feared for you when you were young. You reminded me very much of my father.”
Her face grew pinched. His mother did not speak of her father and suddenly he wondered whether there was something unpleasant in her past, something that made her the person she’d become.
“Was your father an artist?”
Her eyes fixed on him. “A Bohemian, you mean,” she said icily. “He ruined my mother’s life, and mine. If he had not squandered our money on—on . . . if he had not squandered our money I would not have had to marry your father.”
This was news indeed. “You did not want to marry my father?” he ventured, knowing that at any moment she would close up whatever doorway had opened to her past.
“He was my senior by forty years,” she whispered.
So old! Sinclair had known his father was an old man when he was born but he hadn’t considered it in relation to his mother, hadn’t thought how such a marriage must have affected her, and whether or not she’d been agreeable to it. She always seemed so very much the Duchess of Somerton, as if she’d been born to the role.
“Speaking of marriage,” she said, and he realized she had regained her poise. The angry, bitter woman he’d seen hiding behind her eyes was gone. “Perhaps it is time we spoke about a suitable wife for you, Sinclair. Of course she would need to have the correct background, suitable family ties, and a reasonable dowry. I have been giving it some thought and I believe I know just the young lady—”
“Mother, I am perfectly capable of finding my own wife when the time comes.”
“And when exactly will ‘the time come’?” she mocked.
“When I am ready.” Were his teeth really gritted? He felt as if they were. His jaw was so tightly clenched it was aching.
“And this lack of enthusiasm for marriage has nothing to do with the young person I saw with you earlier?” His mother’s voice had dropped several more degrees.
“Miss Belmont?” He forced out a disbelieving laugh. “Miss Belmont is hardly wife material. She is an acquaintance, that is all. I enjoy her company.”
But he could see she was not fooled. Her eyes, fixed on him knowingly, made him want to squirm as he had when he was a little boy and had been caught in some misdemeanor. And that made him angrier still.
“I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, Sinclair, but it seems I must. If you were to make a misalliance then I would refuse to see you or speak to you again. I would not be able to hold my head up if our great name was brought low by your actions. Your sister would suffer, too, by association, and would necessarily have to cut all ties with you. Your friends would snigger as you passed by and your wife would never be invited to their homes. You would be a pariah. So think very hard, Sinclair, before you do anything foolish.”
He had a terrible urge to tell her he was marrying Eugenie, just to spite her. Just to see her expression. How dare she speak to him in this way? How dare she try to manage him at this stage of his life?
But Sinclair had been brought up too strictly to find rebellion a simple matter, and even as the urge rose up in him to throw aside the traces that had kept him in line all his life, he found he could not do it. Obedience had been fed to him with his childhood bread and butter, and was now part of his flesh and bones.
“There is no need for you to say anything,” Sinclair said, wondering why he felt so dispirited. After all, he agreed with her assumptions in regard to Eugenia and her suitability as a wife. He had even listed them himself, when he explained why she could only ever be his mistress. These were facts, the harsh facts, of the society he lived in and were not to be disputed.
“Is there not?” The dowager duchess was watching him closely.
“I am fully aware of what is expected of me and I will marry accordingly. Now, I beg of you, can we leave the subject?”
But of course she could not. “So you will not see this Belmont woman again, Sinclair?”
It would have been a simple matter to tell her what she wanted to hear, but instead some devil made him say, “Of course I will see her again, Mother.”
“Sinclair!”