“I have said I will not marry her. Isn’t that enough for you?” He rose to his feet, telling himself he was in perfect control of his temper. “Now, please excuse me. I have letters to write.”
He could see she was bursting to speak, but he didn’t wait to hear her arguments. He closed the door on her, and took a relieved breath. The days when his mother could browbeat him into doing as she wished were over. If he wanted to paint, then he would. He would hang his pictures all over the house. But Sinclair was not naïve. He knew there were some rules he must not break.
He could not marry Eugenie.
But even his mother would have to admit a duke was allowed a mistress. Indeed, it was almost de rigueur.
So, Eugenie would be his mistress.
He smiled. Like his painting, Eugenie had brought color to his life and he was damned if he would let her go.
“What on earth have you done to Mother?”
Annabelle gave him a curious look as she stood in the open study door. Sinclair glanced up and then continued writing his letter.
“What makes you think I have done anything?”
“She is like an icicle. I am afraid to touch her in case I freeze my fingers. She only looks like that when someone has denied her something she set her heart on. And I know she was closeted with you earlier today.”
“It was a private matter, Annabelle.”
But if Annabelle heard the warning in his voice she ignored it.
“Did she see you with Miss Belmont? She would insist on going down to the stables to see who you were meeting. I don’t know how she knows these things; I believe the servants spy for her.” Annabelle shuddered. “When I have my own home I will insist on having complete loyalty. If anyone so much as tells Mother what I ate for breakfast they will be dismissed.”
Sinclair smiled grimly. “I wish you luck.”
“You like Miss Belmont, don’t you, Sinclair?”
He gave her a sharp look but she seemed to be merely stating a fact, not making sly accusations. “Yes, I find her good company.”
Annabelle walked to the window at his back and stared out. He heard her sigh.
Sinclair set down his pen and turned his chair to her. Her face was pale, her mouth down turned, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. “What is it?” he said gently.
But she wouldn’t meet his eyes, continuing to stare out into the garden.
“Annabelle? You know you can speak to me. I may not always agree with you, but I will always listen.”
She shrugged her shoulder, something her mother abhorred. “I was thinking about how unfair life is. Wit
h so many interesting things to do and people to meet you would think we wouldn’t have a moment to feel lonely or bored or sad, but the trouble is we never get to do or meet most of them. We live in a—a made-up world.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there are rules and regulations. We must not do that or this, or see that person or speak to this one. Sometimes I feel as if I cannot breathe, Sinclair. Do you ever feel that?”
“Yes,” he said.
She looked at him in surprise.
“Why don’t you fight them then? Break the rules? I don’t understand how you can bear it.”
“Being the Duke of Somerton is a great privilege,” he reminded her, “but it comes with those rules you speak of. I knew that when I became duke.”
“I wish I didn’t have to marry Lucius,” she said in a small voice.
“I thought you liked him when you first met?” Sinclair reminded her. “You said he was handsome and kind.”