To Pleasure a Duke (The Husband Hunters Club 3)

“You don’t have to remind me to stay quiet,” he said, with a roll of his eyes. “Terry’s already been on and on at me. Are you going out tonight, too?”

Too? What was Terry up to now?

“Better tell everyone you have a headache then or they’ll be knocking on your door. In fact, if I was you, I’d tell them you were sick and bring up a bowl with you, and then you can be sure the twins won’t be bothering you. They’re terrified of vomit.”

Eugenie giggled at his practical advice, despite her present state of emotional upheaval. “Thank you, Jack.”

When he’d gone, she lay back on the bed and stared at her ceiling. She wasn’t going to meet Sinclair. He could wait all night if he liked but it was over and done. She’d already told him so, and if, in his arrogance, he chose not to believe her then that was his problem.

As if to emphasize the fact, she rose determinedly from her bed and went to her dressing table drawer, where she kept paper and ink. Full of righteous zeal, she began to compose a letter to her friends from Miss Debenham’s Finishing School. Soon she was so caught up in her comical tale of woe she barely noticed the time slipping by.

Alas, my friends, I will never be the Duchess of Somerton.

At first she decided to stick to the truth—more or less—in saying that the dowager duchess would never approve. But soon she was embroidering the story to make them laugh. She giggled as she finished the letter and signed her name, setting it aside to be posted.

Her next chore was not quite so enjoyable.

Eugenie wrote a brief reply to the duke’s note, telling him she would not be meeting him and it was over. Completely and utterly over.

I request you not to approach me again. We are unsuited in every way and you must see that yourself.

She signed her name and, suddenly remembering Erik, wrote a postscript that if there was ever any trouble with the goat she would prefer it if Barker contacted Jack.

It was done. Quickly, Eugenie addressed the letters and slipped them into their envelopes. The letter to her friends could go by post, but the one to the duke would return via Jack and the groom, Barker.

“Do you think it will work?” Annabelle asked anxiously, eyes big and dark in the twilight.

She had slipped out into the garden but said she couldn’t stay long. Her mother would be looking for her and she seemed to have a sixth sense for mischief. Lizzie had promised to guard her bedchamber door like a little lioness, swearing Annabelle had a migraine if anyone asked, but Annabelle was dismissive of Lizzie’s tale-telling abilities.

“It has to work. Then we will have enough money to get to Scotland.”

For a duke’s sister, Terry had discovered, Annabelle was always short of blunt. Everything was bought for her or sent from London. When she was married—so she told him—she would receive an allowance, but for now she had nothing.

“You just have to make him believe you are set on the filly and nothing else will do.”

Annabelle nodded, although he could see she didn’t like the idea of using her brother in this way. Sh

e probably saw it as underhand and dishonest. But what choice had they? To Terry’s relief she seemed to realize that herself and asked no more questions.

“I long to be safe in Scotland,” she murmured, with a glance over her shoulder. “I will live the life of an ordinary girl. I will call myself Miss St. John and—”

“Perhaps you should think of another name. Something less distinctive.”

“Miss Penniless?” she teased.

“Miss Mysterious?”

She laughed, glancing over her shoulder again. “I’d better go back to the house. It would be awful if we were discovered now, just when our plans are going so well. Good-bye, Terry.” She pressed his hand and was gone, her pale skirts drifting through the dark garden. Terry watched her go, until there was nothing left but the call of the night birds and the hum of the insects.

“Well, it is all arranged,” Annabelle said, a tremor of excitement in her voice, as she flung herself onto her bed.

Lizzie watched her uneasily. “What is all arranged?”

“My future,” Annabelle said mysteriously, and then laughed.

“Annabelle, you know that Terry Belmont is not suitable as a husband for you. Your brother would never allow it.”

Annabelle gave her a knowing smile. “I’m not marrying him, Lizzie. No need to worry.”