To Pleasure a Duke (The Husband Hunters Club 3)

Lizzie closed her lips tightly. She was worried sick about her charge and yet she felt compelled to keep her secrets. If she went to the duke or the dowager duchess, Annabelle would deny everything and then insist she was sent home to the vicarage. Apart from the ignominy of it, Lizzie knew if she wasn’t here then there would be no one to stop Annabelle’s headstrong rush to destruction.

“You like him, don’t you?”

Annabelle was watching her, a little gleam in her dark eyes, a curve to her lips. Lizzie pretended not to understand.

“Terry Belmont,” Annabelle explained. “You like him, Lizzie, and don’t pretend you don’t.”

“I don’t like or dislike him. He is nothing to me.”

“You’re fibbing, Lizzie. I didn’t think vicar’s daughters were allowed to tell lies.”

“Annabelle—”

“Do you want me to ask him if he wants to marry you?”

Lizzie felt light-headed at such a humiliating idea. “Don’t you dare do such a thing! You are being cruel, Annabelle.”

The other girl looked taken aback, as if something she had believed perfectly tame had suddenly bitten her. “Very well. It was just a thought. My apologies, Lizzie.”

Lizzie took a deep breath, and then another, calming herself, reminding herself of her position.

“Besides, he would probably refuse,” Annabelle went on. “He wants to join the army but his family can’t afford a suitable regiment. You wouldn’t want an army husband, would you, Lizzie? Always traveling about from town to town, living in foreign countries, sleeping in a tent!”

Lizzie said nothing, but her thoughts had taken flight. She imagined traveling through lands she had never seen before, living in close quarters with her husband, sleeping beside him in the cozy warmth of a canvas cave, darning his shirts while he sat beside her, feeling a warm sun on her face that was far from England.

She had never expected such a future. Life, for Lizzie, was plain and unadorned. But now she knew that if she had the chance to be an army wife, to be Terry Belmont’s wife, then she would take it.

Chapter 16

Eugenie was helping Cook carry in the pudding—rice custard and cream—when Jack gave her a wink. Presumably that meant all was well and Barker had taken the reply for the duke. She refused to dwell upon what that meant. Yes, there had been pleasant moments between her and the duke—dangerously illicit moments!—but the risk was far too great.

She sat down and had taken up her spoon when a nasty thought occurred to her. She only hesitated a moment before she began to eat, because of course the idea that she could do something so stupid was impossible. She had been rushing and in a bit of a state, but . . . No, impossible! But a moment later the same thought occurred to her again, and this time she put down her spoon.

Knowing she wouldn’t be able to relax until she’d made certain, Eugenie excused herself from the table and went into the hall. All letters to be posted were placed in a basket there, and she took out the letter she’d written earlier to her friends. The envelope was addressed correctly—to Marissa, who would pass it on to the others—and yet it felt thin. Surely her letter had been bulkier than that? It was Sinclair’s letter that had been thin.

Fingers shaking now, heart thudding, Eugenie tore open the missive and stared at the paper inside.

Dear Sinclair. . .

Oh dear Lord! It could not be; and yet it was!

Her tale of woe had gone to the very man she’d written about. He would read it and know all she had said and planned. Her face was already scarlet at the very thought that he would see her as such a scheming hussy. She could not bear him to think so badly of her, she really couldn’t, especially when she had been in such a high moral position when she broke off with him.

And it wasn’t even as if she had ever intended to marry him. It had all been a terrible mistake.

With a whimper, she ran up the stairs to her room, clutching the crumpled paper in her hand. There was only one thing to be done. She must meet him at the old Jobling manor house. She must . . . she must . . . somehow she must get the letter back before he opened it. And if he had opened it then she would apologize and explain.

Because Eugenie knew in her heart she could not let things between them end in such a horrid fashion. She must at least try to smooth it over or she would never be able to think of him again without cringing in shame.

It was already dark when Eugenie set off determinedly on her mare, although the stars were bright enough to light her way. This journey was not one she wanted to make. She didn’t know what she would say when she got there. No doubt something would occur to her—it always did. She could only hope she was in time to retrieve the letter and avert Sinclair’s anger and her embarrassment. Remembering what she had written to amuse her friends made her quiver and groan aloud, as well as curse her wayward Belmont tongue.

When would she learn?

The old Jobling manor house was really a large farmhouse, once owned by a local squire, before his family died from illness and he sank into a depression. The house was set in a field and hidden by overgrown shrubs and rampant brambles, although the dark line of the roof and a crumbling pair of chimneys were visible against the night sky. No wonder it was known in the village as the haunted house. At night, lights were said to shine from the windows and ghostly figures were said to dance to long forgotten tunes. Eugenie told herself she didn’t believe in ghosts; she found the house rather sad, abandoned, and tumbling down as it was.

Perhaps Sinclair had been expecting her to cling to him in terror? Well, in that case he’d be disappointed. Eugenie might be a hoyden but she was courageous when it came to the supernatural. It was the thought of that letter in Sinclair’s hands that was frightening her.

When she reached the haunted house, her mare’s wicker of recognition led her to Sinclair’s horse, already tethered in the bushes and hidden from passing prying eyes. Eugenie dismounted and, with wobbling legs and a courageous determination she was far from feeling, set off toward the front door.