story end as she wished, and lately it always ended the same way. With herself happily married to the Duke of Somerton.
But today she couldn’t seem to place the story threads to her satisfaction, and restlessly she turned over, her cheek on her hand, and gazed at the window. Downstairs she could hear the twins arguing and her mother’s desperate and useless threats, and then her father’s roar of displeasure, which worked better. It was no use. In a moment there would be a tap on her door, the long-suffering servant requesting she come and help.
Eugenie rose and left her daydreams behind.
S inclair found his sister in a surprisingly good mood following the Belmonts’ visit. He had his suspicions this was something to do with Terry Belmont, and the coming ball he’d let himself be persuaded into attending, but as Annabelle would be leaving for London soon he didn’t concern himself too much. And he had had words with Miss Gamboni and instructed her sternly on the need to be vigilant when it came to his sister.
If there were tears when it came time for Annabelle to go, he would deal with them as he always dealt with her tantrums. By reminding her she had a position to maintain and a birthright to uphold.
He found himself thinking of Eugenie Belmont instead. Don’t you ever feel as if you’d like to do something dangerous? He hadn’t, not until that moment, or if sometimes he felt restless then he’d simply refused to allow such rebellious thoughts to form in his mind. He’d been born and bred to the title and everything had been sacrificed to it—that was just the way it was. He couldn’t say he’d really felt dissatisfaction with his lot, not for years. Why should he? People were jealous of him, not the other way around.
But now he felt a stirring inside him, an urge—one he tried hard to quash—to do something reckless and wild. To show Eugenie he wasn’t the stuffed shirt she imagined him.
He shifted restlessly, glancing down at the note on his desk. He’d written to his mother about the village dance and just received a reply, and now he forced himself to read it.
“Do be careful, Sinclair,” she’d written in her neat scrawl. “Annabelle is at an impressionable age and if you don’t keep a close eye on her one of those yokels will make off with her fickle heart. A heart, which I should not have to remind you, belongs to Lucius!”
Sinclair had no intention of allowing Annabelle to forget where her future lay, but he couldn’t help but wonder what his mother would think if he told her how much his own thoughts had recently become preoccupied with Miss Eugenie Belmont. She’d raise her narrow eyebrows and fix him with one of her cool aristocratic looks.
“Really, Sinclair,” she would say, “can’t you do better than that?”
He’d explain to her what it was about Eugenie that made her so fascinating, although because he didn’t really understand the reason himself he’d probably make a hash of it.
“You have a duty not to make your family a laughingstock, Sinclair.”
He thought about the painting in the gallery, the fierce Boudicca, bare-breasted, with her sword raised against the Roman invaders. Her red curls tumbling about her shoulders and her eyes glittering with purpose.
“You are lusting after Boudicca?” his mother would sneer. “Dear me, Sinclair. Wasn’t she a savage?”
But he wasn’t lusting after the woman in the painting; he was far more interested in Eugenie. She seemed to occupy a special place in his thoughts. And when Annabelle began speaking about the village ball and what she would wear and how excited she was to be going, he might tease her and roll his eyes and play the bored older brother, but in truth he was just as eager.
T he cobbled square, on one side of which sat The Acorn, was alive with people and noise and flaring torches. The rain that had at one point threatened to spoil the evening was gone, leaving the ground washed clean and the air
But today she couldn’t seem to place the story threads to her satisfaction, and restlessly she turned over, her cheek on her hand, and gazed at the window. Downstairs she could hear the twins arguing and her mother’s desperate and useless threats, and then her father’s roar of displeasure, which worked better. It was no use. In a moment there would be a tap on her door, the long-suffering servant requesting she come and help.
Eugenie rose and left her daydreams behind.
S inclair found his sister in a surprisingly good mood following the Belmonts’ visit. He had his suspicions this was something to do with Terry Belmont, and the coming ball he’d let himself be persuaded into attending, but as Annabelle would be leaving for London soon he didn’t concern himself too much. And he had had words with Miss Gamboni and instructed her sternly on the need to be vigilant when it came to his sister.
If there were tears when it came time for Annabelle to go, he would deal with them as he always dealt with her tantrums. By reminding her she had a position to maintain and a birthright to uphold.
He found himself thinking of Eugenie Belmont instead. Don’t you ever feel as if you’d like to do something dangerous? He hadn’t, not until that moment, or if sometimes he felt restless then he’d simply refused to allow such rebellious thoughts to form in his mind. He’d been born and bred to the title and everything had been sacrificed to it—that was just the way it was. He couldn’t say he’d really felt dissatisfaction with his lot, not for years. Why should he? People were jealous of him, not the other way around.
But now he felt a stirring inside him, an urge—one he tried hard to quash—to do something reckless and wild. To show Eugenie he wasn’t the stuffed shirt she imagined him.
He shifted restlessly, glancing down at the note on his desk. He’d written to his mother about the village dance and just received a reply, and now he forced himself to read it.
“Do be careful, Sinclair,” she’d written in her neat scrawl. “Annabelle is at an impressionable age and if you don’t keep a close eye on her one of those yokels will make off with her fickle heart. A heart, which I should not have to remind you, belongs to Lucius!”
Sinclair had no intention of allowing Annabelle to forget where her future lay, but he couldn’t help but wonder what his mother would think if he told her how much his own thoughts had recently become preoccupied with Miss Eugenie Belmont. She’d raise her narrow eyebrows and fix him with one of her cool aristocratic looks.
“Really, Sinclair,” she would say, “can’t you do better than that?”
He’d explain to her what it was about Eugenie that made her so fascinating, although because he didn’t really understand the reason himself he’d probably make a hash of it.
“You have a duty not to make your family a laughingstock, Sinclair.”
He thought about the painting in the gallery, the fierce Boudicca, bare-breasted, with her sword raised against the Roman invaders. Her red curls tumbling about her shoulders and her eyes glittering with purpose.
“You are lusting after Boudicca?” his mother would sneer. “Dear me, Sinclair. Wasn’t she a savage?”
But he wasn’t lusting after the woman in the painting; he was far more interested in Eugenie. She seemed to occupy a special place in his thoughts. And when Annabelle began speaking about the village ball and what she would wear and how excited she was to be going, he might tease her and roll his eyes and play the bored older brother, but in truth he was just as eager.
T he cobbled square, on one side of which sat The Acorn, was alive with people and noise and flaring torches. The rain that had at one point threatened to spoil the evening was gone, leaving the ground washed clean and the air
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