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Grace.”
    We. He’d forgotten about the brother.
    Despite what he’d said earlier Sinclair thought his butler might have the makings of Moroccan punch hidden away somewhere in his pantry, for the odd occasion when it was needed. Perhaps he should offer it to the boy and get him completely sloshed. Teach him a lesson.
    But maybe not, he decided, glancing at Eugenie. If he wanted to keep in her good books then he’d best be nice to her brother. Brothers, he corrected himself. All of them.
    It didn’t occur to him to wonder why it was he felt he needed to stay in her good books.
    S omerton was just as imposing inside as it was out. Eugenie gazed about, her awe mixed with terror. Could she ever be mistress of this place? Could she become used to ordering the servants and discussing menus and saying things like, “Yes, let’s have a ball for the whole county and invite the queen!” as if the words came perfectly naturally to her.
    Of course she was being wildly optimistic. But the thing was, whenever she looked into his eyes, she felt wildly optimistic.
    And surely there was nothing wrong in placing a bet with long odds? Her father did it all the time, and sometimes, very occasionally, he won.
    She glanced sideways at Sinclair, who had shortened his long strides to match hers, and tried to pay attention. He was lecturing her on the history of his family, and she could hear the pride in his voice, the arrogance. But surely arrogance was acceptable when one came from such an illustrious family? Although, come to think of it, she had heard exactly the same pride in her father’s voice when he boasted about having fleeced someone too foolish to know he was being fleeced. But Sinclair’s pride was different, surely? He would never do anything that was not respectable or proper, certainly nothing as underhand as selling a horse long past its galloping days as a prime racer.
    He had stopped speaking and was looking down at her. He seemed to be waiting for her reply to some point he had made or perhaps he’d just noticed her attention drifting. Eugenie cast around for something intelligent to say.
    “I suppose your lofty position comes with a great many responsibilities, Your Grace?”
    “Naturally.”
    His lip curled. Earlier the sneer had been for Terry, but this time it was aimed at her. She felt like pointing out that the curl of his lip made him look less attractive, but perhaps this wasn’t the time. He might take her criticism badly and she was trying to get him to think well of her.
    “My father built several almshouses in the village,” he was saying in a pompous tone, “and since I became duke I have built several more. I have tenants who need barns repaired and fences fixed, and villagers who depend upon our charity. The Somertons take their responsibilities to those less fortunate very seriously, Miss Belmont. It is part of being in a position of power.”
    “I suppose you think of Jack as a responsibility.”
    He appeared surprised. “Your brother is a remarkable lad.”
    “He is.”
    Sinclair gave her one of his quizzical looks, but at least he wasn’t curling his lip at her. “I don’t believe I think of him as a responsibility, although when he comes to Somerton in my employ then of course matters will change.”
    “If.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You said ‘when he comes.’ If he comes to Somerton, Your Grace. Such an outcome is far from being decided.”
    He said nothing for a moment but she thought that perhaps she had stung him a little. This was no way to go about capturing a husband. She should be flattering him and boosting his good opinion of himself, but she never thought it a good thing to puff someone up with flummery. Sinclair had quite enough consequence; he didn’t need any more.
    They were passing through a gallery where the ceiling rose high above them and was covered with a crisscross of ancient plasterwork and murals of heroes in armor hacking off the heads of