Page 13 of Distracting the Duke

She said something unintelligible but didn’t attempt to escape him.

“Hmm?” His mouth discovered the exposed column of her neck, and she shivered again. He was definitely beginning to prove his point.

She spoke again, more urgently this time, but he was too lost in sensation to listen. “Pardon?” he managed between kisses.

She pushed at his chest. “Your Grace, we’re about to be rescued!”

Damn! Just when things were getting interesting. He released her and took several deep breaths, straightened his cravat, and tugged at his cuffs.

After a bit of scrabbling and rattling from the other side, the door finally opened and sunlight flooded into their little chamber.

He stood back to let her out, then followed, blinking against the glare.

“I believe we need to get a locksmith in,” he told the footman.

“I’ll see to it immediately, Your Grace.”

“Have my other guests have been properly looked after in my absence?”

“They have, indeed, Your Grace,” said the footman, bowing. “They are waiting for you down by the lake.”

As his eyes got used to the brightness outside, Marcus watched Clara scurry back toward the door at the far end of the roof.

With a groan, he smoothed back his hair, then strode after her, praying she was as sensible and intelligent as he believed her to be.

Otherwise, he’d just completely scuppered his marriage plans.

Chapter Eight

By the middle of the following week, the weather had broken, forcing Marcus to stay indoors. Currently he was sitting at his desk, tugging at his hair in a fashion he knew would make his valet wince. Spread out before him were the estate accounts, which he insisted on checking over personally. Anyone who thought this an unnecessary use of his time had no idea of the struggles he’d endured to balance the books. Like his father before him, Marcus was still dealing with the aftermath of the second duke’s compulsive gambling.

Only, this time he was finding dealing with the accounts much harder than normal. He’d totaled the column of figures in his head, forgotten the answer, then totaled it again, only to write down a figure that was not the one in his head.

He pushed away the papers irritably and drummed his fingers on the desk. Why the hell was he unable to concentrate?

Unfortunately, he knew exactly why, and it made him want to tear the door off that blasted camera obscura. Damnation! How could he have been so stupid as to kiss Lady Clara like that? If she’d confided his appalling behavior to Eleanora after returning home, the girl’s shock would make it even harder for him to coax a word out of her, let alone begin his courtship in earnest. If not impossible. He might not fully understand the workings of women’s minds, but he was fairly certain they didn’t take kindly to their suitors kissing other women…particularly not close friends or relations.

It was one thing to be chivalrous and rescue a damsel in distress, quite another to forget all propriety and kiss her.

Twice.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time he’d stolen an inappropriate kiss or two. Forbidden fruit always tasted sweetest, he’d found. There was also the fact that Lady Clara quite clearly didn’t like him, which made her a challenge. And, as he had very quickly discovered, she was exceedingly kissable.

None of which were acceptable excuses for sampling the delights of the wrong woman.

He had to hope he’d got away with his moment of madness. Lady Tinniswood had spoken not a word on their way back that day through the house and down to the lake. But she’d shown no sign of anger or great distress, either. If anything, she’d looked thoughtful and distant.

It had tickled his vanity to think his advice about a lover might have given her something to think about and had added a pleasant gloss to the rest of the afternoon. It was only after the Weston party had gone, when he’d sat alone with his after-dinner brandy, that he’d become seriously worried about the possible consequences of his ill-considered actions.

He scraped his chair back from his work desk and marched to the window, clasping his hands behind his back and gazing moodily out at the wet June day. He tried to imagine what it would be like to share his house, his bed, his garden, and his mealtimes with another human being. What would it be like to see his children bowling across the lawns, trotting along on their first ponies, or begging for piggyback rides?

It was a big step, marrying and setting up his nursery. His responsibility was to provide heirs to ensure the Albemarle estates and Ulvercombe title continued in the family, and he’d been putting it off for far too long. Anything could happen—an accident to himself, a child falling fatally ill, a wife dying young. Every time he met with other members of the ton it seemed another tragedy had befallen someone they knew.

But choosing a wife wasn’t like choosing a horse at Tattersall’s. It was a complicated process. One had to decide whether to trust one’s heart or one’s head, and there was no room for error. Otherwise marriage could become a prison sentence, like that of his own parents.

His mother had married for the title, nothing else. She’d done her duty, provided her husband with a male heir, and then… Well, Marcus had been too young to realize it at the time, but after that, Mama had refused to return to his father’s bed.

Marcus had pieced this all together in later years, having spent much of his youth away at boarding school. But during the holidays, he’d overheard the rows, the bitter recriminations, the accusations of taking lovers…from both parents. It would be grim, indeed, to be trapped in a marriage that brought no happiness to either party.