Page 18 of Distracting the Duke

He said, “I’ve ridden over with my groom direct from the auction house and have brought something I’m certain you wish to have in your hand again. It has created too much discord between us. As soon as we’re finished with the peas, I will amend that.”

She alerted, like a hound on a scent, and said, “Never mind the peas. You have the Pajou?”

Now that was the joyful expression he’d been hoping to see. He reached into the poacher’s pocket of his riding coat and placed the carefully packed statuette in her hands.

“I wouldn’t unwrap it outside,” he cautioned, “lest it fall upon a stone.”

She hovered uncertainly in front of him, clutching the package to her breast. “I’ve been wondering what brought about your change of heart,” she said. “You were ready to fight me for it a fortnight ago, and my brother gave you a powerful reason to dislike us. You also seemed very attached to the piece.”

He plucked at a fat pea pod and cracked it between his fingers. “I confess, it has been a wrench. But I’ve behaved churlishly to you, Clara, and I’m sorry.”

Flipping a pea into his mouth, he bit it and tested it against his tongue. “Sweet and fresh.” Just like Eleanora Soper.

She narrowed her eyes. “The return of the Pajou is a very handsome apology, but in view of the value of the object, I’m sure you must have some other motive.”

He did, as she must realize. But somehow, he couldn’t quite bring himself to say the words. “Must you distrust everyone?” he asked instead. “It’s a great pity a lady with your advantages has lost all faith in the philanthropy of others.”

She actually snorted at him. “Distrust? I call it realism, sir. You say you’re philanthropic, yet I’m certain you enjoyed the praise of your peers for your generosity to the widows and orphans fund. And since the sale of the Pajou was not a sale, I assume the fund will be lacking the two hundred and six guineas it is believed to be worth.”

Quite the contrary. He’d paid out the full sum. Currying favor with the Weston family and Eleanora was proving a costly business.

He squashed the pod and flicked it away. “I fear I’ve caught you in a combative state of mind. Since my presence is unwelcome, I shall remove it. I’ll have a few words with your brother and then go home. Good day, Lady Tinniswood.”

It wasn’t like him to be rattled by a few harsh words. Generally, he cared little for the opinion of others. Especially someone as insignificant as this woman.

Lady Clara came from an obscure family, had married an even more obscure nobleman, and had, so his sources informed him, chosen to absent herself from Society after the early death of Simon Tinniswood. She’d marked herself out by no scandal, no particular skill, no notable charm or beauty. She was a nobody, and therefore he shouldn’t give a fig what she thought of him.

And he didn’t.

Not a fig.

A brisk walk brought him to the door of the house. Looking over his shoulder he saw that Clara hadn’t followed him.

Which bothered him not in the least.

“Ah, Your Grace,” exclaimed Mrs. Weston. “Do come in. Is Clara not with you? We managed to get your horses stabled before the rain started and I’ve sent your groom off to find some refreshment in the kitchen.”

He turned about, ready to have his riding coat removed, and saw through the open doorway that the rain had not only started but was bucketing down.

His first thought was of Clara.

Deuce take it. Why did he have to be such a gentleman? The wretched woman deserved to drown.

With a huff, he shrugged back into his coat and yanked an umbrella from the stand by the door.

“Apologies, Mrs. Weston. I fear I must rescue Lady Clara from the deluge.”

As he hastened back to the garden, he called himself every kind of a fool. There was probably a quicker way into the house, and Clara would already be inside, dry as a bone, while he was getting soaked and covering his beautifully polished riding boots with mud.

He was nearly at the end of the path before she emerged at a run from the walled garden, holding the basket of peas above her head. He had to fight the urge to laugh uproariously at the sight.

“Foolish woman, why didn’t you come straight in? You look like a drowned rat.” Putting an arm about her waist, he turned back toward the house, pressing her close so he could hold the umbrella over them both.

Smiling to himself, he savored this small victory. The rain closed around them like a curtain, and the real world blurred.

Apart from the last time he’d held Clara, it had been a while since he’d held any woman this close. A pity Society was against such innocent pleasures. If a man touched a woman, she must be either his mistress or a potential wife—there were no half measures. Why must courtship be so labored and polite, with every marriage arrangement a business deal, a lifetime investment? Why couldn’t a man befriend a woman he wasn’t married to without risking scandal? It seemed unfair to both sexes to have such rigid rules.

“You’re heading the wrong way,” Clara told him. “The front door’s over there.”