Page 2 of Distracting the Duke

Clearly, Clara had more work to do with her timid charge.

“Don’t be cowed by his title,” she said. “Beneath all the show, he’s just a man, and—trust me—they have many weaknesses.”

Ellie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to remind you of Lord Tinniswood.”

Fortunately, Ellie knew only that Simon was dead, not the horrible truth of what had happened during the marriage. Summoning up a bright smile, Clara said, “You’re forgiven. Now you mustn’t let anything spoil your enjoyment of the evening. Good, there’s that winsome smile I like to see. Don’t let it fade again.”

As they settled into their seats, she wondered if Ellie would be happy with a husband like Ulvercombe. Settling her in such an advantageous marriage would give Clara the freedom she so desperately needed. She could set up her own establishment and be at the beck and call of no man. Despite loving her brother dearly, it rankled to have to follow his rigid rules of conduct. As if she weren’t a grown woman, able to make her own decisions and her own rules.

Cheered by this happy vision of future freedom, she looked up, then chuckled. “Oh, dear, I see the duke has been waylaid by some matchmaking mamas. How miserable he looks! He must be anxious to reach you, Ellie, before your dance card is full.”

Because, Lord knew, he wasn’t coming to write his name in hers.

As the quartet tuned up, Philip left in search of his wife, Sarah, and Ellie was harvested by an eager young man with a stutter. Clara avoided making eye contact with any available gentlemen, not wanting to dance under the speculative gaze of the matchmakers and the tabbies. How many of them, she wondered, cared to remember that the lofty duke’s grandfather had been an inveterate gambler and acknowledged cardsharp? He’d allegedly fought several duels and almost brought the Albemarle family to ruin.

Suddenly, just a few feet away, she spotted the garish satin turban of Lady Fearnley.

Bother! The woman was continually asking Clara questions about the late Lord Tinniswood and about what had happened to Clara’s younger sister, Kate, rumored to have run away from home. This came nowhere close to the truth, but Clara wasn’t about to discuss that subject. Not with anyone.

Ducking her head, she pushed through the crowd of revelers and sought the darkest corridor Kessington House had to offer. She tried the nearest door and, finding it unlocked, gratefully slipped into the room.

Tears pricked at her eyes as she pressed her back against the door. It seemed Devonshire was not far enough to escape the rumors.

Would she never be free of the legacy of her sordid past?

Chapter Two

Marcus Albemarle, fourth Duke of Ulvercombe, dragged his hands down his face. Damn these marriage-mongers and daughter-peddlers! Snetty’d warned him it would be like this, but he’d hoped that, under his own roof, he might be treated with more respect.

The number of matrons who’d forced themselves between him and the luscious young blonde he’d had in his sights was unbelievable! Surely, he’d invited some gentlemen to this ball, as well? Couldn’t they keep their families in order and let their host enjoy himself?

It was about time for a little joy in his life. While his father was alive, Marcus had been forced to conduct himself with the utmost detachment, decorum, and dignity. Even after he came of age, he was forbidden to gamble or make madcap wagers about galloping horses down grand staircases, as his friends were constantly doing. He was threatened with disinheritance if he chased after light-skirts or dallied with neglected wives or lustful widows.

It was high time he had a bit of fun. He was determined that wife hunting would be enjoyable, even though he knew better than to waste any time. The death of Princess Charlotte whilst bearing a stillborn child had taught the entire English aristocracy it was advisable to sire more than one heir.

A stiff drink would help him cope with this damnably frustrating evening. There was a decanter of excellent brandy in his study…

He checked the area. Good. Not a prospective Duchess of Ulvercombe in sight.

He’d barely reached the door when one of the footmen informed him a lady had entered the study just moments before.

“Damn it, Dawlish, that door was to be kept locked!” The brandy was a vintage ’78 and worth a fortune. Also worth a fortune was his prized Venus statuette by the renowned sculptor, Augustin Pajou.

The footman bowed. “Would Your Grace like me to eject the lady?”

“No, never mind. I’ll deal with it.” If his luck was in, it might be the girl with the guinea-gold curls and rosebud mouth who’d come in with the Weston lot.

Marcus stepped into the room, clicking the door shut behind him. Alas! Not a golden head, but a brunette in a matronly turban.

She turned around with a start, then, inexplicably, her eyes hardened.

“Lady…um, Tinniswood, is it not? I see you’re admiring the Pajou.”

Admiring it rather too closely. Didn’t she know such a priceless piece was not to be handled? Moving closer, he judged the distance between her hand and the floor. “It would please me greatly, however, if you were to set it back upon its pedestal.”

She frowned at him. What a sour-faced female! How old was she? Thirty? Thirty-five, maybe? He realized he knew very little about her—or any of the Weston family to whom she and the blonde belonged. For all he knew they’d started out in trade, then distinguished themselves at Blenheim or some such battle. There was no reason to suppose they had a bloodline as noble as his own.

Even so, this woman knew quality when she saw it, even if she didn’t know how to treat it.