Page 20 of Distracting the Duke

The duke took a tiny sip of his wine. “As I’ve said before, I’m concerned at your pessimism, madam. You really should try to enjoy life a little more.”

All eyes turned to her again. Oh no, this really wasn’t going as planned. But it was so hard not to rise to the bait.

“If a woman is seen to be enjoying life, she’s generally condemned as being fast,” she countered. “A gentleman, however, may do as he chooses and attract no censure.”

“I’m tempted to regard that as a challenge,” the duke responded. “I must try to behave appallingly and see if everyone turns a blind eye.”

He looked around the table and added, “I must beg everyone here to devote themselves to Lady Clara’s pleasure. I have yet to see her truly smile, even when I placed her precious statuette into her hands.”

She stared at him agog. Of course she smiled! When she had good reason to, at any rate.

“It takes more than material things to make one content,” she said.

“But material things certainly help,” he countered. “What say you, Weston? Can money buy happiness?”

Clara let out a trembling breath, grateful that Ulvercombe had turned his all-too-knowing gaze upon someone else. Whenever he spoke to her, sparred with her, it was as if there were no one else in the room.

It was a most disquieting feeling. And an irksome one, since he was supposed to be directing his attentions toward Ellie. Clara made a silent vow to hold her peace for the rest of the evening and give Ellie every opportunity to shine.

As darkness gathered around the house, the evening developed a dreamlike quality, calming them with the steady beat of the rain, the wavering candles flooding the room with a soothing light, and the occasional tink of raindrops coming down the chimney and splashing onto the fireback.

Clara stifled a yawn. There were only so many games of hazard one could stomach in a single sitting, and everyone was far too aware of the failings of their ancient fortepiano to attempt a tune on it.

“I think it must be time for bed,” the duke finally announced.

Her pulse jumped. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

Ulvercombe laughed. “I could see you yawning, Lady Clara, which was enough to set me off, as well. Mrs. Weston, would you think it rude of me to bid you good night so early?”

Sarah got to her feet and proclaimed that everyone had already stayed up later than usual, and it was very sensible of His Grace to point it out.

As Clara stood to retire, she wondered whatever was wrong with her. Why had she read innuendo into Ulvercombe’s words? That moment in the camera obscura when he’d kissed her, and seemed about to do more, had shaken her more than she’d realized. And when he’d put his arm about her waist in the garden, it had, despite her attempts to ignore it, thoroughly excited her.

It was going to be hard to sleep tonight, knowing he was just a few doors away.

“Good night, sir,” she said with a polite curtsey.

To her astonishment, he strode over and kissed her hand. She collected her lamp in trembling fingers and hurried away before he noticed the awareness in her face.

Don’t be a fool, Clara, she told herself. He would surely treat every lady the same. She just happened to be the first out the door. The fact that his hand had grasped hers with particular warmth and his lips caressed her skin with unnecessary fervor was pure imagination.

It was a struggle getting ready for bed, despite the help of their maid, Tabitha. Things kept getting knocked to the floor or snagging on other things. Tabitha wasn’t normally clumsy, so it must be Clara’s fault. Maybe that soaking, brief though it was, had given her a chill.

Clara dismissed the maid, climbed into bed, and was just about to snuff her candle when she heard a sound that made her blood run cold.

Someone had just locked her door.

Chapter Thirteen

Marcus was just having a wash when he heard a loud banging. Grabbing up a towel, he hastily dried his face and poked his head round his chamber door. Was it usual for the Weston household to make so much noise as they prepared for bed?

A lamp at the end of the passageway revealed Philip Weston, still fully dressed, walking away from the banging sound.

Most peculiar. If the family regularly hammered things at nighttime, he should have been warned.

“Let me out! Philip! Let me out!”

All tiredness fled as Marcus recognized Clara’s voice. She sounded desperate. Why was Weston ignoring her?