Page 21 of Distracting the Duke

“Mr. Weston!” he called. “What’s happening? Lady Clara seems to be in distress.”

The fellow spun on his heel and came back, his lantern casting frightening shadows over his features. The hammering increased as he approached, and Marcus winced. She must be bruising her hands in there.

What on earth was going on?

“I’ve just locked the door to be on the safe side,” Weston answered stiffly. “I take the security of the women under my roof very seriously.”

Marcus forced himself not to take umbrage at the implication. “Your sister seems to object to your security procedures. I suggest you unlock that door immediately.”

Weston rose to his full height. “I’ll do no such thing. Begging your pardon, sir, but I believe I have the final say in what happens under my own roof.”

Marcus felt his blood begin to boil. “Do you always lock everyone in?”

“No, he doesn’t,” came a panting voice from behind the door. “Unlock it at once, Philip, I beg you!”

Marcus folded his arms and scowled at Weston. “You’d better do as she says. Your sister has an aversion to locked doors, as I’m sure you know.”

“I do not. There’s no need for her to get hysterical. She never objected to being shut in, accidentally or on purpose, when we were children.”

How obtuse could the fellow be? Marcus said harshly, “Well, she evidently objects now. Where’s the key?”

Weston immediately put his hand in his pocket and kept it there.

Marcus clenched his fists, true anger rising. “Open the door, sir. Can you not hear her crying? She’s getting hysterical in there.”

Weston appeared puzzled by Clara’s behavior, but stubbornly refused to budge. What was wrong with him?

Marcus ground his teeth in agitation. The sobs were heart-wrenching. “Very well. You leave me no choice.”

Before the other man could intervene, he seized and turned the knob, at the same time applying all his weight to the door.

Several things happened at once. The door gave way with a splintering crash. Weston tried to catch hold of Marcus’s nightshirt and missed. Marcus stumbled off-balance and hurtled across the small room toward the bed, collecting up the tearful Clara on the way.

Before he could draw another breath, he found himself lying half on top of her where she’d landed, sprawled across the bed. Her hair formed a silken cloud about her head, and her tempting mouth was mere inches from his own.

Even more disturbing was the swell of her soft breast, caught beneath his flailing hand as he tried to brace himself from crushing her completely.

Good God.

The gentlemanly thing would be instant retreat, but his body refused to cooperate. He couldn’t help but squeeze the delightfully plump flesh beneath his hand. The touchpaper of desire flamed up and fizzed through his entire body.

Clara’s eyes widened and her lips parted on a hiccoughed breath. Hypnotized, he started to lower his head…and felt her squirm and buck beneath him.

The drenching chill of reality washed over him and he scrambled backward.

What the bloody hell was he doing?

He held out a hand to help her up. “I’m so sorry. You must forgive me. I quite lost my balance, and, well…” He cleared his throat.

She continued to gape up at him wordlessly, and her eyes roved over his body, from his bare feet to the borrowed nightshirt which hung open to his breastbone. Tears glistened on her cheeks, and she was very pale, but any moment now she would surely find her tongue and ring a peal over him.

He heard her gasp and spun round just in time to block and catch the masculine fist aimed at his head.

“No, you don’t, Weston,” he growled, moving aside. “I’m not the one at fault here. Don’t you see the state your sister is in? Have a heart, man!”

Weston couldn’t have seen that disgraceful squeeze—only Clara and himself knew what he’d done. Would she believe him if he said it had been an accident?

“You, sir, are no longer welcome in this house,” Weston said rigidly. “I locked the doors to prevent this very thing from happening, but it seems nothing can keep a rake from his prey.”