Page 31 of Distracting the Duke

As were his.

“Such a pity one can’t take a wife on a trial basis,” Snetty said. “And send her back if she proves unsatisfactory.”

“All the more reason to make the right choice in the first place,” Marcus replied gravely.

“My friend Henry Ansford would agree with you. You know, the great reformer who has become a recluse?”

“Weren’t there rumors he killed his wife?”

Snetty’s brow darkened. “Rubbish. He could never do such a thing.”

“What’s your point?”

“Only that he married a great beauty. Completely infatuated with her. Everyone told him it wouldn’t work, spending so much time in Parliament and leaving her festering away in the wilds. He was cuckolded, of course. Definitely the wrong choice of wife.”

Marcus tried to imagine Clara or Eleanora cheating on their husbands. No. They just weren’t the sort.

But what had happened in Clara’s marriage? He’d heard gossip, nothing more, when he’d started investigating the suitability of Miss Soper to become his duchess. Despite Clara’s apparent bravado, he was certain she had been badly hurt, presumably by her husband.

“While we’re in London, let’s dig up what we can find on Simon Tinniswood, too.”

“Capital,” said Snetty. “I’m so pleased you’re coming. It’ll be just like old times!”

Marcus scowled. “I sincerely hope not!” he replied. “I don’t want to risk attracting undue notice, or inadvertently offending any member of the Weston family or their friends. This is about securing my future, not making it more complicated. I only hope we don’t find anything horribly scandalous about either Weston or Tinniswood.”

“Everyone has something to hide,” said Snetty sagely. “It’s just that some are rather better at doing so than others.”

Marcus went to the window and drummed his fingers on the sill. Snetty was right. The Westons might well have a dreadful secret. And if so, was it terrible enough to prevent him uniting himself with that family?

More importantly, would he discover what they were hiding before it was too late?

Chapter Seventeen

Philip was still unscathed a full two weeks after Clara’s embarrassing—but apparently fruitful—incident in Ulvercombe’s bedchamber. She had to assume the duke was either still too ill to attend the duel or that he’d found an honorable way out of it.

She felt as though she’d been sitting on the edge of a knife the whole time, and it was taking its toll. The sticky summer made her irritable—though she did her best not to show it—and it was too hot to go visiting or to do anything substantial enough to distract her from her thoughts.

Which were mostly centered on Ulvercombe.

After he’d stood there gloriously naked in front of her, looking like Apollo just stepped down from a pedestal, she could not get that image out of her mind.

She’d tried adding loincloths, fig leaves, and perfectly normal breeches to the image seared in her imagination, but the duke’s incredible body refused to remain modestly clothed. She flushed hot whenever anyone so much as mentioned his name.

“Curse him!” She had totally missed the flowerpot she was watering and soaked her shoes.

“The post has arrived,” sang Ellie from the other end of the corridor. “There’s one here for you—bearing the ducal seal, no less!”

The watering pot clattered onto the flagstone floor. “For me?” she queried, impressed by how calm she sounded. “How curious. I wonder what he has to say?”

“Maybe it’s an apology for breaking down your door and manhandling you the way he did.”

“Don’t believe everything Philip says,” Clara said. “He’s not always right.”

Which was one of the reasons she wanted to get away from him and establish her own household. He was often wrong, but hard to convince of that fact.

She added, “It was a complete accident. The duke did nothing wrong. Don’t let your guardian put you off Ulvercombe. He’s very eligible and interested in you.”

Ellie blinked up at her. “I know. And I’m getting more used to him.”