Page 43 of Distracting the Duke

As soon as Clara was alone, she flung herself down on the high bed and stretched her limbs luxuriously. There was easily room enough for two, and the feather tester on top of the mattress was exquisitely soft and flexible. She sighed in pleasure, sinking into its embrace and preparing to forget all her troubles. For two whole weeks she needn’t worry about Kate and little Georgie, or about domestic economy, or about when, if ever, she’d have enough savings to set up her own establishment.

What she’d seen of the stately mansion’s interior showed the Hall to be a perfect example of classical simplicity. Mrs. Appleby, the housekeeper who’d shown everyone their rooms, had spoken of elaborately decorated bedrooms intended for the visits of the last century’s royalty, a gallery with marble columns, and a well-filled library. Clara couldn’t wait to explore the house, and its library, further.

A maid poked her head into the chamber and informed her that the duke had just returned from his ride and would be happy to join his guests for tea shortly.

Her relaxed state vanished in a flash. This was going to be a difficult meeting. But she was determined to stick to her plan. By the end of the fortnight, she and Ulvercombe would be friends, not lovers, and he would be safely engaged to Ellie.

And whatever doubts Clara might have about the match—and for whatever selfish reason—no one would be the wiser.

As she made her way toward the grand staircase, she breathed in the scent of dried rose petals and beeswax polish, reminding her of golden summers long past. These little touches smacked of opulence and order, making her shiver in delight.

She stopped and peered over the banister to get a better view before heading downstairs. There were a few family portraits adorning the walls, but she noticed other places that showed dark squares and rectangles where paintings had been removed.

The interior of the house was more Spartan than she might have imagined. There were niches that should have contained statues and empty space on walls and floors where furniture must once have stood. There were a few examples of fine art, but very little in the way of the beautiful porcelain, chinoiserie, lacquered cabinets, or Delft vases such as she’d seen at Kessington. Perhaps the duke spent more time there and hadn’t yet bothered to improve the interiors of Wroxham.

And, of course, there was no female hand to improve the decor.

Clara paused partway down the stairs and gazed at a full-length portrait of a gentleman with fine dark eyes and light brown hair styled and curled in antiquated fashion. Though passably handsome, he had thick, soft lips and a weak chin. A waistcoat with a multitude of buttons pressed in upon a well-filled stomach, and there was a positive waterfall of lace around the gentleman’s neck. It must have taken the artist—or his students—many unenviable hours of close, concentrated labor to paint the detail.

The portrait’s only resemblance to the current duke was in the long, straight nose and perfectly arched dark eyebrows. One of the Albemarle duchesses must have been fair, to have given Ulvercombe his tawny hair and blue-gray eyes.

“I see you’re making the acquaintance of the second duke,” said a clipped voice behind her.

She spun around and looked up to see the owner of Wroxham Hall watching her from the head of the stairs.

He was dressed in smart silk breeches, jacket, and a crisp white shirt. His hair was stained dark where he’d splashed water on his face, and there was a pleasing color along his high cheekbones where he’d caught the sun.

Or was he—surely not—feeling slightly self-conscious in her presence?

Her throat was dry, but she managed, “I take it this is the profligate ancestor? The one who cheated my grandfather out of his Pajou statuette?”

Ulvercombe pushed a hand into his hair and grimaced. “Lady Tinniswood, you never disappoint me. I was certain you would still harbor bitter feelings over that, and here you are, proving me right.”

She frowned. “Am I so predictable?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to be predictable.

“In many ways, yes.”

She had to say this for him—the duke certainly had no interest in empty flattery. She should be impressed by his honesty…although the occasional compliment might not go amiss. “Well, so are you. I had foreseen that you would make yourself irksome at the earliest opportunity, and here you are, doing exactly that.”

The duke chuckled, then cantered down the steps until he reached her.

Too close. Much, much too close.

“Enough exchange of insults for now. Give me your hand, Clara, and we’ll descend the stairs like the nobles we are, as if all of Society crowded below us, awaiting our arrival.”

She rested her fingers on the silk of his sleeve and had to resist the urge to stroke the cloth. It felt so beautifully smooth.

Just as the duke’s skin had looked when she’d been in his bedchamber.

Oh Lord! She’d barely been a minute in his company, and already she was picturing him naked.

She’d never felt like that about Simon. Not even at the beginning.

No! She mustn’t think like this. She had to remember her plan.

She gathered herself as Ulvercombe escorted her down the stairs. “Don’t think that ignoring my barbs will endear you to me. No playful mood of yours can affect me. I’m quite indifferent to all your moods, sir.”

He peered over at her. “Not so indifferent that you refused my invitation to Wroxham.”