Page 49 of Distracting the Duke

She tossed her head in what she hoped was a careless fashion, and struggled to remember what she’d walked out here to see. “Oh, um, oystercatchers. And, er, terns. Yes, I believe I saw a little tern amongst the common sort.”

“Really?” he said, placing the shawl back around her shoulders. “I could have sworn you were watching Marcus bathing.”

Why was there never any quicksand about when one needed it?

Or a drowning man, or a sinking ship?

Anything to remove that knowing look from Lord Snettisham’s face.

She looked back at him, aghast, feeling like a trapped animal. He’d caught her out, and there was nothing she could do but throw herself on his mercy.

“I beg you, please don’t tell him. I hadn’t intended to intrude. Only, he walked away to avoid me, and I wondered what he was about.”

The words came out far too quickly. Would Snettisham believe her?

“You didn’t expect him to take a cold dip, I imagine.”

“I certainly did not. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

“I would never dishonor you by such a disclosure, Lady Tinniswood. But perhaps we had better hide the spyglass and remove ourselves before we’re discovered.”

“Honestly, I didn’t expect him to go for a swim. He had no towel with him.”

Why was she still trying to explain herself? The less said the better.

Snettisham sniffed the air. “It will be quite hot by the time we have our picnic, I think.” He turned back toward the beach and asked softly, “Did you see the scars?”

How could she have avoided it? But should she admit that…?

“I gather from your hesitation that you did. He won’t have them spoken of, you know.”

“I’m hardly likely to mention it, my lord.”

He smiled faintly. “Of course not. But you’re curious, nonetheless.”

“I confess I am.”

When had aristocrats become so annoyingly perceptive? Or maybe she was far more obvious than she realized. Either way, the thought was uncomfortable.

“His father made them.”

Stunned, she blinked at Lord Snettisham. “I beg your pardon?”

He took her arm and walked her back toward the footpath through the conifers. “Ulvercombe must never know I told you this.”

“I won’t say a word. Did his father beat him when he was a boy?”

“Aye, with a strap, or a cane, or a belt. Whatever came to hand.”

“But why?” Surely, Marcus Albemarle was far too correct ever to have needed punishment, even as a child…

Snettisham gestured vaguely with a hand. “To remind him never to be spendthrift. Any sign of avarice, any foolish gluttony, any hint that Marcus took money for granted. He was punished for any small infraction.”

Outrage flooded through her. What a harsh way to treat one’s son! And all, presumably, to prevent a repeat of the grandfather’s profligacy.

“Marcus doesn’t talk about how deep in debt the family was. I had to wrestle it out of him on one of the rare occasions when he was in his cups. He rarely drinks, you know—not keen on being caught with his guard down.”

Her heart bled for the child he’d been. “I’d heard rumors of financial difficulties but didn’t believe them,” she said. She knew only too well how hard it was to make ends meet, to hide one’s financial problems from creditors.