Page 71 of Distracting the Duke

She clamped her teeth in irritation. Why could she think of nothing to say, when she’d been so full of words before? Was it because this place had brought back disturbing erotic memories of their first kiss?

She made an immense effort and said, “It’s hard to ring a peal over you when I can’t even see you.”

Instantly his hands were on her shoulders, drawing her close. “Then feel me instead.”

Desire sparked to vibrant life inside her. No, this wasn’t meant to be happening!

“Marcus,” she said, “I think it very rude of you to abandon your guests.”

“I know, and I’m sorry for it.”

“So, why did you?”

“I needed to talk to you alone.”

“We could have done that earlier. This is a rather elaborate way of seeking private conversation.”

“It is. But there is a greater plan afoot.”

“I feared there might be.”

“I wanted to confess what I know about Simon and your sister Kate. I know he made a cuckold of you with your sister. I know a child resulted from their union, not born until after Simon’s death. I also know you refuse to see either Kate or her son, but that you still send them a generous portion of the allowance left in trust to you by Tinniswood’s parents. You have a great heart, Clara Tinniswood, but a very, very fragile one.”

These words, coming softly out of the darkness, spoken with so moving a note of sympathy, turned her anxiety to despair.

He knew. He knew everything.

Philip had told Marcus, curse him!

Her breath caught. Her shame was complete. The duke couldn’t possibly be interested in her now, knowing how her husband had found her lacking, how, through her own faults and failings, he’d thrown her over for an adulterous relationship with her own sister.

It was time to go.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Instantly, Marcus pulled Clara against his sturdy chest and wrapped his arms around her. She felt so soft and small in his arms, like a nestling bird, but he knew her well enough not to be fooled. Soon, the familiar irascible Clara would return, questioning everything, lifting the lid on old bitterness.

He slid a hand down her back to the inward curve of her waist and rested his cheek against her hair. How could Simon Tinniswood not have wanted this woman? The man must have spent his days half drunk, not to be aware of the prize he’d won. She smelled of sweet, dark spices, the kind people added to cakes at midwinter, arousing all the positive feelings of exoticism and joy associated with the Christmas season.

It was no good. Before he said any more, he had to kiss her. Just in case his plan backfired and he never got the chance again.

He nuzzled against her until she raised her face in the darkness. His other hand moved up to cup the back of her head, knocking her bonnet to the floor.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, trying to shift away.

“Leave it,” he growled. “It’s not going anywhere.”

Unerringly, his lips found hers, and they felt lush and full and tasted of roses. How did she do that? Or was it just his fevered imagination, remembering that her lips were the same deep red as his favorite bloom? There and then, he decided he would purchase the name of the next new hybrid, so he could name it after her.

He moved until he could feel Clara against his whole length. One kiss was not enough. He ran a trail of them down the side of her neck and up again to nibble her ear. She responded with a soft moan, pressing her lips against his, which elicited another moan, this time from himself.

He dug his fingers into her hair and drank from her mouth, licked at the seam of her lips, and waited for her to open for him. When she did, he dived in gleefully and tangled his tongue with hers, his breathing quick, shallow, and excited.

No, he must stop. He was forgetting himself.

Sighing deeply, he lifted his head, gave his tongue a moment or two to remember how to form coherent sounds, and said, “My love, you have a very important piece of forgiving to do.”

“Hmm?” She lifted her head, and he could just about make out the pale oval of her face in the darkness.