Page 80 of Distracting the Duke

“Well, yes, that’s very important.”

“Please roll over. I want to see your face. It’s not easy talking to the back of your head.”

She did so, and he was pleased to see some of the hesitation had left her eyes. The feisty Clara Tinniswood he knew and loved was beginning to reassert herself.

“I want you to consider me your friend,” he said, smiling encouragingly. “I want you to tell me all your secrets, all the things you liked about Simon, what you hated, what he did to you that you liked, what you didn’t like. There must be no coyness, no shyness between us. The protective armor of our clothing is gone, and the rules of polite society no longer apply. No holds barred, and all souls bared.”

Her dark eyes softened as she looked at him, then roved over his face. If she was looking for sincerity, she should find it. He hoped the depth of his love was reflected in his eyes, and prayed that, in time, he would manage to convince her he was worthy of love in return.

Never mind heiresses, never mind social status or blots on the escutcheon—he wanted to find a way to make it work with her, whatever he must do. The idea of living his life without her was unbearable.

To his great delight, she reached out a finger and traced the line of his nose. He grinned at her, pulled his head back a little, and kissed the tip of her finger, then gently pushed her hand away.

“Talking, not touching. Not even so innocent a touch as that. I’m battling to keep my body under control, and I would ask you to have pity on me. Just look at me, and tell me everything, the good and the bad.”

And so, on that flawless summer evening, while the martlets swooped under the eaves and the flycatchers chattered in the ivy beyond the open window, Clara revealed to him the grim reality of her marriage.

Chapter Forty-Four

Clara didn’t share everything. For, despite Marcus’s persuasiveness and protectiveness, she wished to keep some things to herself.

Besides, it was not good that he should know all her secrets.

Even his practiced calm was shattered by some of her disclosures. He winced as if he felt her pain and nodded many times, saying, “No wonder,” and “That explains a lot.”

She chose her words carefully to save her own blushes, but he seemed to understand all she told him. As she spoke, she felt the awful memories falling away from her, and the burdens that had been on her shoulders were now taken onto his. He absorbed everything, without judging her, and didn’t allow the light of pity to enter those blue-gray eyes, for he must have sensed she was too proud to bear it.

However, as she listed her privations and punishments, his expression became increasingly grim. And when she started talking about the hated cupboard, his composure cracked completely. He reached for her and wrapped his body around her, cradling her head beneath his chin.

“The damned blackguard,” he muttered over and over.

Oh, to be so comforted! How she loved the warmth, the strength, the certainty of his embrace! It was terrible to think this was what she’d been missing out on all those years, that this was what her life might have been if she’d married a better man than Lord Simon Tinniswood.

Simon had fooled both her and her family. His parents hadn’t warned her about the darker side of their son’s nature, either. When his drinking, whoring, and spending had got out of hand, the Tinniswoods had apologized, secretly settling an allowance on her that Simon couldn’t touch. Not bribery to prevent her exposing him, but to compensate for the fact that they’d said nothing before, in hopes she might be able to reform him.

Her mind swung back to the present and to the man who held her against his heart. This new feeling of being cherished was bliss. She felt she could lie here forever, with him gently kissing her hair, flexing his fingers against her back, and nudging his chin against her. But eventually, she found she was running out of air, so had to push against him. He released her immediately—something Simon would never have done—and let her find her own position.

She gazed up at him for a while, then smiled.

He smiled back. “Better now?” he asked.

“A little,” she replied.

“Is more comforting required?” His lips curved in a wicked smile.

Her mind filled with the image of him standing in the middle of her bedchamber, totally unselfconscious and completely naked.

She pictured his long legs with their powerful calf muscles, his broad shoulders, and strong, sinewy arms. She lingered on the memory of his perfectly sculpted chest with its smattering of dark hair and enticing male nipples, and his stomach rippling with muscle. He still reminded her of Apollo, just stepped down from a plinth in an art gallery or collection of classical statuary.

She swallowed the dryness in her throat. She needed to be absolutely sure.

“You understand it’s unlikely I’ll bear you any children?”

“I do. And whilst I still hope one day we may have a child of our own to dote on, I have any number of relations who would be glad to carry the Albemarle torch after I’m gone. There is also—and please don’t dismiss the idea out of hand—little Georgie to think of. I’m fond of the boy and would be very happy to adopt him if you and Kate decide that’s best.”

“But won’t that set tongues wagging?”

“They can wag all they like, but as Simon and his parents are now dead, who is to know he was Georgie’s father? I’m certain we can concoct a credible story about his paternity. My name and influence should protect you and Kate from any gossip. And if Society doesn’t like it, then we shall just have to eschew Society.”