Page 1 of Distracting the Duke

Chapter One

Kessington House, Devonshire, England

June, 1820

“So, what you want is a brainless, biddable beauty to bear you children, is that it?”

Lady Clara Tinniswood, just about to enter the summer drawing room in search of a place to hide from the gossips, retreated back into the hallway but remained within earshot. How would the host of the evening’s ball here at Kessington House, the dangerously attractive Marcus Albemarle, fourth Duke of Ulvercombe, answer that question?

“Very alliterative, Snetty. But, yes, that just about sums it up.”

Clara took an instant dislike to the duke but couldn’t tear herself away from the conversation. As a widow, she’d learned what disaster opinions like his could mean for a wife and felt a powerful urge to storm in and put him right. She peeped round the doorjamb to see who else was in the room.

Ah, the duke’s best friend, Frederick, Viscount Snettisham. Might he put in a word for the fairer sex?

“But what about when you’re in your dotage?” Snettisham inquired. “What use will a once-beautiful, still-stupid wife be to you then?”

Bravo, Lord Snettisham! Clara thought.

Ulvercombe looked much struck. “By Jove, I hadn’t thought of that. Still, I daresay one might have a mistress, if only for the company.”

Such insufferable arrogance! Did he think all he need do was crook his little finger for women to come shooting out of the cupboards and from behind the potted palm trees, ready to fall at his feet?

The grim reality was that the duke was probably right. He was extremely eligible, excellently proportioned, perfectly dressed, and had the face of a Greek god. Women would be tripping over themselves to catch him. Curse the man.

“Then intelligent, opinionated females such as, say, your new neighbor, Lady Tinniswood, wouldn’t suit? She’s very striking.”

Clara suppressed a gasp. Why were they dragging her name into their horrid conversation? And how dare people who didn’t even know her label her a bluestocking!

Ulvercombe threw back his golden head and laughed. “I should say not, Snetty! The very idea!”

Fury flashed through Clara as she backed away from the door. The nerve of the man! She marched down the corridor, gossips forgotten, intending to lose herself in the crowd that thronged the Duke of Ulvercombe’s ballroom and to get as far away from the vile fellow as possible. She barely noticed the dazzling chandeliers, the lively music, or the stunning paintings of the Devonshire landscape. The duke’s words had stung, and she felt like hating everything in the stately pile of Kessington House.

Except, of course, the Venus figurine which had once upon a time been taken from her own family by dubious means. She didn’t hate that. In fact, she’d very much like to get a look at it.

Taking a steadying breath, she realized someone might be pleased to hear the duke’s requirements for a wife. Her brother, Mr. Philip Weston. His—their—ward, Miss Eleanora Soper, sounded perfect for Ulvercombe—pretty, biddable, and sweet. But would Ulvercombe, with his shallow view of women, be perfect for her?

Clara doubted it.

Someone tapped her on the arm with a fan. “Ah, there you are, Aunt Clara,” said Eleanora. “Uncle Philip said you’d be hiding from that gossiping Lady Fearnley, but I knew he must be bamming me. Everyone seems delightful.”

Clara forced a smile. She doubted that, as well.

They linked arms and strolled back to the ballroom with Philip in their wake, then picked their way around the dance floor. Observing the dancers as they headed back to their seats, she said, “Ellie, you are surely the prettiest girl here.”

“I concur,” agreed her brother. “Eleanora, you do the Weston family credit.”

Pain lanced through Clara at his words. She had brought the Weston family absolutely no credit with her catastrophic marriage to Lord Simon Tinniswood.

The scandalous outcome of that marriage, which her family was desperate to hush up, had forced them to move to deepest Devonshire where they weren’t known and had put enormous pressure on their finances.

Their ward, Ellie, was an heiress, though she would not come into her inheritance for a good number of years. But if she made a good match this Season, she could help restore the family finances far sooner. The Duke of Ulvercombe, with his principal residence no more than half an hour’s ride away from the Westons’ new home at Lawton Court, was the most eligible—and the wealthiest—bachelor in the district.

As if that thought had conjured him up, Clara saw him stride into the ballroom, then stop, staring directly at them. Flushing, she turned away, but not before she’d seen him start beating a path in their direction.

“Ellie, get ready to make your curtsey,” she advised.

“Oh no, is he coming over here?” Ellie asked worriedly. “When he greeted us at the door he quite terrified me. What shall I say to him?”