Page 14 of Distracting the Duke

At that unpleasant thought, he whirled away from the window. He’d think about it later. For now, estate business was more important.

Sitting down again at his accounts, he dipped his pen, and made a horrible blot on the page.

The deuce!

With a sigh, he shook sand over the mess and pulled open a drawer in search of a fresh nib. His hand touched something cold and smooth, and he lifted up the Pajou, hidden out of harm’s way since the night of his ball.

Holding the statuette carefully in both hands, he turned it round and about, admiring the sculptor’s skill. This was no Renaissance Venus with a thick waist and high, rounded breasts that looked as if they’d been stuck onto a man’s torso. This was a real flesh and blood woman, slender in all the right places, graceful and ripe-breasted.

A mature woman like Lady Clara, not a girl whose curves had yet to fully form.

He studied the statue admiringly. And was struck with an idea.

He placed the Venus carefully on the desk and pushed the sheaf of papers aside. It was an idea that wouldn’t just further his cause with the delightful Miss Soper, it would also curry favor with her disapproving guardian, Clara Tinniswood. And with any luck, it would seal Clara’s lips forever on the subject of those fevered kisses in the camera obscura.

He reached for the latest issue of the Gazette and started looking down the front page for auctioneers. If his plan worked, the happiness his parents had failed to find would soon be within his grasp.

Chapter Nine

Clara lurked in the hallway, listening with all her concentration for the sound of Philip’s stallion on the cobbles in the yard. There was a disastrous flower arrangement on the hall table, a plate of burned biscuits, and a very badly darned pair of stockings draped over a chair in the parlor—the sum total of her morning’s work.

It was always like this when Philip went to visit their younger sister and the child. Clara could never settle to anything properly until his return, until he brought the news that Kate and little Georgie were well.

Clara could not bear to go herself. After that terrible night when she had read Kate’s letter, she’d sworn to have nothing more to do with her. To this resolve she’d stayed true, despite the pricking of her conscience. Eventually she would have to forgive, would have to go to her sister and give her a chance to apologize.

But for now, the pain of Kate’s betrayal was still too fresh, so it was Philip who rode regularly over to Compton, taking supplies and whatever coin the family could spare.

To compound Clara’s agitation, there was a letter on the salver in the hall. It had been delivered early that morning addressed to Mr. Philip Weston, Esquire, in an educated and disciplined hand. She’d recognized the seal on the back as one she’d seen many times on the previous Saturday at the home of the Duke of Ulvercombe.

What did His Grace want with her brother? Surely, it couldn’t be a formal request to court Ellie—that sort of thing was done face-to-face. Was it a disclosure of what had happened between herself and the duke in the camera obscura?

Her heart fluttered as she recalled the delicious sensation of his lips sliding over hers. She’d never been kissed like that before. Had he enjoyed it, too? It had been a scandalous way to behave, and certainly not something he’d want to own up to if he was still interested in Ellie. And he was still interested, for it had been Ellie he’d spent the rest of that afternoon with, not Clara.

Whatever the letter was about, she was like a cat on cinders waiting for Philip to come home and open it.

“Hello, Aunt Clara!” said Ellie, breezing into the house. “Oh. Are you unwell? You look pale.”

Clara swallowed a spurt of guilt. “I’m fine. You’re looking very fresh and lovely today. That primrose yellow really becomes you.”

Ellie grinned, did a twirl, then said, “And that deep green suits you. I hope I’ll grow up to be as stylish as you are, one day.”

“You flatter me. I’m certain the Duke of Ulvercombe would never call me stylish,” she said drily.

Ellie tilted her head to one side. “Whatever makes you say that? He’s much too polite to criticize a lady’s appearance. Certainly not to her face.”

Clara refrained from an unladylike snort. “You’re too generous in your opinions of people, my love. Don’t be fooled by His Grace’s polished manners in public—he’s no better than the rest of them in private.”

Good Lord. What was she saying? The duke was the perfect husband for Ellie, and she should be praising, not damning him.

Ellie’s hands shot to her mouth in distress. “Oh, don’t say he has offended you! He always seems so charming…if a little unapproachable. Was it when you were locked in that optical machine together? Did he not behave like a gentleman?”

Much as Clara longed to share what had happened in the camera obscura, Ellie was not the person. Certainly, if the duke’s attentions toward the girl became serious, Clara would have a quandary on her hands. Did the fact that the duke had kissed her make him a philanderer? Did it indicate that he’d cheat on his future wife and make her unhappy? Besides, if Clara laid all bare before Ellie, she would condemn herself for allowing it to happen and for actually responding in the way she had.

Maybe she should be honest with her ward about the ways of men. Perhaps if she’d shared with Kate the grim secrets of her marriage, the disastrous liaison between her late husband and her sister might never have happened. Warning Ellie before things went any further might be exactly what she needed to do.

Before she could get any of that out, Ellie spun around and said, “I can hear a horse. Is it Mr. Weston, do you think?”

Bother. The moment for honesty had passed. But she would be sure to talk to Ellie later.