Page 22 of Distracting the Duke

Outrage flared through Marcus’s entire body. “A rake? A rake, you say?”

No one had ever called him that before. No one had any right to—certainly not this penurious country upstart.

He squared his shoulders and ground out, “Only a heartless idiot would incarcerate someone who panics at the very idea of a locked door.”

“I don’t panic—”

“Stay out of this, Clara!” commanded her brother.

“No, let her speak. Did you or did you not become hysterical when we were trapped in the camera obscura?” Marcus demanded of her.

She shrank back. “I did. I know it was foolish of me—”

Her brother cut her off with a sharp, “Cover yourself up, Clara. You should not parade about in front of guests in your nightgown.”

Marcus’s ire rose even further. “Don’t speak to her like that, Weston.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed. “She’s my sister. I’ll speak to her how I like.”

“If you do so again, you will answer to me.” Marcus stood breast to breast with Weston, gazing down at the shorter man, ready to fend off any further attack.

“Philip, calm yourself!” squeaked Clara.

“Be silent!”

“I warned you, Weston.”

“And I warned you. Take that!”

Marcus easily evaded the intended blow. It was much harder to restrain his own fist from connecting with the other man’s jaw.

“I won’t take another knock from you, Weston. You’re behaving like a fool. As your sister said, calm yourself. I’m certain we can clear up this misunderstanding.”

Weston’s face had gone bright red. “Not when you call me names under my own roof! You will answer to me, sir, at the earliest opportunity.”

There was a sharp gasp from the landing. Weston’s wife, adorned in a frilly dressing gown and cap, stared aghast at her husband.

Through the white heat of his fury, Marcus felt Clara clinging to his arm, trying to restrain him.

He shook her off. “I will gladly give you satisfaction Weston, if that’s what you want. I don’t take kindly to being called a rake, nor to having people lock up their womenfolk merely because I’m sleeping under the same roof. I’ve never taken an unwilling woman, and I never will.”

There was a chorus of gasps, and he realized he’d said too much. He must remove himself immediately with as much dignity as he could muster. He was far too angry to make peace now, even if Weston wanted it.

“Have my groom ready our horses. We’ll darken your doorstep no longer,” he said, and strode back to his room.

Once there, his fingers shook so much he could barely button up his still-damp waistcoat and jacket. He had to summon a great deal of self-control not to shred the borrowed nightshirt and fling it to the floor. Anger had turned his blood to molten lava in his veins, and it took all his strength to prevent an explosion of fury which would have destroyed every stick of furniture in the room.

A fast ride in the cold rain would help.

Slamming the door behind him, he marched toward the stairs. Weston stood bristling in the passage, and Clara hung in the doorway, her brown eyes large in her pallid face. Mrs. Weston was nowhere to be seen, but a knocking sound behind one of the other doors was accompanied by Eleanora’s voice.

“Hello? What’s happening?”

Marcus couldn’t attempt to rescue her, as well, lest he end up bare-knuckle boxing with Weston on the landing.

“Lady Tinniswood,” he said as he marched past Clara, “Try to talk some sense into your distrustful brother. He’s imprisoned poor Miss Soper, too. This is no longer necessary, since I’m leaving.”

Clara shook her head. “But it’s still pouring down and pitch dark. Please don’t go like this.”