Page 24 of Distracting the Duke

“I’m not at liberty to say, madam. His instructions were quite specific.”

“Then I must assume he’s in his bedchamber, if he’s indisposed.” She hurried to the grand staircase and climbed it rapidly, with the butler in her wake.

“Lady Tinniswood! I must beg you to return at once to the atrium. His Grace won’t see you or anyone else today.”

“He will see me. Now, do I go right or left?”

The butler elevated his chin and stared at the wall in front of him.

Infuriating man! “Do I have to try every door, or will you tell me which is the duke’s chamber?”

A loud bout of coughing erupted from the end of the passageway. The butler ignored it self-consciously. Aha! She turned toward the sound.

The speed with which the servant moved showed immediately that she’d guessed correctly. Before she could reach the door, he’d dived in front of her, knocked, then opened it, placing himself squarely in the doorframe.

A muffled voice said, “Coombes? What is it, man? I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Clara hovered, trying to peer under the retainer’s arm. This was clearly the right room. It was also clear that Ulvercombe was, from the sound of him, quite genuinely indisposed.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but Lady Tinniswood would not be turned away. Shall I take further action?”

Like what? Hauling her up and throwing her over his shoulder, perhaps? Bundling her in a sack and dragging her down the hall? She folded her arms across her chest and raised her chin defiantly.

“Lady Tinniswood, is it?” asked the duke. “Damn the woman. She brings nothing but trouble. Let her in for now, Coombes. I doubt she’ll want to stay.”

Clara was ushered inside, and the butler withdrew.

The duke was seated at his dressing table with his back to her, wearing just a nightshirt, with a voluminous towel over his head. The room was sultry and hot, and clouds of water vapor emerged from beneath the towel every so often, bringing with them the acrid scents of wintergreen and cotton lavender.

Clara hesitated, at once contrite. If he was genuinely ill…

No, she’d come too far to retreat. This matter must be settled now.

“Your Grace,” she began. “I apologize for the intrusion—”

“Balderdash. You’re too proud for apologies. As is that wretched brother of yours. I wish I’d never set eyes on any of you. Not even the delightful Miss So—”

He broke off and the towel bobbed up and down as a fit of coughing wracked his body.

“Damn,” he spluttered, emerging from the towel to reach for a cup of water.

Clara stared at his reflection in the dressing mirror. The reflection gazed balefully back at her.

All her carefully prepared words deserted her and she stared open-mouthed. Normally so perfectly styled, Ulvercombe’s hair was sticking out every which way. His face was red, shiny, and swollen, whilst his normally penetrating eyes were dull and rimmed with red.

That he was feeling extremely feverish was evidenced by the open nightshirt, which revealed a touch of dark, curling hair and the splendidly sculpted muscle of his chest. It was a revelation to discover that, even when caught at a disadvantage, the Duke of Ulvercombe was still extremely pleasing to the eye.

He spread his towel over the steaming bowl and swiveled on his chair to look at her. “Well, what is it, woman?” he growled. “What’s so important that you burst into my sickroom and make my proudest servant lose face? Ah, but I hardly need ask—your expression says it all. You’re here to make me back down from this damned duel.”

Clara tried to recall all the sensible, logical arguments she’d planned to use with the duke, but all she could focus on was the urge to tidy his hair and mop his brow with a cool cloth.

“I’m sorry to find you unwell,” she managed.

“Unsurprising, considering I got soaked to the skin last night.”

Guilt impaled her. “I grant that you may have caught a chill—”

“Thank you!” he ground out, glaring at her.