Page 69 of Distracting the Duke

His visitors had arrived.

He’d made himself too busy in Town to return to Wroxham, and, after the final week of the house party, he’d sent his ducal coach up to Norfolk to collect his guests and bring them home.

Via Kessington.

As far as the Westons—except Philip—knew, they were just stopping here for luncheon and to rest the horses before traveling on to Lawton Court. If the fellow had played his part well, Clara would have no idea what Marcus had in store for her.

He still wasn’t sure, however, if he could play his own part and act normally.

He was pacing about in the atrium long before the Westons and Snetty disembarked and entered. He stood stiff and straight on the tiled floor beneath the oculus, bathed in a cocoon of sunlight, and waited.

“Marcus, you’re looking well!” enthused Snetty, shaking his hand. “Isn’t he, Lady Tinniswood?”

Ulvercombe blinked and blinked again as his heart did something uncomfortable in his chest. “Clara,” he said smoothly, bowing and taking her hand for the briefest of moments.

He greeted the others, then stepped back and waited while his staff divested them of their outdoor clothing. Then, since they’d been traveling for hours, he ordered his footmen to escort them to the upstairs retiring rooms to refresh themselves.

The wait for their return was intolerable.

Several times he stepped toward the winter drawing room door and had his hand on the knob, then thought better of it and retreated.

He returned to the foyer and continued prowling around, examining the displays of ancient weaponry, the portraits of ancestors long dead.

A feminine cough made him spin around in surprise.

“Clara! I hadn’t expected you to be down so soon.”

Her expression was serious. “I wanted to catch you alone so we could talk.”

How good it was to hear her voice again! But his pleasure was short-lived when she headed straight for the door of the winter drawing room.

“Clara, there isn’t time,” he said. He rushed to reach the door ahead of her and placed his back against it, sending up a silent prayer.

Salvation! The others were coming down.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but we must talk later, for here come the others. Ah, I see Coombes is about to sound the bell for luncheon. Shall we?”

He placed her hand on his arm and fought against the streak of awareness that shot from her touch right to the center of his being. By God, he wanted this woman!

But he had narrowly avoided disaster just now, and he really needed to keep his wits about him. Clara must have no idea what he hoped was about to happen, must not be given any opportunity to avoid it.

He knew now what was required to make her happy. And upon her happiness rested his own.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Luncheon was served outside. Marcus explained that he assumed, after the confinement of the carriage, they would wish to dine in the open air. He waited until all his guests were seated beneath the spreading boughs of an old horse chestnut tree before sitting next to Clara.

His body was achingly aware of the woman at his side, which wouldn’t do at all. Perhaps he should have placed a seat opposite her, instead, so he could gaze on her beautiful features like a lovelorn youth. But that would have meant turning his back on Snetty and Ellie.

The Weston’s ward was sitting, bright-eyed and blushing, next to Snetty, who was sprawled out on a picnic blanket as if he’d not a care in the world. Marcus could sense that Clara was watching the couple with considerable interest.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he whispered in her ear as he filled her wineglass.

She shifted round so she could face him. His pulse sped up.

“I suppose you’re very pleased with yourself,” she said. “You think you have settled the little problem of Ellie’s growing regard for you by dangling Lord Snettisham in front of her.”

“Oh no. He’s done the dangling all by himself. Contrary to your belief, I don’t wish the world were always arranged to suit my purposes. That would be deadly dull.”