Page 78 of Distracting the Duke

His voice came again, softer now. “You know I will make good my threat. Please avoid the risk of damage to both myself and the door by opening it so we may speak.”

She bit her lip. “Philip won’t allow it.”

“Philip has given me his full permission.”

Traitor.

“Do you have command over everyone now, Marcus?” she asked. How hoarse her voice sounded. What was wrong with her?

“Shall we assume that I have used my powers of persuasion, rather than commanded anyone? You know I’m not a despot, Clara. Are you going to open the door or not?”

“I will not.”

“Wretched wench. Then you’d better stand back.”

She stepped away, part thrilled, part horrified, every nerve alive and tingling.

“I-I have weapons at my disposal!” she called, looking desperately around for something she might use. Her eye alighted on a ewer of water. She grabbed it and held it up, ready to throw the contents over the immutable duke.

But the lock, damaged after the previous invasion, had been poorly mended, and gave way almost the instant Marcus applied himself to the door.

Once again, he crashed into the room and stumbled, off-balance, directly at her.

Chapter Forty-Three

There was no time to react. Marcus threw out both hands in an attempt to catch hold of something solid, and instead caught the bottom of Clara’s water pitcher, knocking it and its contents upward.

Mostly over Clara.

Good God! He took a step backward and peered at her in astonishment.

Soaked all down the front of her thin summer nightgown, she stood there gaping and dripping in the middle of the room, looking like a recently landed fish.

“Well,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “I suppose throwing water over oneself might be a form of defense. It would certainly direct any male attacker’s thoughts into a different direction entirely.”

She reddened and, to his disappointment, folded her arms across her breasts.

While she glared daggers at him and he gazed back in appreciative amusement, several people gathered in the corridor behind him.

Her eyes glittered dangerously.

With what he hoped was a benign smile, he turned and told the interested audience, “I think it might be time to go on that walk I suggested. Allow me an hour’s privacy to convince Clara to marry me, for I’m not leaving here without her assent.”

The onlookers vanished, if reluctantly.

Marcus closed the bedchamber door and propped a chair against it at an angle, so it was wedged beneath the knob, holding the door in place. Then he turned back to face Clara.

“Where have they gone?” she asked coldly, still glaring at him.

“I suggested a walk to Wycombe Wood to see if the nightingales are singing.”

“I didn’t know you were so interested in wildlife.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said affably. “So, Clara, what are we going to do about you?”

She tensed. “There’s still some water in the jug,” she warned.

He kept smiling as he shrugged out of his jacket and placed it on her dressing stool. “I wouldn’t want to get this wet,” he said, then tugged at his cravat and removed it, adding it to his jacket. Then he sat down and removed his boots.