Page 82 of Distracting the Duke

The evening air thronged with excitement and joviality, now that a wedding was to take place. Questions were asked, plans were made, suitable dates pondered. Throughout it all, Marcus continued to beam and never left Clara’s side for a moment.

As darkness fell, he was invited to spend the night, but declined, whispering to her as she went to see him off that he really couldn’t trust himself to sleep beneath the same roof without making mad, passionate love to her. He was also quite sure, he told her, that he wouldn’t be able to do it subtly or quietly, but would have the whole house in an uproar in no time.

The twilight enclosed them as she looped a hand about his neck and pulled his head down for a parting kiss. “Are you very sure about marrying me?”

“Quite certain. And you?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I feel I’m treading a new path now.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Why had he not mounted his horse? What was he waiting for?

“Good night, dearest Marcus.”

“Good night, my love.” He turned away and fiddled with his stirrup. There was something about him, about the sagging of his shoulders…

She laid a hand on his arm, making him turn back to her. He gazed at her for a moment, then draped his arms about her waist. He said nothing, merely waited, his eyes deep pools of darkness.

“I don’t know how to say this.”

His shoulders sagged even further. “Ah.”

“Don’t be alarmed! It’s not a bad thing. It’s just such a long time since I have told anyone.”

He straightened up again. “Told anyone what?” His voice was low, almost a whisper.

“That I… Marcus, I do believe I might…be falling in love with you.”

His hands gripped her hard and, suddenly, she was being lifted and held against his taut body, being swung round and round, under the surprised stare of his steed and a little owl that sat on the apex of the outhouse roof.

“I should think so,” he said breathlessly. “After all the hard work I’ve put in, I should damn well think so!”

Epilogue

A high society wedding was a grand thing. Far grander—and much more intimidating—than Clara’s wedding to Simon.

Now she could see Marcus in the context of his own world, a world of privilege, pride, and position, where, despite appearances, there was a huge amount of rivalry and competition. Members of the ton were only too eager to enjoy the downfall of one another.

So much had happened in so short a space of time, she’d barely had a moment to herself since saying yes. A new wardrobe had to be purchased and court dress needed to be made up. She’d had to brush up her knowledge of French lest anyone drop some into the conversation, polish her musical skills, and learn how to be an accomplished diplomat every time King George winked in her direction or pinched her cheek.

Despite all the glamor and excitement—not to mention the splendid sight of Marcus in his full ducal robes and regalia—this was a world she was determined only to flirt with, not to embrace. And while he kept up appearances very creditably with his peers and the royal family, she knew he still had a firm hand on the purse strings, determined that none of the hard-earned wealth from the Albemarle coffers would be squandered on unnecessary pomp.

Kessington, being the better furnished of the duke’s main seats, was the focal point for the celebrations, and the local community did very well out of it. There was the extra stabling required for horses; the local inns were full, and large quantities of consumables were required to feed all the visitors. Tailors and mantua makers in Exeter also did extremely well.

Lord Snettisham was master of ceremonies, and when he didn’t have an important speech to make or tasks to perform, he could be seen promenading about the gardens and galleries with Ellie on his arm.

Clara didn’t think she’d ever been so happy. Marcus did all he could to please her. True, it was very amusing to watch him amongst his peers, perfectly mannered, perfectly groomed, and with just the right amount of detachment and condescension. But the change in him when alone with her was quite remarkable, and she prided herself on having access to the real Marcus Albemarle—the man behind the robes, the ermine collars, and the ducal paraphernalia.

Much to her delight, Philip had given them the Augustin Pajou Venus statuette as a wedding present. Marcus made Philip a gift of those ill-fated shares in the canal project. Which turned out to be quite profitable in the end. Marcus had not only purchased the shares, he had also made an investigation into the project. On discovering the level of the bedrock which had ruined the original plans, he’d suggested turning the route into a turnpike instead, which was less costly to build but very lucrative for the subscribers. Thus, the shares he returned to Philip would bring in a very comfortable income and enable her brother and Sarah to think more seriously about starting a family.

Clara and Marcus thought about this, too, and, just in case their frequent—and exceptionally enjoyable—efforts should be fruitless, agreed to adopt Georgie, enabling Kate, under an assumed name, to travel to Switzerland for an extended period in order to improve her health.

When the excitement of their nuptials was over, the newlyweds returned to Kessington. With a houseful of servants to command, Clara’s days were filled with activity, broken by the few golden moments she managed to grab alone with Marcus, who never seemed to tire of the sight of her.

Just as she never tired of the sight of him. Or the sound of his voice. Or the touch of his hand.

Or—and it made her blush whenever she thought of it—the feel of his splendid body engulfed in and pleasuring hers each night. Those moments, and the delicious calm and closeness which followed, were the most golden of all.