Page 5 of Distracting the Duke

“Damnation! Keep still! Your hair is caught on my cufflink. Just a moment. There, it’s free.”

Clara felt her cheeks burning. Their entanglement had brought her far too near the duke, whose good looks were even more obvious up close, despite his swelling, blood-stained nose. She couldn’t help but admire its aristocratic shape, his firm but generous mouth, and his clear, healthy skin. His eyelashes were long for a man, but there was nothing effeminate about his face. The upward slash of his brows and the creases around his eyes and mouth suggested a sense of humor, but that was something she’d yet to see in operation.

He was all rugged, masculine beauty. Such a waste on a man of objectionable character.

“Now you’re as much a mess as I,” he said, giving his nose a final dab with her dainty handkerchief. “Your turban’s come off and your hair looks as if we’ve been frolicking in a haystack.”

She stiffened. “I never frolic, sir. Not in haystacks, or anywhere else.”

“That, I can well believe,” he said, examining her hair. “I’d better see what I can do with this before your brother comes back and assaults me again.”

Before she could protest, he’d pushed her into the chair and started removing her hairpins. Leaning over her with an expression of extreme concentration he started coiling and re-pinning her hair, one lock at a time.

Flustered, she dipped her head and went very still. The pace of the world slowed—even the clock appeared to be ticking less frequently, and the music from the ballroom faded into nothingness.

With every twist of her hair, she fell deeper under his spell.

Simon Tinniswood had never brushed her hair, nor run his fingers through it. When he’d made love to her—if that brutal act could be called by so pleasing a name—he’d used her long hair as a means of getting her to do what he wanted, by yanking on it till she’d been close to screaming.

She swallowed, and a frisson of fear sped up her spine. The door wasn’t locked, was it? She must be able to escape if the closed-in feeling of panic attacked her.

“There, now. Done.” The duke’s voice was soft, as if soothing a child. Not like Simon’s, at all.

She took in a deep breath, willing her courage to return. Ulvercombe’s touch had felt…nice. Surprisingly so. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes as he brought her to her feet and settled the turban back on her head.

“I must confess,” he said with a grimace, “I think you should leave off the turban and pull your hair less severely back from your face. It makes you look like an aging matron, but you can’t be more than five and twenty, I’m sure.”

Seven and twenty, in fact, but that wasn’t the point. Such a personal remark deserved a sharp put-down, but she couldn’t think of one. Instead, she gazed up into the dark pools of Ulvercombe’s eyes as he returned her look with one of puzzled contemplation.

A loud knocking on the door had them both springing apart like naughty children caught stealing from the larder.

Her heart thudded painfully. A new kind of understanding had just passed between her and the duke, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to examine what it meant.

But whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Chapter Four

Marcus took a deep breath. “Enter!” he called, bringing up his hand to cover his nose. It could be anybody out there—and a man had his pride.

Philip Weston was shown in by a footman, accompanied by his valet, Hicks. Weston glared suspiciously at his sister, then at Marcus. There was an inimical look in his eye which didn’t bode well for Marcus’s interest in the man’s delightful ward.

“That will be all, thank you,” Marcus said as the footman set down a bowl of water and a towel. “Hicks, have you some clean clothes for me?”

At his valet’s nod, Marcus waved him aside and concentrated his attention on Weston. “Don’t let there be bad blood between us,” he said. “I’d hate to fall out with my neighbors—or anyone else. I’m happy to put tonight’s unpleasantness behind me, and, to show my goodwill, I’d like you and your family to come to luncheon next Saturday. Do please bring your ward, if she’s free.”

He didn’t really want to see the Westons, at all. Despite Marcus’s deliberate sangfroid after being hit, Mr. Weston had made him furiously angry. But he wanted to spend more time with Miss Soper—preferably when he was looking less like the renowned pugilist, Gentleman Jackson—and he couldn’t possibly have the one without the other.

After a pause, Weston bowed and said he’d be delighted, then took his sister’s arm and turned for the door.

“I believe I have another appointment on Saturday,” said Lady Tinniswood with a toss of her head.

Damnation. Might Miss Soper feel obliged to remain at home to keep her company? That wouldn’t do at all. As Lady Tinniswood made to leave the room, Marcus seized her hand to kiss it, and whispered the word, “Coward,” in her ear.

As he released her, she shot him an infuriated look.

He smiled inwardly. She would come now. Lady Clara didn’t strike him as the sort to back down from a challenge.

And she would bring her tempting, golden-haired ward with her.