by Kelly Bowen
August’s heart suddenly tripped erratically, making him feel as if he were twenty-one again and standing smitten on a ballroom dance floor. He frowned, and the feeling passed.
“Have development plans for Haverhall drawn up, Mr. Down,” August said, deliberately changing the subject. “Discreetly, of course. Look outside London for services. Wilds and Busby in Brighton, perhaps—we’ve used them before and they’ve proven themselves trustworthy. If and when my ownership of Haverhall is revealed to the Haywards, or anyone else for that matter, it will be on my terms and not through the gossip mill.”
“Understood, Your Grace.” Duncan looked up at August, sliding his spectacles back over the bridge of his nose and making it difficult to see his eyes behind the reflection of the lenses. “The museum is open for another hour yet. Shall I ask to have your carriage brought round?”
“Yes,” August said, reaching for his coat. “Please do.”
Chapter 2
Clara Hayward considered the scene before her.
Each line of the sculpture was saturated in unleashed violence. It captured the desperate movement, the raw fury, and the heated anger to exquisite perfection. The centaur’s hand was wrapped around the Lapith’s throat, intent clear in his carved expression, while the Lapith wrenched a leg up to stave off the assault. Muscles strained as both beings remained locked in an eternal battle, each creature fighting for its life.
Not unlike what Clara was feeling just now.
Well, perhaps that was a little melodramatic. No one was going to die, but life as she knew it was on the brink of changing forever, leaving her feeling empty and a little nauseous at the same time. The papers that she had signed marked the beginning of the end of her tenure at Haverhall, and no matter how hard she tried, Clara was having a difficult time coming to terms with the knowledge that she had sold the legacy that had been left to her.
It had been mercifully quick, the sale, and for that she supposed she should be grateful. It could have dragged on painfully, with her having to endure a host of critical assessments from potential buyers. Quite the opposite, in fact. A faceless company that had previously expressed interest in the property had been contacted—and had immediately and unconditionally agreed to the price and the terms of the sale. Within a day it had been done.
Clara knew that she should be more interested in who had bought it—the faces behind the faceless company—but she couldn’t bring herself to pursue it. Because it didn’t matter, really, who had bought it. It changed nothing, and dwelling on something that was done and couldn’t be undone would bring her only sorrow and despair.
She needed to look forward, not back.
Harland had told her that it would all be temporary. Once they managed to right their finances and the shipping company became profitable again, they could look for a new venue for a school. It was a short-term sacrifice, he had said, and Clara knew that, in theory, he was right. But she also knew that so much could go wrong.
One needed to look no further than the debt her parents had left behind when they had died two years ago. It had come as a shock to Clara and her siblings, catching them all oblivious. There had been a certain amount of humiliation in that, given each one’s supposed intelligence. But Clara had been absorbed with her school, Harland with his medical practice, Rose with her art studio, and none of them had been aware of the bleak and disastrous reality that their parents had managed to hide.
And now they were scrambling to recover. Each doing whatever they could, in their own way. She could only hope that it would be enough.
Clara closed her eyes against the heaviness that had settled in her chest and the tightness that had gathered at her throat, grateful that the museum was almost empty at this late hour and no one was witness to her selfish melancholy. She had to believe things would work out. More important, she still had her summer students, those young women who were far more than just—
“Do you suppose it really was the wine, Miss Hayward?” came a low voice behind her. “Or do you think the centaurs and the Lapiths were just looking for an excuse to start a war?”
Clara felt the breath leave her lungs, and her heart seemed to miss a beat before resuming at twice its proper pace. She knew that voice. Even after all this time, she had never forgotten it.
Just as she had never forgotten the way August Faulkner had made her feel the night he had asked her to dance. He might have done so on a dare, and she might have accepted out of sheer spite and an unwillingness to let his arrogance get the better of her. And it might have been more of a contest than a dance, neither one willing to yield an inch, but at the end of it all, she had found a reckless joy in it. And when he had returned her smile, there was a brief moment when she had believed he had actually seen her and not the label society had applied. And liked what he saw.
But he’d not seen or spoken to her since, and aside, perhaps, from his sister’s recent application to Haverhall, Clara was quite certain he hadn’t spared her a thought since that night either.
Clara, of course, hadn’t been so lucky. His unexpected title had made sure of that. The moment the Holloway dukedom had come to rest on his shoulders, August Faulkner had been relentlessly pursued across the pages of the gossip rags and newssheets by tales of his wealth, conjecture about his paramours, and speculation about every aspect of his life that the ton decided was relevant. His companionship was sought by popular peers and prospective duchesses alike, all of them hoping for just a taste of the affluence and power he had come to represent.
And now he was here, seeming inexplicably to be seeking her company.
Slowly Clara opened her eyes, the Lapith still struggling desperately in her vision. “I would suggest that excessive drinking tends to bring one’s true intentions and feelings to the forefront,” she said, relieved that she remembered his question and that her voice was steady. “One might suggest that the fight was inevitable.”
“Indeed. I believe I would agree with you.” Holloway took a step forward as he came to stand beside her, though Clara kept her eyes firmly on the sculpture. “Who do you think won this particular skirmish?” he asked.
She could feel his presence beside her as acutely as if he had just taken her in his arms again. Her skin prickled with goose bumps, and butterflies assailed her insides. She caught a trace of his scent as he moved, the richness of his shaving soap laced with a hint of leather making her feel as if she were back in that heated ballroom and not in a dusty museum.
Clara cleared her throat, trying to focus on the question at hand and not the man who had asked it. “I don’t know. One would assume the centaur has the advantage. Speed, size, strength. But his wits are compromised, and he has given in to base and reckless urges. And history teaches us sheer strength is rarely enough to defeat a cunning, civilized enemy.”
“So the Lapith, then. Or at least the superior version of the Lapith that the Athenians believed themselves to be.”
For a moment Clara wondered if she might be dreaming all of this. This…surreal conversation with a man she hadn’t spoken to in almost a decade, a man she was now, improbably, discussing Greek mythology with. She finally turned to stare at him, half expecting Holloway to shimmer like a mirage and then vanish in a puff of smoke.
He didn’t.
But perhaps it would have been better if he had. At twenty-one he’d been handsome. But the man he’d become since then was no less than devastating. His edges had become sharper, his bearing sleeker, his presence exuding a restless, potent energy that seemed to fill whatever spaces in the room his body did not.
He still had thick, dark hair, the color of coffee. It was cut fashionably short, and the slight curl in it reminded her of the styles that seemed so popular for the sculpted Greek art that surrounded them. In fact, there was a lot of him that reminded her of the exquisite marble statue of David she had once viewed outside the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence. Thick, arched brows framed eyes that were set above broad, defined cheekbones and a sq
uare jaw. Strong shoulders and a physique that belied power. A height that set him above others.
She forced herself to keep her expression pleasant. The practiced politesse that she relied upon to charm formidable peers was threatening to desert her. Along with most of her wits. Never in her life had she felt so woefully ill prepared.
Though never in her life had she been so thoroughly ambushed.
“You’re well versed in mythology, Your Grace,” Clara said, averting her eyes and falling back on transparent flattery because she had no idea what else to say.
“I know enough,” the duke replied. “Though I suspect that you know more.”
Clara snapped her gaze back to Holloway, wondering if he was mocking her, but he was standing square, his eyes focused on the sculpture and his hands clasped behind him.
“I owe you an apology, Miss Hayward. One that comes years too late, but one that I hope you’ll accept.”
If Holloway had suddenly turned into a unicorn, Clara wouldn’t have been more shocked. She managed to close her mouth, realizing belatedly that it had fallen open. “Whatever for?”
“I need to apologize for my actions the night that we danced,” he said gravely. “My initial intentions were deplorable, and we both know it. I am no longer that person, trying to prove myself to individuals whose opinions should never have mattered, and it is imperative that you know that. Had my sister been propositioned in such an infantile manner, I would have shot the blackguard.”
Clara blinked at him, trying to assimilate his words, cursing her usually capable mind for abandoning her under the force of his brilliant blue gaze. “Are you dying, Your Grace?”
It was his turn to look shocked. “I beg your pardon?”
She cursed herself again. That hadn’t been done well. “I’ve heard of individuals who feel the need to make amends to those they believed that they’ve wronged before—”
“I’m not dying,” Holloway said, looking nonplussed.
“I’m relieved to hear that,” Clara replied, trying to salvage this implausible conversation that hovered on the edge of grim and fully in the realm of awkward. “And I am further relieved that my own brother restrained himself from shooting anyone on my behalf that night. If I recall, you looked very dashing that evening, and a bullet hole would have ruined the whole effect. It certainly would have ruined your coat.” There, that sounded light. Almost teasing. Something to smooth the conversation.
“My coat.” It was flat, without a hint of humor.
“It was a jest, Your Grace.” In truth, he no longer seemed as if he laughed often. He no longer seemed like the impulsive man who had once held her in his arms. This August Faulkner was harder. More intense. A leashed, controlled version of the daring upstart who had made her smile.
Perhaps that was what a duchy did to a man.
“Of course.” Holloway’s face was expressionless now. “Regardless, you have my word that it will not happen again.”
“I accept your apology, though it is not required,” Clara said into the silence, feeling a sudden sense of loss with the realization that the daredevil who had lingered in her mind and her memories was gone, replaced by a man who would rather blindside her with an austere apology than ask her to waltz again. Although that did make it easier to breathe. And a little easier to think.
“Thank you.” He looked away from her, back at the metopes.
“I don’t regret it. Dancing with you, that is. You should know that I’m of the mind that regrets are things best reserved for circumstances beyond our control. Otherwise they become mere excuses.” She gazed at him and the unyielding lines of his profile. “You should also know that, in the unlikely event that you ever ask me to dance again on a dare, I will take you up on the offer.” Those words were out before she could reconsider.
The duke turned to look at her, and she felt the intensity of his piecing gaze crackle all the way through her, making her heart race and her insides twist. The butterflies that she had felt earlier became raptors trying to beat their way out of her chest.
His eyes were narrowed, his lashes shadowing the blue of them. Lashes that were wasted on a man, Clara thought disjointedly. Thick and black and framing eyes the color of twilight. But he was saved from being pretty by the severe, strong lines of his face and the hint of stubble along his jaw. The entire effect was as intoxicating as it was compelling, and it made her want to run her fingers—
Dear God, she needed to pull herself together. Yes, he was a man in possession of sinfully superb looks. And yes, she was a woman in possession of a pulse. But this was ridiculous.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Hayward.”
Clara forced herself to remain utterly impassive, nodding as if she had just made a blithe comment on the weather and not one that was the height of idiocy.
“Are you here with your brother, Miss Hayward?” Holloway asked, glancing about the room, which was empty save for the sightless figures staring out from their posts and pedestals. “Or are you alone?”
It was as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head, and Clara felt instantly wary. What sort of question was that? Was Holloway actually questioning the respectability of her presence here? Was he really questioning her propriety and decorum?
And suddenly, with an awful bolt of clarity, she understood. The duke’s presence here had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his sister. As of tomorrow, Anne Faulkner would be part of what would be Haverhall’s last summer term, and Clara was quite sure that this had spurred his sudden visit and apology. His ambush was nothing but a test. One did not, after all, entrust one’s sister to the tutelage of a woman who might just be holding a grudge coupled with Boudiccan tendencies.
Her dawning comprehension left her feeling both mortified and deflated. For a moment she had actually deluded herself into believing that the duke had sought her out after all this time for something far different. “My brother is not here, though my sister is just around the corner where I left her, sketching some of the Townley sculptures. We were escorted here by a friend. Even if I were not an ancient spinster, I can assure you that this is all very proper,” she felt compelled to add, knowing that it almost sounded resentful.
He frowned. “I wasn’t implying otherwise. And you’re not ancient.”
Clara almost snorted. “That’s kind of you to say.”
His frown deepened. “If you’re ancient, what does that make me?”
“Desirable, if it were a woman asking. Distinguished if it were a man.”
“That’s not…” The duke trailed off, unclasping his hands.
“That’s not your fault.” Clara completed his sentence for him, her irritation rising, but giving him a practiced, polite smile to conceal it. “That is just how it is.”
He moved then, without warning, coming to stand directly in front of her, close enough that she was now enveloped in his heat and the spicy tang of his shaving soap. In the next breath, he had caught her hand, and Clara knew what he intended long before his lips brushed the backs of her knuckles.
The gesture instantly sent electricity arcing through her veins. It was no wonder women reportedly fought over the privilege of his company, Clara thought. His current gaze and the expression that accompanied it would probably be enough to convince any woman that he had spent eons worshipping her from afar and even more time contemplating how he might worship her up close.
But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t anything like the look August Faulkner had given her ten years ago. The breathless smile he had bestowed on her then had been genuine, and had dominated her daydreams for a decade. This contrived facsimile, which he no doubt believed partnered well with his apology, was a poor substitute. Gently Clara tried to extract her hand, but he only tightened his fingers.
“May I call on you tomorrow, Miss Hayward?” Holloway asked without warning.
Clara felt her jaw slacken again, and it took every ounce of what was left of her composure not to openly gawk
at him. “I beg your pardon?” What was he trying to prove now? Because he would know that she was leaving London the next day, along with his sister and the rest of Haverhall’s summer students.
“With Lord Strathmore’s permission, of course,” he added, her hand still in his.
It was clear he had forgotten. Or perhaps he had confused the dates. Lady Anne had handled the application and arrangements herself, something that Clara never discouraged in any of her students, but perhaps communication between brother and sister had broken down somewhere along the way. He was, after all, a duke with an entire duchy to run, a daunting task at the best of times.
She hesitated, debating the prudence of reminding a man who seemed to revel in control that he had allowed something to slip from that sphere.
“I’m afraid that is not possible,” Clara finally said, willing her face to remain serene. It was likely that he would remember soon enough. “I am leaving London tomorrow morning for the duration of the summer,” she tried. “My brother has already gone.”
“Ah. May I be so bold as to ask where you are spending the summer?”
“Dover?” It came out like a question she was hoping he would recognize the answer to.
“Ah.” A crease had appeared in his forehead. “That sounds…lovely.”
“Indeed.” She kept her smile pasted on her face as she struggled to find words. Any words. Perhaps she should—
“Miss Hayward.” A voice behind her ricocheted around the room, bouncing off the marbles with an unpleasant echo.
Clara snatched her hand from Holloway’s and spun. “Mr. Stilton.” She could feel heat rise in her cheeks as if she were twenty years old again and had just been caught in dishabille with the duke. She smothered that mortifying, juvenile reaction and smoothed her hands over her skirts.
“Your Grace, may I present Mr. Mathias Stilton,” she said, her manners thankfully reasserting themselves. “Mr. Stilton, His Grace, the Duke of Holloway.” She exhaled, then frowned when neither man made any attempt to continue with the expected pleasantries. In fact, Stilton’s expression, usually so genial, was positively frigid. Hostile, almost.