by Kelly Bowen
Ownership. Acquisition. Building something from nothing. He knew he should probably say something flippant like cards or whiskey or snuff. “Business,” he hedged instead.
She considered him. “Are you good at it?”
The best. “Yes.”
“Now just for a moment, pretend Lady Anne didn’t approve of what you did.” She pulled her fingers from his and stepped away. “And now, just for the moment, pretend she had the control and the power to stop you from doing what you loved.”
Chapter 9
Clara paced across Avondale’s hall.
The clock near the bottom of the stairs ticked loudly, and Clara wondered why she had never noticed before that this house had so many wretched ticking clocks. Five minutes to six. No sign of her brother. And no sign of the duke.
Which, after the conversation, or rather the lecture, she had given Holloway earlier, was probably understandable, though the duke hadn’t sent word canceling his invitation. Clara wasn’t sure what it was about the man that provoked her into blurting truths that had no business being aired, especially to the paying clientele of Haverhall. Perhaps because he had trapped her hand in his, his steady warmth giving her courage to be more honest with him than was wise or safe. As though by keeping her with him, her fingers clasped within his, he was promising to at least try to understand her words.
That gesture of possession still sent chills through her, accompanied by a strange feeling of vertigo. Much the same way she felt when standing on the edge of the cliffs, looking down at the crashing sea far below. Not safe or wise at all.
“You’re pacing, dearie.” The voice came from the stairs.
Clara looked up and saw Lady Tabitha coming down the wide staircase. She was dressed in one of her walking outfits. “On your way out?” Clara asked.
“Yes.” She pulled her shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders. “Theo is waiting for me outside. There is a section of the beach where the cliffs have sloughed in the last day that we’d like to take a look at. You never know what you’re going to find in unexpected places.”
“No, I suppose you don’t,” Clara muttered.
“A gentleman stopped by earlier asking after you,” Tabby said. “While you were with your students.”
“A gentleman?”
“A Mr. Stilton? He mentioned that he was in the area visiting friends and that he would return at a later time to call on you.”
Clara frowned slightly. Stilton hadn’t mentioned anything about traveling to Dover the last time she had seen him.
“Is he someone you would rather avoid?” Tabby asked, her eyes narrowed.
“No, no, of course not. He is a London acquaintance who has graciously lent his company for an occasional outing.”
“Mr. Stilton asked after His Grace as well. Are they also acquaintances?”
Clara shook her head. “They are familiar, but from what I could tell, I don’t think that there is much love lost between those two.”
“Mmm.” Tabby gazed at her. “Well, speaking of His Grace, I understand you are dining with the duke this evening,” she commented casually. “At a tavern.”
“Yes.” All thoughts of Stilton’s unexpected appearance evaporated at the mention of the impending evening.
“Not that I’ve had a great deal of experience dining with dukes, but one might have thought he’d insist on a proper dinner in a proper dining room. We have a perfectly opulent one here.”
“His Grace does not always conform to the expected.” Clara glanced at the clock again.
“Including punctuality?”
Clara squirmed. “I’m not sure he hasn’t rescinded his offer of dinner entirely. I might have incensed him beyond repair.”
“The duke does not strike me as a man who easily gets his breeches in a twist.”
“I don’t think that applies when broaching the subject of his sister.”
“Protective, is he?”
Clara sighed. “I believe I might have accused him of being a controlling dictator. And suggested that he alter his behavior before he further alienates the very person he wishes to understand.”
“Yes, well, Julius Caesar learned that lesson the hard way, didn’t he?” Tabby murmured.
“I did not point that out,” Clara said, though she felt a smile tug at her lips. “I didn’t think it would help the situation.”
Tabby shrugged. “I was married for thirty-seven years, dearie. Sometimes men need to figure these things out on their own.”
“Figure what out on their own?”
Clara’s head whipped around as the Duke of Holloway strode through the door, pulling at his gloves. He was dressed in rough breeches, an unadorned coat, and dusty boots, and save for the unmistakable aura of power that emanated from his person, he might have passed for a simple country gentleman just coming in from a ride.
Except that a simple country gentleman would never steal Clara’s voice and scatter her wits the way this man did with a single smile. A simple country gentleman would not turn her insides into molten heat. The room suddenly felt suffocating.
“Figure out that a lady does not like to be kept waiting,” Tabby said smoothly into the silence.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lady Tabitha,” Holloway said with a charming smile. “Which is why I am”—he pulled a battered-looking watch from his pocket—“a full three minutes early. Though I confess that our ride is somewhat delayed. I had a hankering to drive, so I asked for the earl’s barouche to be prepared, only to discover that one of the horses had thrown a shoe. It is being reshod as we speak, and should be ready shortly. I did not wish you to believe that I had abandoned you.” He looked around with interest. “Is Lord Strathmore not here yet?”
As if on cue, a footman rounded the corner, his heels ringing over the polished marble floor of the hall. “Miss Hayward, a message from his Lordship.” He held out a gleaming silver tray with a creased, smudged, and hastily folded scrap of paper on it.
Clara plucked it from the tray, and the footman disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. She opened the note, although she already knew what it was going to say.
Late. Meet you at the S. Swan. H.
“It would seem my brother is running a little behind schedule,” she said, using the note as an excuse not to have to look at Holloway. She wasn’t sure if she was ready yet to weather the full attention of those intense eyes. “He asks if we will meet him at the Silver Swan.” She smoothed the paper with her finger, frowning at the rust-colored stains at the edge. Good Lord. Was that blood?
“That works for the best, doesn’t it?” Holloway replied amicably, and Clara did look up at him then, wondering at his cheerful, charming demeanor. After leaving him angrily scowling in the middle of a field earlier, she’d rather expected at least an air of reserve. Even Lady Tabitha was eyeing him somewhat suspiciously. “I am honored that his Lordship entrusts me with your safety and well-being.”
“I’ve been ensuring my own safety and well-being for almost thirty years, Your Grace. I’m a capable woman, not a capricious lapdog. I promise not to throw myself out a moving equipage after a squirrel. At least while we’re traveling at high speeds.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Miss Hayward.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned at her, and Clara felt rivulets of longing run down her spine. No man had the right to look that handsome when he smiled. “Would you care to join us, Lady Tabitha?” Holloway continued. “I should have thought to extend the invitation. My apologies for my oversight.”
“No, thank you, Your Grace. My sister and I have an evening of collecting planned.” Tabby shifted her basket to her other hand and moved toward the door. “And I’ve kept her waiting long enough. Perhaps another time. Enjoy your evening, Miss Hayward, Your Grace.”
Clara watched the woman depart, excruciatingly aware that she was now alone with the duke. She turned back to face him warily. “Your Grace—”
“I can have the equipage brought around while you
wait here, Miss Hayward,” Holloway interrupted her before she could say anything further. “But it is a beautiful evening that would be made only more beautiful by your company. Perhaps you would walk with me back to the dower house to collect our transportation?”
Clara blinked. Yes, the reckless part of her hissed. Absolutely not, the more prudent part of her countered. “Um.”
“Don’t do that,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Look for excuses to hide behind as to why you should not. You didn’t do it ten years ago. Don’t do it now.”
Clara could feel her heart thrumming in her chest. She looked up at him, completely at a loss for words. Simply lost, period.
“I’ll ask again, Miss Hayward. Perhaps you would like to walk with me a bit before we depart?”
“Yes,” she heard herself reply. “I’d like that.”
“Very good, then.” He offered her his arm.
Clara stepped forward, her hand sliding around his arm. Instantly his other hand came up to cover hers, and she could feel the heat of his palm bleeding through her thin gloves. She could also feel the steely strength of his arm and the way his body brushed against hers as they moved. She closed her eyes and told herself again that he was not escorting her to a night of wicked revelry but to a casual dinner with her brother. Which meant that if this night was to be bearable, it would be better if she cleared the air with the duke before they ever reached the tavern. She did not want to draw Harland into what had been an ill-advised topic of conversation.
She cleared her throat. “Your Grace, I’ve been thinking about our last conversation, and I believe I should apol—”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking a great deal about our last conversation as well,” he said, leading her down the steps into the early-evening light.
“It wasn’t my place to—”
“Please let me finish,” he said, and Clara made a funny noise in her throat. He looked at her quizzically. “What?”
“You will not offer me the same courtesy? You haven’t let me finish a sentence yet,” she murmured.
“For good reason, Miss Hayward.” He led her around the far side of Avondale and toward the path that would take them across the expanse of field and through the small copse of trees separating the dower house from Avondale. “You’ve been trying to apologize for something that requires no apology. In fact, I rather feel you’ve apologized to me far too much of late. And that, I can only conclude, is borne of a fear that, when challenged, I’ll conduct myself in a manner befitting a temperamental two-year-old, collect my sister, and storm my way back to London in a self-righteous rage.”
Clara turned her head to stare at him. “That sounds very…dramatic.”
“Doesn’t it?” His hand tightened over hers. “And that is not I. And that is not Anne either. She rarely complains of anything. Which is probably why I have done a poor job of considering her point of view of late. And I should be thanking you for drawing that to my attention.”
It suddenly became difficult to draw a full breath. They were walking very close together, and she could see the flecks of sapphire scattered in the azure of his irises. His eyes were even more startling given the sun-darkened planes of his face, and they had her firmly in their thrall. Should winged dragons start spewing from Avondale’s chimneys at that moment, Clara doubted she’d even notice.
“I see,” she managed to utter, because that was the only thing that her addled mind could come up with. Holloway had shaved just recently, and she could smell the sharp, clean scent of the soap he’d used. Near his ear was a slightly reddened mark where the blade had pressed a little too hard, and she suffered a sudden urge to rise on her toes and press her lips to that skin.
“I love my sister very much, Miss Hayward. And I do not want to see her unhappy.”
Good Lord, but if she didn’t remember how to breathe again soon, she might simply drop like a sack of onions at his feet. “I’m glad I could be of some small help, Your Grace.”
“Don’t ever stop,” he said in a low voice, searching her face.
The aching need to kiss him unfurled into a need for something far more wanton than mere kisses. Her nipples hardened against her bodice, and an unmistakable dampness had gathered between her legs.
“Stop what?” she whispered. When had this gotten away from her? When had this conversation turned into something so dissolute in her head? Because all she could imagine was what it might be like to have him at the mercy of her hands and her lips and hear him say, Don’t ever stop.
“Don’t ever stop asking me difficult questions,” Holloway said. “Don’t ever stop making me accountable for my actions.”
Clara shook her head, not trusting her voice.
“You did it the day I first met you, and you did it again yesterday. And I think I might just be a better man—or at least a better brother—because of it. Because of you.”
“I rather think you’re doing just fine on your own.” It sounded a little uneven. “I very much doubt you need my help.” Clara’s eyes slid from his, focusing on a small white butterfly that was fluttering near the edge of the grassy path.
Holloway didn’t answer. They continued walking, the path now following a low stone fence that ran to the edge of the wind-buffeted trees. Here, away from the house, the sound of the surf was louder, the breeze a little stronger. They were almost to the trees when the duke stopped.
“I should have kissed you,” he said suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?” Her eyes flew back to his.
“That night when we waltzed.” He held her gaze. “I wanted to kiss you then. I want to kiss you now.”
Clara swallowed with difficulty. Not only was she having trouble breathing, but the ground beneath her feet suddenly felt unsteady.
“Why?” It slipped out, and Clara cursed at the awkward inanity of such a question.
Holloway chuckled. “Only you would ask that.” The mirth slid from his face, replaced with a smoldering heat. His hand slid slightly, and his fingers gently caressed the exposed skin of her upper arm.
“Why did you really invite me out here?” she asked abruptly.
“Why do you ask?”
She bit her lip. “You’re getting better at that, Your Grace. Turning the why back on me.”
“Before I met you, I believed myself to be one of the best at it. You, however, have proven me wrong.”
“I’m not sure if that is a compliment.”
“It is.”
“And you have yet to answer my question.”
“That’s true.”
Clara ran the fingers of her free hand over the cool, rough stone. “I’d appreciate the truth.”
The duke was silent for a long minute. “Because you fascinate me. You’re extraordinary.”
Clara felt her cheeks flush. She cast about for a suitable response but could find none.
“I’ve made you uncomfortable.” His voice was low.
“You just surprised me with your flattery.”
“Not flattery. The truth.”
“Your Grace—”
“August. I want you to call me August.”
Clara’s mind was racing, but not as fast as her heart was slamming in her chest. “I’m not sure that is appropriate given my position as—”
“As what? A beautiful, brilliant woman? Because right here, right now, that is who you are.” He ran a finger down the side of her face before slowly threading his fingers through the hair at the back of her head. She could feel pins tumble to fall soundlessly into the grass. “The woman I once let get away.”
His fingers caressed the nape of her neck.
“You were right, you know,” he said, stepping closer so that the backs of her legs were pressed against the stone wall and the front of her was a whisper away from the entire length of him.
“About what?” she managed to whisper.
“That regrets are nothing but excuses. And I’m done with both.” His other hand came up
to catch her face.
Clara closed her eyes, every nerve ending she possessed on fire. Time seemed to have slowed. A strange sense of inevitability enveloped her, as though this moment had been unavoidable since the very second she had said yes to a waltz. His fingers dropped from the side of her face to trail along the side of her neck, along the ridge of her collarbone, and down to the edge of her bodice.
The heat that had been chasing itself across her skin pooled low in her belly and between her legs. Her breasts felt heavy, and her nipples hardened. She kept her eyes closed, focusing solely on the feel of his hands and the warmth from his body as he closed the distance between them and pressed against her.
And then she felt him move again, and his lips brushed hers, softly, deftly. She remained perfectly still, lust screaming through her limbs. His hand that had been resting at the edge of her bodice lowered, stroking the side of her breast and coming to rest at her waist, urging her more firmly against him. She could feel the hard solidity of his body through the light fabric of her skirts, and she sucked in a breath, her arousal sharpening and a pulsing restlessness stealing whatever coherent thought remained.
And then his mouth returned to hers, controlled and soft again as he teased her lips. It was an exquisite, gentle torment, as though he feared she might shatter. Clara brought her own hands up, slipping them inside his coat and sliding them over his waistcoat to his shoulders, feeling his steely strength under the soft linen of his shirt. Her hands roamed farther under his coat and down his back, intoxicated by the way his muscles flexed beneath her touch.
He made an incoherent noise and deepened their kiss, though still with the same careful control. Not enough. She opened her mouth, catching his lower lip and tracing it wickedly with her tongue.
It was as if she had branded him. His head jerked back, and he stared at her, his breath coming quick and shallow, his hands still holding her in place. “Bloody hell,” she thought she heard him groan.
Clara wasn’t sure if she should embrace her confusion or her mortification first. What was wrong with her? What had she done?