A Duke in the Night
Kelly Bowen
To all the strong women in my life who have gifted me with the courage to believe that I always could.
Acknowledgments
A heartfelt thanks to my editor, Alex Logan, for unerring insight that makes each story better, and to the entire team at Forever, who work so hard on my behalf. Thanks to my agent, Stefanie Lieberman, who has been unfailingly supportive. To my family and friends, who have cheered me on every step of the way. And last but not least, a huge thank-you to the entire romance community—readers and writers. You have made this an unforgettable journey.
Chapter 1
London, July 1819
He had danced with her on a dare.
Childish, certainly. Boorish, most definitely. But it was easier to critique such behaviors when one was no longer in the throes of obnoxious youth, surrounded by arrogant acquaintances who snickered and leered and sought entertainment at the expense of others. And to this day, August Faulkner, the twelfth Duke of Holloway, had never forgotten it.
He hadn’t been duke of anything then. Though his bravado and self-importance had seemed to make up for that shortcoming. At the time he’d thought Clara Hayward, the eldest daughter of the charismatic and wildly popular Baron Strathmore, would simply be a means to an end.
She had been pretty—flawless fair skin framed by lustrous mahogany tresses shot through with rich ruby highlights. Dark eyes ringed by darker lashes, set into a face that smiled often. An elegant figure displayed by tasteful gowns and a graceful poise that was remarked upon often. All that combined with the staggering wealth of her family meant there should have been earls and dukes and princes falling all over themselves begging for her attention.
Instead her dance card remained empty despite a flurry of proper introductions. And those earls and dukes and princes kept a wary distance—held at bay by the single flaw that illustrious lords could simply not tolerate in a potential wife: an education and an intelligence greater than their own.
August hadn’t understood that then. Instead he had foolishly put Clara Hayward in a box labeled Wallflower, confident in his superiority. And with the snickers and guffaws of his companions echoing in his ears, he had sauntered up to where she stood at the edge of the dance floor that night and offered her the privilege of his presence.
Miss Hayward had gazed upon him with what looked like bemused tolerance when he had bowed dramatically over her hand. Her dark eyes had flickered over his shoulder to where his cronies watched, waiting for her to stammer or stumble. Instead her full lips had curled only a little further, and her eyes had returned to his, a single brow cocked in clear, knowing amusement, and he knew then that she had heard every crass, careless word. And it had been August who had stammered and stumbled as she took his arm.
He had led her out on the dance floor, appalled at the way his heart was hammering in his chest. She had placed one steady hand in his, another on the sleeve of his coat, and met his eyes directly as the first strains of music floated through the ballroom. August had tried then to recoup the advantage he seemed to have lost and used every ounce of his considerable prowess on the dance floor, leading her in a sweeping, reckless waltz that should have wilted a wallflower into a blushing mess.
But Clara Hayward had only matched him step for step, never once looking away. And by the time the waltz had concluded, the conversation in the room had faltered, every damn guest was staring at them, and August was experiencing a horrifying shortness of breath that had nothing to do with his exertions.
“Good heavens,” she had murmured, not sounding nearly as breathless as he. “I was told that you were daring, Mr. Faulkner. And you do not disappoint. You are exactly as advertised.”
“And you, Miss Hayward, are not.” He’d blurted it before he could stop himself, unsure if her words were a compliment or a criticism. And unsure what to do with either.
She’d grinned then—an honest-to-goodness grin that suggested they were collaborators, complicit in something deliciously wicked. “Good” was all she had said, and his world had tilted. He had found himself grinning foolishly back, disoriented as all hell.
August had left Miss Hayward in the care of her brother after that, and Harland Hayward had gazed upon him with the reproach and pity that August both deserved and hated. He’d not danced with her again, a fact that evoked a peculiar regret if he thought about it for too long. In fact, he had never spoken to Miss Hayward since that night, their paths having seemingly diverged in two completely opposite directions.
He to a duchy he’d never expected to inherit. She to a life of refined academia she’d undoubtedly planned as the headmistress of the most elite finishing school in Britain.
That was, until August had bought that school yesterday. A property he’d had his solicitors anonymously offer to purchase at least thrice in the past decade.
He glanced down at the papers his solicitors had left on his desk. “Miss Clara Hayward” was written in neat letters on the previous deed of ownership, and the sight of her name still jolted him even now. Which was absurd, because it mattered not which Hayward actually owned the damn school, only that they were finally willing to sell. But seeing her name had triggered a flood of memories and somehow undermined the fierce satisfaction that he should have felt at the prospect of the Haverhall School for Young Ladies becoming part of his vast holdings.