A Duke in the Night(10)
“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.
Clara glanced at Holloway. The duke’s face gave away none of his thoughts, though he was studying the man intently. Clara frowned, her eyes sliding back to Stilton. She and Rose had, in fact, met Mathias Stilton here in the British Museum on one of their regular excursions not long after their parents’ death. They had fallen into easy conversation and had discovered that the wealthy widower shared their interest in history and art.
He was handsome, Clara supposed, with fashionably cut blond hair just starting to silver at his temples, clear gray eyes, a pleasing, broad face, and a slender physique that looked quite elegant in his peacock-blue coat. Clara had once thought that he might have an interest in her sister beyond casual discussions on form and perspective, but both parties had remained romantically indifferent. That hadn’t, however, prevented Mr. Stilton from collecting both Clara and Rose to view the exhibits at the museum when their brother was unable to escort them here himself.
Though this particular visit had now become an exhibit itself of antagonistic undercurrents. With no explanations forthcoming.
“Your Grace.” Stilton finally uttered something that sounded like a greeting.
“Mr. Stilton,” Holloway replied neutrally.
“You are already acquainted?” Clara forced herself to say into the strained silence.
Stilton made a low, derisive noise while Holloway only inclined his head slightly.
“We’ve met,” the duke said.
Clara waited for Stilton to pick up the thread and elaborate, but he remained uncharacteristically mute, and she wondered at his overt discourtesy.
“Well, then,” Clara managed with forced cheer, “I think I will collect my sister before the museum closes.”
“Excellent,” Stilton murmured. “I’ve already asked for my carriage to be brought around so you don’t have to wait.”
“How thoughtful.” Clara arranged a pleasant smile on her face and turned to Holloway.
The duke’s eyes flickered back to her, and Clara was once again pinned under a sea of intense blue. “I didn’t realize Mr. Stilton had escorted you here today.” He held her gaze for a beat too long before it went back to Stilton as if he were reevaluating the man’s motivations.
A strange sort of thrill twisted uninvited through Clara’s body. It was almost as if the duke were…not jealous, exactly, because absolutely no logic that existed would support that reaction. Territorial, perhaps, was the better word. As if Holloway had some sort of stake in how and with whom she might spend her time.
Not that it was any of his damn business. Not ten years ago and certainly not now.
A faint glimmer of her earlier irritation returned, and Clara grasped it with zeal. Annoyance, when it came to the Duke of Holloway, was much safer than any other feeling the man seemed to elicit from her. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace,” she said with every ounce of distant decorum she could muster. “Please give my regards to Lady Anne.” She saw his brows draw together fractionally before they relaxed.