A Duke in the Night(11)
“Of course,” he replied. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Miss Hayward.” He inclined his head again. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stilton.” He said it with no inflection, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stilton stiffen all over again.
The duke departed as silently as he had come, and Clara forced herself not to let her eyes linger on his broad back as he exited. She glanced at Stilton, seeing that her escort had no such compunctions. He was watching the duke retreat with an unpleasant curl to his lip.
“Mr. Stilton?” Clara prompted. “Is anything amiss?”
Mathias Stilton’s eyes snapped back to hers, and she saw his expression clear. “I beg your pardon, Miss Hayward. I’m sorry if any of that offended you.”
She almost rolled her eyes. “I can assure you, I am not offended. Just…” She cast about for a word that might encourage an explanation. “Concerned,” she settled on.
Stilton waved his hand. “Business between men,” he said with a beatific smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing that you need to worry your pretty little head about. And nothing that will spoil the rest of the afternoon.”
Clara gritted her teeth at the banal condescension that had crept into his voice, though she knew very well that most gentlemen would have said the same thing.
The Duke of Holloway wouldn’t have.
Clara resolutely ignored that voice, knowing she knew no such thing. A single discussion about centaurs and Lapiths after ten years of silence did not a friendship or a familiarity make.
Stilton held out his arm. “Let’s find your sister, shall we?”
“Indeed,” Clara murmured, glancing back at the door through which Holloway had vanished.
And reassuring herself that it would probably be another ten years before she’d have to see the Duke of Holloway again.
Chapter 3
Two days later, August sat at the desk in his study, staring into space, still wondering if he had lost his mind. He’d certainly lost his touch.
He’d seen Clara Hayward the instant he’d stepped into that damn museum, and every thought of the baron, expensive ships, invaluable networks, and sound plans had dissolved like mist in the wind. He had kept his distance at first, trying to collect his thoughts and his wits because it was clear that Miss Hayward was no longer the same girl he had danced with.
Then, dressed in a pale, shimmering ball gown and expensive jewels, she had been exceedingly pretty. Now, clad in a simple day dress the color of claret and devoid of accessories, she was stunning. She still possessed the same lustrous hair, though it had been pulled back into a rather pedestrian knot at the back of her head. Her skin was still flawless, free of any cosmetics, and her dark eyes still brimmed with the intelligence he remembered so well. But where she had once displayed tutored poise, she now radiated a rare confidence that was characteristic of those who had truly embraced their individuality and found pleasure and happiness within it. In a man it was admirable. In a woman he found it indecently seductive.
August had followed her discreetly through the museum, not an easy feat considering that the building was almost empty as it approached closing time. She had been accompanied then only by her sister, a petite, fairer version of herself, who showed very little enthusiasm for conversation. Rose Hayward had, however, looked immensely pleased when she was left alone with her sketchbook and a room full of silent sculpture. August knew he should have been disappointed that the baron was nowhere in sight, but instead he had been similarly pleased. Because it had left Clara free to wander into a room stuffed full of Elgin Marbles, gifting him with a sliver of stolen time to spend with her. Precious moments in which he thought he’d charm her.
Instead he’d blundered into a conversation that he’d not adequately prepared himself for. Miss Hayward had been gracious and pleasant and had not given any indication that she found anything odd about his unexpected and unsolicited reappearance. Until, that was, he found himself apologizing to her. Badly. Or badly enough that Miss Hayward had looked at him with concern.
And then asked if he was dying.
His pride had certainly been suffering a slow death, and the fact that his palms had gone damp, his mouth was dry, and his heart pounded did not help. Miss Hayward, in a clear attempt to put him at ease, had accepted his apology with a smooth, lighthearted decorum that was no doubt the cornerstone of the Haverhall School for Young Ladies.
He should have stopped there, retreated even, but instead he had plowed on and succeeded in making everything worse. The chivalrous kiss and the not-so-chivalrous look he had bestowed upon Miss Hayward were things he had taken great pains to perfect over the years. They were things that promised indecent wickedness without his actually having to do anything more. Once he had mastered the combination, he found he was rewarded with fluttering fans, fluttering lashes, and fluttering giggles. The innocent threatened to swoon. The experienced threatened far more carnal consequences.
Miss Hayward had simply gazed at him, her face set in an expression of mild puzzlement, in a way he might expect her to look while reading a treatise on the Isoptera of England. And then that expression had faded into what looked almost like one of…awkward disappointment, as though she were now faced with a doddering dowager who had fallen asleep in her tea.
August groaned and rested his forehead in his hands. Again he had felt as if he were that youth of his past. Goaded into something he knew wasn’t going to end well but unable to resist. What had he thought would happen? The pretty girl who had once matched him step for step, who had stared down his boorish companions and made him grin like a fool, wasn’t a girl anymore. That girl was gone, replaced with a beautiful, intelligent woman in possession of a flawless grace and poise. Her sterling reputation had been earned, not fabricated, and he should have known better.