A Duke in the Night(16)
August wearily turned his attention back to his horse. And froze. The gelding had settled and was cropping grass, but one of its rear legs was marred by rivulets of blood that trickled down over its hock. August approached the gelding slowly and bent to examine the wound. There was a furrow the length of his palm across the sleek hide, along the hindquarters, just behind the stifle. Murmuring softly, August traced his fingers along the edge, relieved to discover that the wound was more superficial than serious. It wouldn’t require stitches—it had already stopped bleeding for the most part—but there would be bruising, and it would put his horse out of commission while it healed.
August cursed under his breath and ran a hand over his gelding. He would have a word with the garrison captain at his earliest opportunity. The king’s men might have their orders, but trigger-happy soldiers running down children and firing wild shots at peers of the realm were not acceptable. That he would make clear. Because there were benefits to being a duke, and having a very loud voice was one of them.
August glanced back at the horizon one last time, but it was deserted. He looped the reins from the gelding’s neck and started the odious walk to Avondale.
Chapter 5
The travel was always the most odious part.
The two-day journey had been long but uneventful, which was always a relief. No surprises on the road meant that they had arrived in good time and that the students had finally been able to settle themselves into the warm comfort of Avondale last night. Clara knew very well that some had slept fitfully, anticipating the first full day of summer term. For many of these girls, it was the first time that they had been on their own, unaccompanied by family or hordes of familiar servants. It was their first taste of freedom.
Clara smiled to herself and tugged her shawl tighter about her against the breeze, tipping her face up to the sun and letting the tranquility of Avondale settle into her bones. Almost all the girls had returned, having spent their first day discovering that the Haverhall School for Young Ladies was not all that it might seem. And the excitement and the wonder that was invariably stamped across the students’ faces did not disappoint.
A pang of regret and loss came hard on the heels of that thought, and Clara pushed it ruthlessly aside. She might have lost Haverhall, but it did not mean that she needed to lose this as well. Without the school behind her, organizing and managing terms like this would be a little more difficult, but not impossible. But she’d worry about that later. For now she would enjoy every minute.
For now she would enjoy the faint tang of the sea carried on the warm breeze. Enjoy the feel of the sun on her back as it descended in the west, setting each pane of glass on the face of Avondale ablaze. There was a peace and sense of belonging here that she had never found in the malodorous, hectic stew that was London. Perhaps it was the sea that promised adventure and inspired imagination. Perhaps it was the history contained in this place—centuries of lives lived and stories to discover. Perhaps it was the wildness of the cliffs or the grandeur of the sky that opened up around them. Whatever it was, it was one of Clara’s favorite places in the world, and it filled her soul as no other place could.
“Good evening, Miss Hayward.”
Clara jerked, disbelief making it hard to think. The voice had come from behind her, and if she didn’t know better, she might say it sounded suspiciously like the Duke of Holloway’s. Which, of course, was impossible. Because she was in Dover set to embark on a wonderful summer term, while August Faulkner was safely in London seeing to whatever needs he or his gleaming duchy might require. He was certainly not standing in the wide, circular walk that led to the rear gardens of Avondale House.
Ambushing her. Again.
“Miss Hayward?” The address came again.
With reluctance, Clara turned to discover that the Duke of Holloway was, regrettably, not a figment of her imagination, and he was, indeed, standing in the walk. The sun hovered low in the west, gilding him in a strange golden light, and Clara took a step sideways so she wasn’t squinting against the angled rays.
He was dressed casually in a riding coat and breeches that had seen better days. His boots were dusty, his hair windblown, and the lack of polish made him somehow even more attractive than he had been the day he had ambushed her in the museum. Her breath hitched, and butterflies rose again to riot against her ribs, and Clara nearly cringed at the sheer idiocy of her physical reaction to him.
A reaction that was, thankfully, somewhat tempered by the trepidation that was starting to clamor at his sudden appearance.
“Your Grace,” she said, aiming for the pleasant, conciliatory tone that she used for handling difficult parents who initially balked at the idea of sending their daughters into the wilds of Kent. “This is a…surprise.”
“I can imagine.”
Clara felt her smile threaten to falter.
“Did you honestly expect me to stay in London, Miss Hayward?”
Um, yes? Clara tried to make sense of his cryptic comment but got nowhere. “Is there something I might assist you with, Your Grace?”
“I had hoped to have a conversation with my sister.” The duke’s eyes flickered past her as though he expected his sister to pop up from behind Clara’s skirts. “I think I’m owed that at the very least, don’t you?”
“Lady Anne is not available at the moment,” she said smoothly. Lady Anne was, in fact, on her way back from a tavern and inn in Dover. Though her brother didn’t need to know that.