A Duke in the Night(24)
She frowned. “Not at all. In fact, I try to give them space to socialize amongst themselves. They’ll see enough of me in the coming days, but I do make it a point to be available the first evening to ensure they’ve settled in and address any concerns and questions.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Your Grace—”
“You need to eat. Why not with me?” He was not taking no for an answer.
“Um.”
“There is a tavern on the north side of town that serves excellent lamb with mint and an even better selection of wines. The kind of wine that has had the privilege of being crafted in France.”
“The Silver Swan.”
“You know it?”
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“Good. We’ll take an equipage from Avondale. How does six o’clock sound?”
“It sounds delightful, but I don’t think—”
“I insist. It’s the least I can do in return for your gracious hospitality. And, of course, Lord Strathmore’s.” He smiled in his most disarming manner. “Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”
Miss Hayward gave him a weak smile, and he could see her teetering on indecision. No doubt weighing the consequences of refusing a duke a request. Though a request that was not asinine, but entirely proper and sincere. At least on the surface.
“I promise not to dare you to dance. Or do anything else that would give your brother leave to put a bullet hole in my coat.”
She laughed then, a low, musical sound, and it was as if the sun had broken through a cloud. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and August thought that time might have stopped for the briefest of moments. He had never, in all his life, wanted to kiss a woman as badly as he did right now. He thought he might ask her to dinner every night just to hear her laugh again like that.
Until he remembered he was not asking her to dinner to woo her. He was asking her to dinner to extract whatever information he could from her and her family to use to his own advantage. Potentially.
He was disturbed at the guilt that instantly stabbed at his conscience. August reminded himself that he wasn’t deceiving her—not really. Further to his purchase of the school, he was simply…exploring a mutually beneficial opportunity, even if the Haywards didn’t know it yet. And there was no room in good business for guilt.
“In that case, I thank you,” she said, though she had moderated her smile, and now it was simply one of polite acceptance. “That would be lovely.”
Chapter 7
The library at Avondale House was a thing of beauty.
Someone, or, more accurately, a long line of someones, had taken great pains to select and assemble a stupefying collection. There were manuscripts centuries old, and aside from the glimpse into the past they provided, the hand lettering and illuminations made them works of art in their own right. There were treatises on agriculture and veterinary care. Books about the creatures of the world and the exotic lands in which they were found. Collections of maps and drawings. There were entire shelves of novels, plays, and poetry, and dissertations on history and politics. Clara rather thought she could live out the rest of her life in this room and not be unhappy.
The staff, efficient as always, had pulled the curtains from the tall windows that lined the south side, and the early-morning sunlight flooded in to reveal a cavernous room that was positively gleaming. Three long tables were positioned in the center, each with lanterns and candelabras resting on its polished surface and each with a collection of beautifully matched chairs surrounding it. Larger, upholstered chairs were scattered around the grouping, fairly begging a body to curl up within their comfort with a good book.
It was this room that had been the deciding factor when Clara had gone looking for a house to let for her summer program. Well, that and the fact that the Earl of Rivers had gifted them the use of Avondale. Apparently he was exceedingly grateful to her brother for his attention to and treatment of his many ailments, and he had offered his Dover estate to Haverhall as a favor. Which pleased Clara to no end.
Many other homes had spacious and refined accommodations and efficient and capable staffs, but none had a library like this. Her students spent a great deal of time here, and Clara wondered if the elderly Earl of Rivers truly comprehended what a treasure he possessed in this house. It was one of many that he owned, though it had been years since he’d been well enough to make the trip to the coast.
Clara wandered over to a pretty rosewood writing desk, positioned in a sunbeam, and ran her hand over the smooth surface before picking up a delicate glass ink pot. It, like everything else in the library, was in a state of readiness, sparkling and newly filled with ink. She would have to add a footnote to Harland’s report and express her appreciation of the dedication and attention to detail that the staff—
“Was that the Duke of Doxies I saw you speaking to in the driveway last night?”
Clara jerked and nearly dropped the inkpot on the immaculate rug under her feet. With great care she replaced it on the desk and turned.
“Rose. I didn’t hear you come in.” She eyed her sister, who was leaning just inside the door, her arms folded over her chest, a cynical smirk twisting her delicate features.
“I gathered.” Rose stepped farther into the library, and the sunlight coming in through the window set alight the loose strands of strawberry-blond hair that rested along her cheek. “Was I correct?”