A Duke in the Night(33)
And he realized that it was because she had lived it too. She had been allowed to exist along the fringes of society just like him, tolerated but not welcomed. But unlike him, she had not inherited a duchy.
“Is that what you wanted? To be measured by your merit?”
She gave him a long look. “Don’t you?”
“I know who I am. And I care very little for the opinions of others.”
She made a noise in her throat. “Spoken like a man and a duke.”
August scowled. “That’s not fair.”
Miss Hayward didn’t look away from him. “It isn’t, is it?” she asked, and now there was an edge to her words.
August tapped his fingers on the top of the stone. “Are you trying to be obtuse on purpose?”
“Not at all. I’m trying to make you consider, just for a moment, what it might be like to not be a duke, or even a man, in a world that gives precedence and value to both of those things over all else. Consider what it’s like to navigate—” Miss Hayward stopped suddenly and clamped her lips together.
The reckless passion and heat that had been in her voice were making it impossible for him to look away. This was the Clara Hayward he had never forgotten.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” she said, looking down. “This is not at all a suitable conversation for—”
“Stop apologizing.” He reached out and tipped her chin up, forcing her eyes back to his. It was hard to read what was in those liquid brown depths, but he wasn’t going to let her retreat behind the composure she wore like a cloak.
He felt her breath on his wrist as she exhaled. Very slowly she reached up and drew his hand away from her face, though he didn’t let her withdraw her fingers from his. Her hand stayed trapped in his, hidden by her skirts. He had let her go once before, and he wasn’t ready to let her go again.
She was shaking her head. “Your Grace—”
“Pretend I am not a duke,” he said impulsively. “Pretend, just for a moment, that I am a young idiot again, who needs at least part of the world explained to him.”
“You were never an idiot,” she said, with a weak smile.
“Debatable.” His fingers tightened on hers, and she made no move to withdraw her hand.
“Well, you were the only man who ever asked me to dance who wasn’t doing it as a favor to my father.” She said it wryly.
“Then I would suggest that proves I’m a bloody genius, and the rest of the lot are all bottleheads.” He kept his words light even as an intense, possessive anger rose on her behalf.
She sniffed, though it sounded a little like a chuckle.
“Please finish your thoughts, Miss Hayward.”
She drew in another deep breath and let it out slowly. “Very well. I was going to ask you to consider what it’s like to navigate your world in my shoes. Or, more importantly, in those of your sister.”
August remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
“As the sister to a duke, she must be gracious and beautiful, though not so much that she might inspire envy or jealousy. She should be firm, decisive, and capable, but only in those areas that you or her future husband allow her to be. She should not show an unattractive interest in subjects that have been deemed unladylike or beyond her comprehension. Which isn’t to say she shouldn’t be intelligent. Just so long as she doesn’t accidentally prove her intellect superior to that of the gentleman seated on her right at the dinner table.”
August could feel his nostrils flare.
“Ah. You’re angry.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re crushing my fingers.”
He relaxed his grip. “Sorry.”
“None of what I said was meant as a criticism of you, Your Grace.”
“It sounded like it.”
Miss Hayward sighed, sounding defeated. “That was not my intention.” She turned away from him slightly in the direction of the house. “I should get back to my students.”
“Not yet.” August didn’t relinquish his grip on her hand. “What was?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your intention. What was it, if not to censure?”
“What is your greatest passion, Your Grace?” she asked suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What is it that gives you the most joy out of life? The thing that gets you out of bed every morning?”
Ownership. Acquisition. Building something from nothing. He knew he should probably say something flippant like cards or whiskey or snuff. “Business,” he hedged instead.
She considered him. “Are you good at it?”
The best. “Yes.”
“Now just for a moment, pretend Lady Anne didn’t approve of what you did.” She pulled her fingers from his and stepped away. “And now, just for the moment, pretend she had the control and the power to stop you from doing what you loved.”
Chapter 9
Clara paced across Avondale’s hall.
The clock near the bottom of the stairs ticked loudly, and Clara wondered why she had never noticed before that this house had so many wretched ticking clocks. Five minutes to six. No sign of her brother. And no sign of the duke.
Which, after the conversation, or rather the lecture, she had given Holloway earlier, was probably understandable, though the duke hadn’t sent word canceling his invitation. Clara wasn’t sure what it was about the man that provoked her into blurting truths that had no business being aired, especially to the paying clientele of Haverhall. Perhaps because he had trapped her hand in his, his steady warmth giving her courage to be more honest with him than was wise or safe. As though by keeping her with him, her fingers clasped within his, he was promising to at least try to understand her words.