A Duke in the Night(36)

“Stop what?” she whispered. When had this gotten away from her? When had this conversation turned into something so dissolute in her head? Because all she could imagine was what it might be like to have him at the mercy of her hands and her lips and hear him say, Don’t ever stop.

“Don’t ever stop asking me difficult questions,” Holloway said. “Don’t ever stop making me accountable for my actions.”

Clara shook her head, not trusting her voice.

“You did it the day I first met you, and you did it again yesterday. And I think I might just be a better man—or at least a better brother—because of it. Because of you.”

“I rather think you’re doing just fine on your own.” It sounded a little uneven. “I very much doubt you need my help.” Clara’s eyes slid from his, focusing on a small white butterfly that was fluttering near the edge of the grassy path.

Holloway didn’t answer. They continued walking, the path now following a low stone fence that ran to the edge of the wind-buffeted trees. Here, away from the house, the sound of the surf was louder, the breeze a little stronger. They were almost to the trees when the duke stopped.

“I should have kissed you,” he said suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” Her eyes flew back to his.

“That night when we waltzed.” He held her gaze. “I wanted to kiss you then. I want to kiss you now.”

Clara swallowed with difficulty. Not only was she having trouble breathing, but the ground beneath her feet suddenly felt unsteady.

“Why?” It slipped out, and Clara cursed at the awkward inanity of such a question.

Holloway chuckled. “Only you would ask that.” The mirth slid from his face, replaced with a smoldering heat. His hand slid slightly, and his fingers gently caressed the exposed skin of her upper arm.

“Why did you really invite me out here?” she asked abruptly.

“Why do you ask?”

She bit her lip. “You’re getting better at that, Your Grace. Turning the why back on me.”

“Before I met you, I believed myself to be one of the best at it. You, however, have proven me wrong.”

“I’m not sure if that is a compliment.”

“It is.”

“And you have yet to answer my question.”

“That’s true.”

Clara ran the fingers of her free hand over the cool, rough stone. “I’d appreciate the truth.”

The duke was silent for a long minute. “Because you fascinate me. You’re extraordinary.”

Clara felt her cheeks flush. She cast about for a suitable response but could find none.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable.” His voice was low.

“You just surprised me with your flattery.”

“Not flattery. The truth.”

“Your Grace—”

“August. I want you to call me August.”

Clara’s mind was racing, but not as fast as her heart was slamming in her chest. “I’m not sure that is appropriate given my position as—”

“As what? A beautiful, brilliant woman? Because right here, right now, that is who you are.” He ran a finger down the side of her face before slowly threading his fingers through the hair at the back of her head. She could feel pins tumble to fall soundlessly into the grass. “The woman I once let get away.”

His fingers caressed the nape of her neck.

“You were right, you know,” he said, stepping closer so that the backs of her legs were pressed against the stone wall and the front of her was a whisper away from the entire length of him.

“About what?” she managed to whisper.

“That regrets are nothing but excuses. And I’m done with both.” His other hand came up to catch her face.

Clara closed her eyes, every nerve ending she possessed on fire. Time seemed to have slowed. A strange sense of inevitability enveloped her, as though this moment had been unavoidable since the very second she had said yes to a waltz. His fingers dropped from the side of her face to trail along the side of her neck, along the ridge of her collarbone, and down to the edge of her bodice.

The heat that had been chasing itself across her skin pooled low in her belly and between her legs. Her breasts felt heavy, and her nipples hardened. She kept her eyes closed, focusing solely on the feel of his hands and the warmth from his body as he closed the distance between them and pressed against her.

And then she felt him move again, and his lips brushed hers, softly, deftly. She remained perfectly still, lust screaming through her limbs. His hand that had been resting at the edge of her bodice lowered, stroking the side of her breast and coming to rest at her waist, urging her more firmly against him. She could feel the hard solidity of his body through the light fabric of her skirts, and she sucked in a breath, her arousal sharpening and a pulsing restlessness stealing whatever coherent thought remained.

And then his mouth returned to hers, controlled and soft again as he teased her lips. It was an exquisite, gentle torment, as though he feared she might shatter. Clara brought her own hands up, slipping them inside his coat and sliding them over his waistcoat to his shoulders, feeling his steely strength under the soft linen of his shirt. Her hands roamed farther under his coat and down his back, intoxicated by the way his muscles flexed beneath her touch.