A Duke in the Night(46)

“I will see you home,” the duke repeated, already signaling Miss Baker, who was hurrying across the yard.

She shook her head. “I—”

“I’ll pick you up over my shoulder and put you in that damn barouche if I have to.”

“Fine.” Clara suddenly didn’t have the energy to argue.

“I’m not letting you go, Clara.”

An empty chasm suddenly opened up in the center of her anger, dark with desolation. “I was never yours in the first place.”





Chapter 11





Given the way August had thrown himself into the evaluation of the Avondale estate, one would surmise that he owned it. Or that he was planning to.

Never had he immersed himself more deeply in assessments of soil quality and appraisals of forage crops. Estimations of lambing schedules and projections of breeding seasons. And of course, the potential costs and revenues from all of it put together. But no matter how hard he tried, nothing could make him forget the mess he had created at the Silver Swan. Never in his life had he handled anything as badly as he had handled his inquiries into Strathmore Shipping. And that knowledge had put him in a dark, dangerous mood this morning.

This was why August never mixed business with pleasure. Not that he’d ever really had the opportunity to do so in the past, but he should have been more careful. Instead he’d let his libido trump his intelligence and had blundered into another conversation that, in hindsight, he had been ill prepared for. Again.

The Haywards were nothing like the other entitled lords and ladies August endured and courted in London, something he’d known but had failed to truly comprehend until it was too late. He’d underestimated both the baron and Clara like a rank amateur. And now he found himself in a tangled mess of desire and ambition with no idea how to extract himself.

Did you think that if you could get me into your bed, I would put a favorable word in my brother’s ear?

August flinched as Clara’s words ran through his head again.

Those words had sat uncomfortably on his mind all night and all morning, adding to the foulness of his mood. Those words made him want to seek her out and apologize. Explain yet again that his interest in Strathmore Shipping had nothing to do with his interest in her. The urge was as unnerving as it was insupportable, because August Faulkner did not need to explain anything to anyone. He did what he needed to do to keep his family safe and financially secure without apology. He would never apologize for that.

But for whatever reason, the usual rules did not seem to apply when it came to Clara Hayward. And all of it was made even more complicated by the fact that the deed to Haverhall sat on his desk. She was slipping through his fingers again. And he had no idea what to do without risking the complete destruction of a relationship that was already in tatters. Which made his mood even darker.

The sound of a carriage rattling up the drive distracted him from his thoughts. He straightened where he had been leaning, near the gate of the west sheep enclosure, and idly followed the equipage with his eyes as it stopped in front of Avondale. His own ride home with Clara had been taut with silence, neither finding any words that—

August’s hand slipped from the gate as the occupant of the carriage emerged, dressed like a bloody popinjay in an orange coat of a hue most definitely not found in nature. The bright-yellow embroidery splashed all over the front was visible from where August stood. He felt his jaw slacken even as the rest of his body went rigid.

“Goddammit,” August cursed sharply under his breath. What the hell was Mathias Stilton doing here? At Avondale? Now?

August started stalking toward the manor. Dover was a long way from London, and there was no way in hell that this was a casual social call, no matter how Mathias Stilton might try to frame it. The man was here for a reason. August of all people knew that. He just wasn’t sure what that reason might be.

Though he had a pretty good idea.

August ground his teeth. No matter what had happened between them last night, Clara Hayward was his.

*



“A gentleman to see you, Miss Hayward.”

Clara’s head snapped up from where it had been bent over the pages of her book. The butler was standing patiently just inside the door of the library, his face expressionless. Clara snapped her book shut irritably, hating the unwanted spurt of expectation that had shot through her at the announcement. Whoever was here to see her, it wasn’t August. Which suited her just fine. He had shown his true colors last night, proving himself as manipulative and ruthless as Harland had said. In the cold light of day, she reasoned that it was just as well her eyes had been opened when they had, before she had managed to do something monumentally stupid. Like become completely smitten.

“Who is it?” Harland asked from where he stood, at one of the long tables. Clara had been pleasantly surprised when she had found her brother in the library, though Harland had thus far proven a poor conversationalist, his attention focused on a pile of what looked like old maps of the county coast.

“A Mr. Mathias Stilton,” the butler replied.

Harland’s brows shot up as he looked at Clara in question.

“Tabby mentioned he had stopped by earlier,” Clara told him with a small frown. “I had forgotten.”

“Long way from the British Museum,” he murmured.

“He told Tabby he was visiting friends.”