A Duke in the Night(55)

“I beg your pardon?”

“Botticelli’s painting depicts a woman rising from the sea. We were recreating Titian’s Venus of Urbino composition. Less the individuals in the background. And with just a little more clothing.”

“With a woman old enough to be my grandmother?” August demanded.

Clara’s eyes suddenly went cool. “I didn’t realize there was an age at which one can no longer be considered beautiful. Or desirable.”

August felt his mouth snap shut. “That’s not what I meant,” he said after a moment.

“Then what did you mean?”

“I meant that…that it is not…seemly.” God, he hated the way he sounded right now. Like an old, self-important ass. When he got his wits together, he would blame it on the shock.

“Not seemly.” She crossed her arms over her chest and regarded him. “Which part?”

“Which what?”

“Which part isn’t seemly? The part where Lady Theodosia is comfortable and confident in her own skin? Or the part where we ask ten young women who have been and will continue to be judged on their looks to consider that beauty comes in many different forms?”

August opened his mouth and closed it again.

Clara sighed and leaned back against the wall, and August saw her studying an ancient portrait of a woman sitting ramrod straight, a small child on her lap. “Pretty is as pretty does,” she said quietly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What Rose says all the time. It’s why she does what she does.”

“Which is what?” August was confused.

Clara’s eyes slid to his and then away again. “Teach painting classes here in perhaps a somewhat unconventional manner.”

“Unconventional? That might be the understatement of the century.”

“Well, the century is still young.”

“I don’t appreciate your flippancy.”

Clara shook her head, her lips curling slightly. “Tell me, Your Grace, do you find me attractive?”

August stared at her, uncertain he’d heard her right.

“It’s not a trick question,” she prompted.

Did he find her attractive? Bloody hell, he’d been in permanent state of arousal since he’d kissed her. All he could think of was how much he wanted to kiss her again. And then take her to his bed and have his way with her six ways to Sunday.

“Yes.”

“What is it about me that appeals to you the most?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

She’d turned her head and was watching him, that half smile pulling at her lips. “Very well, I’ll go first.” She studied him. “Your loyalty to your sister. Your willingness to defend someone who can’t defend themselves.”

“What?” A peculiar feeling was rising up within him like curling smoke, spreading through his chest.

“The things I find most attractive about you.” She returned her attention to the painting opposite her. “You are physically striking. And there is, of course, your title and all your wealth. Yet those are not who you are. Those three things are simply what you are.”

August stared at her, the light streaming in from the tall window beyond putting her profile in stark relief and catching the deep ruby in the curls brushing her shoulders. Her chin was tipped up slightly, exposing the graceful lines of her neck and the gentle slope of her breasts. He felt adrift here, as if he had lost sight of the shore and was in over his head. Had any woman ever really looked past his title and his wealth and his looks? Had he ever wanted them to?

He took a step closer, suddenly needing to anchor himself. “Your confidence.” He took another step and found her hand with his. This, this was what he needed. She was what he needed. “Your unwillingness to apologize for who you are. Your convictions.”

Clara closed her eyes.

“Those are the things that leave me humbled.”

Her eyes opened and flew to his.

“That night I asked you to dance, you gave me a chance and an honor I did not deserve.” He caught her other hand in his and brought both to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on the backs of her knuckles. “I came here to ask you for the same chance again.”

“Your Grace—”

“I don’t want a temporary tryst.”

She was watching with hooded eyes, and he could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. “What do you want, then?”

“I want you. Whatever you’re willing to give.”

“What I want and what I can do are two very different things, Your Grace.”

“August, dammit,” he whispered harshly. “When I’m with you, I am just August.”

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. “I can’t risk—”

“I don’t want excuses, Clara. I don’t want regrets either.” His fingers tightened on hers. “No regrets. No wondering what might have been. What happened between us had nothing to do with anything else. Not your ships, not my sister, nothing. Tell me you believe that.”

He heard her breath hitch. “Yes.”

“Good.” He turned her hands over and kissed the insides of her wrists. “Tell me you wanted what happened between us.”