A Duke in the Night(7)

August bristled at that and then wondered why he should, especially since Duncan wasn’t wrong. “Maybe Miss Hayward has been wise enough to see through those who would court her only for her pecuniary assets. Maybe she has no interest in marriage at all.” It came out far more vehemently than he would have liked.

“Then those are things you and Miss Hayward have in common, Your Grace,” Duncan suggested with a suspicious amount of nonchalance. “Perhaps it will give you something to discuss if you find yourself reacquainted in your pursuit of the good doctor.”

August’s heart suddenly tripped erratically, making him feel as if he were twenty-one again and standing smitten on a ballroom dance floor. He frowned, and the feeling passed.

“Have development plans for Haverhall drawn up, Mr. Down,” August said, deliberately changing the subject. “Discreetly, of course. Look outside London for services. Wilds and Busby in Brighton, perhaps—we’ve used them before and they’ve proven themselves trustworthy. If and when my ownership of Haverhall is revealed to the Haywards, or anyone else for that matter, it will be on my terms and not through the gossip mill.”

“Understood, Your Grace.” Duncan looked up at August, sliding his spectacles back over the bridge of his nose and making it difficult to see his eyes behind the reflection of the lenses. “The museum is open for another hour yet. Shall I ask to have your carriage brought round?”

“Yes,” August said, reaching for his coat. “Please do.”





Chapter 2



Clara Hayward considered the scene before her.

Each line of the sculpture was saturated in unleashed violence. It captured the desperate movement, the raw fury, and the heated anger to exquisite perfection. The centaur’s hand was wrapped around the Lapith’s throat, intent clear in his carved expression, while the Lapith wrenched a leg up to stave off the assault. Muscles strained as both beings remained locked in an eternal battle, each creature fighting for its life.

Not unlike what Clara was feeling just now.

Well, perhaps that was a little melodramatic. No one was going to die, but life as she knew it was on the brink of changing forever, leaving her feeling empty and a little nauseous at the same time. The papers that she had signed marked the beginning of the end of her tenure at Haverhall, and no matter how hard she tried, Clara was having a difficult time coming to terms with the knowledge that she had sold the legacy that had been left to her.

It had been mercifully quick, the sale, and for that she supposed she should be grateful. It could have dragged on painfully, with her having to endure a host of critical assessments from potential buyers. Quite the opposite, in fact. A faceless company that had previously expressed interest in the property had been contacted—and had immediately and unconditionally agreed to the price and the terms of the sale. Within a day it had been done.

Clara knew that she should be more interested in who had bought it—the faces behind the faceless company—but she couldn’t bring herself to pursue it. Because it didn’t matter, really, who had bought it. It changed nothing, and dwelling on something that was done and couldn’t be undone would bring her only sorrow and despair.

She needed to look forward, not back.

Harland had told her that it would all be temporary. Once they managed to right their finances and the shipping company became profitable again, they could look for a new venue for a school. It was a short-term sacrifice, he had said, and Clara knew that, in theory, he was right. But she also knew that so much could go wrong.

One needed to look no further than the debt her parents had left behind when they had died two years ago. It had come as a shock to Clara and her siblings, catching them all oblivious. There had been a certain amount of humiliation in that, given each one’s supposed intelligence. But Clara had been absorbed with her school, Harland with his medical practice, Rose with her art studio, and none of them had been aware of the bleak and disastrous reality that their parents had managed to hide.

And now they were scrambling to recover. Each doing whatever they could, in their own way. She could only hope that it would be enough.

Clara closed her eyes against the heaviness that had settled in her chest and the tightness that had gathered at her throat, grateful that the museum was almost empty at this late hour and no one was witness to her selfish melancholy. She had to believe things would work out. More important, she still had her summer students, those young women who were far more than just—

“Do you suppose it really was the wine, Miss Hayward?” came a low voice behind her. “Or do you think the centaurs and the Lapiths were just looking for an excuse to start a war?”

Clara felt the breath leave her lungs, and her heart seemed to miss a beat before resuming at twice its proper pace. She knew that voice. Even after all this time, she had never forgotten it.

Just as she had never forgotten the way August Faulkner had made her feel the night he had asked her to dance. He might have done so on a dare, and she might have accepted out of sheer spite and an unwillingness to let his arrogance get the better of her. And it might have been more of a contest than a dance, neither one willing to yield an inch, but at the end of it all, she had found a reckless joy in it. And when he had returned her smile, there was a brief moment when she had believed he had actually seen her and not the label society had applied. And liked what he saw.