A Duke in the Night(8)

But he’d not seen or spoken to her since, and aside, perhaps, from his sister’s recent application to Haverhall, Clara was quite certain he hadn’t spared her a thought since that night either.

Clara, of course, hadn’t been so lucky. His unexpected title had made sure of that. The moment the Holloway dukedom had come to rest on his shoulders, August Faulkner had been relentlessly pursued across the pages of the gossip rags and newssheets by tales of his wealth, conjecture about his paramours, and speculation about every aspect of his life that the ton decided was relevant. His companionship was sought by popular peers and prospective duchesses alike, all of them hoping for just a taste of the affluence and power he had come to represent.

And now he was here, seeming inexplicably to be seeking her company.

Slowly Clara opened her eyes, the Lapith still struggling desperately in her vision. “I would suggest that excessive drinking tends to bring one’s true intentions and feelings to the forefront,” she said, relieved that she remembered his question and that her voice was steady. “One might suggest that the fight was inevitable.”

“Indeed. I believe I would agree with you.” Holloway took a step forward as he came to stand beside her, though Clara kept her eyes firmly on the sculpture. “Who do you think won this particular skirmish?” he asked.

She could feel his presence beside her as acutely as if he had just taken her in his arms again. Her skin prickled with goose bumps, and butterflies assailed her insides. She caught a trace of his scent as he moved, the richness of his shaving soap laced with a hint of leather making her feel as if she were back in that heated ballroom and not in a dusty museum.

Clara cleared her throat, trying to focus on the question at hand and not the man who had asked it. “I don’t know. One would assume the centaur has the advantage. Speed, size, strength. But his wits are compromised, and he has given in to base and reckless urges. And history teaches us sheer strength is rarely enough to defeat a cunning, civilized enemy.”

“So the Lapith, then. Or at least the superior version of the Lapith that the Athenians believed themselves to be.”

For a moment Clara wondered if she might be dreaming all of this. This…surreal conversation with a man she hadn’t spoken to in almost a decade, a man she was now, improbably, discussing Greek mythology with. She finally turned to stare at him, half expecting Holloway to shimmer like a mirage and then vanish in a puff of smoke.

He didn’t.

But perhaps it would have been better if he had. At twenty-one he’d been handsome. But the man he’d become since then was no less than devastating. His edges had become sharper, his bearing sleeker, his presence exuding a restless, potent energy that seemed to fill whatever spaces in the room his body did not.

He still had thick, dark hair, the color of coffee. It was cut fashionably short, and the slight curl in it reminded her of the styles that seemed so popular for the sculpted Greek art that surrounded them. In fact, there was a lot of him that reminded her of the exquisite marble statue of David she had once viewed outside the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence. Thick, arched brows framed eyes that were set above broad, defined cheekbones and a square jaw. Strong shoulders and a physique that belied power. A height that set him above others.

She forced herself to keep her expression pleasant. The practiced politesse that she relied upon to charm formidable peers was threatening to desert her. Along with most of her wits. Never in her life had she felt so woefully ill prepared.

Though never in her life had she been so thoroughly ambushed.

“You’re well versed in mythology, Your Grace,” Clara said, averting her eyes and falling back on transparent flattery because she had no idea what else to say.

“I know enough,” the duke replied. “Though I suspect that you know more.”

Clara snapped her gaze back to Holloway, wondering if he was mocking her, but he was standing square, his eyes focused on the sculpture and his hands clasped behind him.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Hayward. One that comes years too late, but one that I hope you’ll accept.”

If Holloway had suddenly turned into a unicorn, Clara wouldn’t have been more shocked. She managed to close her mouth, realizing belatedly that it had fallen open. “Whatever for?”

“I need to apologize for my actions the night that we danced,” he said gravely. “My initial intentions were deplorable, and we both know it. I am no longer that person, trying to prove myself to individuals whose opinions should never have mattered, and it is imperative that you know that. Had my sister been propositioned in such an infantile manner, I would have shot the blackguard.”

Clara blinked at him, trying to assimilate his words, cursing her usually capable mind for abandoning her under the force of his brilliant blue gaze. “Are you dying, Your Grace?”

It was his turn to look shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

She cursed herself again. That hadn’t been done well. “I’ve heard of individuals who feel the need to make amends to those they believed that they’ve wronged before—”

“I’m not dying,” Holloway said, looking nonplussed.

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Clara replied, trying to salvage this implausible conversation that hovered on the edge of grim and fully in the realm of awkward. “And I am further relieved that my own brother restrained himself from shooting anyone on my behalf that night. If I recall, you looked very dashing that evening, and a bullet hole would have ruined the whole effect. It certainly would have ruined your coat.” There, that sounded light. Almost teasing. Something to smooth the conversation.