A Duke in the Night(82)
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why are you still alone?” he demanded.
“Because being alone gives me my freedom. My independence.”
He took two steps closer to her. “Independence and freedom don’t mean you have to do everything by yourself. They don’t mean you have to do everything alone. True freedom and independence allow you to recognize when you need help. And give you the ability to ask for it. Know when to ask for help, Clara.”
She looked away. “You’re speaking of your father.”
“No. I’m speaking of you. You think I am the only man in the world who sees you and admires you for who you really are? You think I am the only man who would never take away that freedom and independence you speak of should he find himself lucky enough to have you? You, Clara Hayward, have become very good at using all the rules of society, the very rules you profess to despise, to keep yourself apart. And I can’t figure out why.”
She was staring at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “You can’t figure out why?” she said in a strangled voice. “Why don’t we start with your friends? The ones who dared you to dance with me. What did they call me that night?”
“They were never my friends, and you know it,” August snapped. “They were the companions of a man who didn’t know enough to call himself such. Who erroneously thought that he could regain what status his family had lost in society by gaining their approval.”
“You never answered my question.”
“Because their words don’t bear repeating.”
“How about if I do it for you? Unnatural. Bluestocking. Queer. Wallflower.” She stopped. “How am I doing so far? Because even if those weren’t the adjectives your friends used that night, I’d heard them all before. Many times.”
“Clara—”
“How about Mathias Stilton, then?” she said, her voice ragged. “A man I had actually believed to be a friend, someone who had not weighed the value of my dowry against my intellect. But he too reminded me that no one wanted me then, and no one wants me now.”
“I want you,” he snarled.
“But not forever,” she replied sadly.
August could feel his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms. He’d never considered forever. But now that the word was out there, shimmering just beyond him, it was enough to make him reel.
“I’m tired of it all, August,” she said, and her voice was barely a whisper. “Maybe I grew tired of it long ago, if truth be told. It is far easier just to keep myself apart. Where there are no motivations to evaluate, no disappointments to endure. I have the freedom to seek my own happiness without depending on anyone else. Experience has taught me I am better served expecting the worst.”
“That doesn’t sound like the woman who once spoke of changing the world.”
Clara smiled sadly. “I didn’t say I would ever stop hoping for the best.”
August reached out and smoothed her hair back from her face. “Don’t ever stop. You deserve to be happy, Clara.”
“I am happy,” she said. “With you.”
*
August made a muffled noise, and then he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him, crushing his mouth to hers. Clara melted into him instantly, wanting to lose herself in him. Wanting to lose herself in everything that was this man. She let him kiss her, let him set the pace, let him wipe her mind clean of everything that was not August Faulkner.
He swept his tongue across the seam of her lips, and she opened willingly, letting him plunder what had always been his. This kiss, more than any of their kisses, tasted bittersweet. Tasted of what-ifs and lost opportunities and desire realized too late. Standing in a ruined lighthouse, the sky blazing above their heads, it tasted of goodbye.
“Tell me what I am to you, Clara,” August whispered against her mouth.
Everything, she wanted to cry. Everything that she had always dreamed of from the very first second he had taken her hand in a reckless waltz. And maybe that was why she had never entertained another man seriously. Maybe, somewhere deep down, she had given her heart away on a dance floor long ago.
But she didn’t think, for one second, that she was his everything. She knew better than that. There had been no professions of love, no declarations of undying devotion. She had his respect and his admiration, to be sure, but not his heart.
She closed her eyes. “A friend. A lover.” He had never pretended to be anything more.
“Yes. Always.” August traced the outline of her lips with his thumb. “And that is not good enough to let me in?”
Clara opened her eyes. Not for this. Not if there was ever a hope of their remaining friends or, even more unlikely, lovers when they returned to London. Not if she was to keep her promise to Harland and keep the Duke of Holloway out of the Strathmore family’s affairs.
“I want us to stay friends,” she said. “So please don’t ask me again.”
August’s hand fell to his side, and for the briefest of moments, he looked utterly bereft. “I need to tell you…” He stopped again, anguished frustration stamped all over his face. “I can’t…” The words died on his lips.
Clara went up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. “Tomorrow I return to London with my students. And I understand that everything will change. But know this, August Faulkner. No matter what happens tomorrow, or a year from now, or another decade from now, I will always treasure the friendship that exists between us. I will always treasure what we were to each other here.” Her throat had thickened, and it was all she could do to keep her voice steady. “And if you are ever dared to dance with me again, I promise I will always say yes.”