A Duke in the Night(88)

“Good God, but you two deserve each other,” Rose scoffed quietly. She sobered. “Just don’t…turn away from him. Don’t retreat. Your duke is not like the others.”

“No. He’s not.” But she’d already turned away. She’d already retreated.

She wondered if it was already too late.





Chapter 22



It was just as well that Clara Hayward had never truly been in love before. Now that she had admitted it freely, now that it had been flushed from the dark, secret corners of her mind, it seemed to gain power with every minute that ticked by. It made logic difficult, and it made her emotions swing wildly between giddiness and terror. It had stolen her appetite and her ability to concentrate on a task for any amount of time.

She hadn’t gotten much sleep that night, her sister’s words and everything she had learned that day rolling through her mind incessantly. When dawn had crept around the edges of her curtains, she hadn’t been any closer to knowing what she would say to August Faulkner. But she did know that she would say something. She would not turn away from this. She would take this leap of faith, and whether or not he would be there to catch her remained to be seen.

But she would not harbor any regrets. There would be no excuses. And if the worst happened, if he turned from her, then she would at least have her answer. She would not spend another decade wondering what might have happened.

“Step and turn!”

The shout and stomp jarred her out of her musings, and she hastily returned her attention to her surroundings. She was in the middle of one of the dance classes that she always offered in the fall term at Haverhall. She had twenty young ladies with a collection of titles that read like a chapter in Debrett’s, a London dance master, and a string quartet awaiting its cue, all arranged in Haverhall’s small ballroom. The dance master was demonstrating the movements of a French waltz in the center of the room, counting loudly in time with his steps.

Clara turned her attention from the man and surreptitiously studied the girls. Some were watching the dance instructor, their lips moving in time with his count, their bodies swaying involuntarily as they followed his steps. Others were examining their fellow students with varying degrees of superciliousness, distrust, and judgment. Those were the ones whispering behind their hands the same way they would whisper behind their fans. Clara almost rolled her eyes.

Her gaze fell on the young lady standing slightly apart from the group. She was perhaps sixteen, with jet-black hair and pale-blue eyes. She was watching the entire scene with a look of bemused interest, as though she had discovered that she had the finest seat in a theater. Every once in a while she would produce a small notebook and the stub of a pencil from somewhere in the fabric of her voluminous skirts and jot something down. She caught Clara watching her and blushed, jamming her notebook back into the folds of her skirts and feigning interest in whatever the dance master was droning on about.

Clara smiled. She would be having a conversation with this young lady after class. Any young lady who had seemingly sewn pockets into her gown to conceal writing paraphernalia might just prove to be an excellent candidate for her summer school—

“Miss Hayward?”

The dance master was looking at her expectantly.

“I beg your pardon?” Clara said. There were a few giggles.

“I was wondering if you might care to demonstrate what a proper French waltz looks like to your students before they practice.”

“Of course.” She gave herself a mental shake and stepped forward.

The dance master took her hand in his cool one, and she stifled a sigh. Every waltz, for the rest of her life, would be a disappointment. The dance master held up his hand for the quartet, and there was a general shuffling as it prepared to play. He glanced back in its direction and dropped his hand for it to start.

Except it never did.

Instead there was a more pronounced shuffling, some frantic whispering, and then a flurry of giggles.

“Pardon my intrusion, but I believe that this dance belongs to me.” The voice came from just behind her, and Clara froze.

The dance master’s eyes widened slightly before they narrowed. “Excuse me, sir, but in case it had escaped your notice, you are interrupting a class. My class.”

“My class,” Clara corrected him abruptly. She pulled her hand free from the instructor’s and turned very slowly to find August standing behind her, his hands clasped behind his back, his intense blue eyes fixed firmly on hers. His hair was a little windblown, as if he had just come in from a hard ride, and his clothing was simple and unadorned.

“Miss Hayward, if I may have the honor?” He straightened and held out a hand. “And keep in mind that I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Her eyes flickered over his shoulder to where twenty young women were staring openly. Except one who was scribbling something frantically. She smiled.

“You may, Your Grace.”

The dance master blanched and backed up, nearly tripping over his own feet. They both ignored him. Clara placed her hand in August’s, and the warmth of his touch instantly sent heat skating across her skin and down her spine. She placed another hand on his shoulder, and he slid his over her waist to rest at the small of her back.

“You’re going to scandalize my students,” she murmured. She could feel her pulse pounding through her veins.