A Duke in the Night(9)

“My coat.” It was flat, without a hint of humor.

“It was a jest, Your Grace.” In truth, he no longer seemed as if he laughed often. He no longer seemed like the impulsive man who had once held her in his arms. This August Faulkner was harder. More intense. A leashed, controlled version of the daring upstart who had made her smile.

Perhaps that was what a duchy did to a man.

“Of course.” Holloway’s face was expressionless now. “Regardless, you have my word that it will not happen again.”

“I accept your apology, though it is not required,” Clara said into the silence, feeling a sudden sense of loss with the realization that the daredevil who had lingered in her mind and her memories was gone, replaced by a man who would rather blindside her with an austere apology than ask her to waltz again. Although that did make it easier to breathe. And a little easier to think.

“Thank you.” He looked away from her, back at the metopes.

“I don’t regret it. Dancing with you, that is. You should know that I’m of the mind that regrets are things best reserved for circumstances beyond our control. Otherwise they become mere excuses.” She gazed at him and the unyielding lines of his profile. “You should also know that, in the unlikely event that you ever ask me to dance again on a dare, I will take you up on the offer.” Those words were out before she could reconsider.

The duke turned to look at her, and she felt the intensity of his piecing gaze crackle all the way through her, making her heart race and her insides twist. The butterflies that she had felt earlier became raptors trying to beat their way out of her chest.

His eyes were narrowed, his lashes shadowing the blue of them. Lashes that were wasted on a man, Clara thought disjointedly. Thick and black and framing eyes the color of twilight. But he was saved from being pretty by the severe, strong lines of his face and the hint of stubble along his jaw. The entire effect was as intoxicating as it was compelling, and it made her want to run her fingers—

Dear God, she needed to pull herself together. Yes, he was a man in possession of sinfully superb looks. And yes, she was a woman in possession of a pulse. But this was ridiculous.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Hayward.”

Clara forced herself to remain utterly impassive, nodding as if she had just made a blithe comment on the weather and not one that was the height of idiocy.

“Are you here with your brother, Miss Hayward?” Holloway asked, glancing about the room, which was empty save for the sightless figures staring out from their posts and pedestals. “Or are you alone?”

It was as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head, and Clara felt instantly wary. What sort of question was that? Was Holloway actually questioning the respectability of her presence here? Was he really questioning her propriety and decorum?

And suddenly, with an awful bolt of clarity, she understood. The duke’s presence here had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his sister. As of tomorrow, Anne Faulkner would be part of what would be Haverhall’s last summer term, and Clara was quite sure that this had spurred his sudden visit and apology. His ambush was nothing but a test. One did not, after all, entrust one’s sister to the tutelage of a woman who might just be holding a grudge coupled with Boudiccan tendencies.

Her dawning comprehension left her feeling both mortified and deflated. For a moment she had actually deluded herself into believing that the duke had sought her out after all this time for something far different. “My brother is not here, though my sister is just around the corner where I left her, sketching some of the Townley sculptures. We were escorted here by a friend. Even if I were not an ancient spinster, I can assure you that this is all very proper,” she felt compelled to add, knowing that it almost sounded resentful.

He frowned. “I wasn’t implying otherwise. And you’re not ancient.”

Clara almost snorted. “That’s kind of you to say.”

His frown deepened. “If you’re ancient, what does that make me?”

“Desirable, if it were a woman asking. Distinguished if it were a man.”

“That’s not…” The duke trailed off, unclasping his hands.

“That’s not your fault.” Clara completed his sentence for him, her irritation rising, but giving him a practiced, polite smile to conceal it. “That is just how it is.”

He moved then, without warning, coming to stand directly in front of her, close enough that she was now enveloped in his heat and the spicy tang of his shaving soap. In the next breath, he had caught her hand, and Clara knew what he intended long before his lips brushed the backs of her knuckles.

The gesture instantly sent electricity arcing through her veins. It was no wonder women reportedly fought over the privilege of his company, Clara thought. His current gaze and the expression that accompanied it would probably be enough to convince any woman that he had spent eons worshipping her from afar and even more time contemplating how he might worship her up close.

But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t anything like the look August Faulkner had given her ten years ago. The breathless smile he had bestowed on her then had been genuine, and had dominated her daydreams for a decade. This contrived facsimile, which he no doubt believed partnered well with his apology, was a poor substitute. Gently Clara tried to extract her hand, but he only tightened his fingers.