Given the way August had thrown himself into the evaluation of the Avondale estate, one would surmise that he owned it. Or that he was planning to.
Never had he immersed himself more deeply in assessments of soil quality and appraisals of forage crops. Estimations of lambing schedules and projections of breeding seasons. And of course, the potential costs and revenues from all of it put together. But no matter how hard he tried, nothing could make him forget the mess he had created at the Silver Swan. Never in his life had he handled anything as badly as he had handled his inquiries into Strathmore Shipping. And that knowledge had put him in a dark, dangerous mood this morning.
This was why August never mixed business with pleasure. Not that he’d ever really had the opportunity to do so in the past, but he should have been more careful. Instead he’d let his libido trump his intelligence and had blundered into another conversation that, in hindsight, he had been ill prepared for. Again.
The Haywards were nothing like the other entitled lords and ladies August endured and courted in London, something he’d known but had failed to truly comprehend until it was too late. He’d underestimated both the baron and Clara like a rank amateur. And now he found himself in a tangled mess of desire and ambition with no idea how to extract himself.
Did you think that if you could get me into your bed, I would put a favorable word in my brother’s ear?
August flinched as Clara’s words ran through his head again.
Those words had sat uncomfortably on his mind all night and all morning, adding to the foulness of his mood. Those words made him want to seek her out and apologize. Explain yet again that his interest in Strathmore Shipping had nothing to do with his interest in her. The urge was as unnerving as it was insupportable, because August Faulkner did not need to explain anything to anyone. He did what he needed to do to keep his family safe and financially secure without apology. He would never apologize for that.
But for whatever reason, the usual rules did not seem to apply when it came to Clara Hayward. And all of it was made even more complicated by the fact that the deed to Haverhall sat on his desk. She was slipping through his fingers again. And he had no idea what to do without risking the complete destruction of a relationship that was already in tatters. Which made his mood even darker.
The sound of a carriage rattling up the drive distracted him from his thoughts. He straightened where he had been leaning, near the gate of the west sheep enclosure, and idly followed the equipage with his eyes as it stopped in front of Avondale. His own ride home with Clara had been taut with silence, neither finding any words that—
August’s hand slipped from the gate as the occupant of the carriage emerged, dressed like a bloody popinjay in an orange coat of a hue most definitely not found in nature. The bright-yellow embroidery splashed all over the front was visible from where August stood. He felt his jaw slacken even as the rest of his body went rigid.
“Goddammit,” August cursed sharply under his breath. What the hell was Mathias Stilton doing here? At Avondale? Now?
August started stalking toward the manor. Dover was a long way from London, and there was no way in hell that this was a casual social call, no matter how Mathias Stilton might try to frame it. The man was here for a reason. August of all people knew that. He just wasn’t sure what that reason might be.
Though he had a pretty good idea.
August ground his teeth. No matter what had happened between them last night, Clara Hayward was his.
* * *
“A gentleman to see you, Miss Hayward.”
Clara’s head snapped up from where it had been bent over the pages of her book. The butler was standing patiently just inside the door of the library, his face expressionless. Clara snapped her book shut irritably, hating the unwanted spurt of expectation that had shot through her at the announcement. Whoever was here to see her, it wasn’t August. Which suited her just fine. He had shown his true colors last night, proving himself as manipulative and ruthless as Harland had said. In the cold light of day, she reasoned that it was just as well her eyes had been opened when they had, before she had managed to do something monumentally stupid. Like become completely smitten.
“Who is it?” Harland asked from where he stood, at one of the long tables. Clara had been pleasantly surprised when she had found her brother in the library, though Harland had thus far proven a poor conversationalist, his attention focused on a pile of what looked like old maps of the county coast.
“A Mr. Mathias Stilton,” the butler replied.
Harland’s brows shot up as he looked at Clara in question.
“Tabby mentioned he had stopped by earlier,” Clara told him with a small frown. “I had forgotten.”
“Long way from the British Museum,” he murmured.
“He told Tabby he was visiting friends.”
The butler cleared his throat. “Shall I tell the gentleman you are receiving, Miss Hayward?”
“Of course. Show him to the library.” She wasn’t expected to meet with her students in Dover for another two hours. Entertaining Mathias Stilton was the last thing she felt like doing, but whatever he had to say surely wouldn’t take long.
The butler disappeared and Clara set her book aside, pushing herself to her feet.
“You have yet to mention the Silver Swan,” Harland remarked casually.
Clara stared out the long library window, her fingers clenching in the folds of her skirts. She forced them to relax. “I think we made ourselves abundantly clear to His Grace that we had no interest in selling Strathmore Shipping. I can’t see it being a problem any further.” Because for the rest of Holloway’s stay, Clara had every intention of avoiding him completely.
“Mmm. I agree. I was, however, referring to the fact that the man owns the bloody inn and tavern. The very place where his sister—your student—is even now toiling away under the watchful eye of Monsieur Charleaux.”
Right. That.
“Lady Anne is aware that it is her brother who owns it?”
“I believe so.”
“Then perhaps she should have mentioned it to you at the very beginning?”
Clara frowned. “Perhaps.”
“It might be best to tell Charleaux who his student really is,” Harland prodded. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Yes.” As per custom, Anne had been introduced only as Miss Anne in the tavern. Not Miss Faulkner, not Lady Anne, and most certainly not Lady Anne Faulkner, sister to the Duke of Holloway.
Clara sighed, knowing that she just might be forced to find another placement for Anne. Given the duke’s stifling aspirations for his sister, Clara couldn’t imagine that he would condone Anne’s industrious efforts in any sort of tavern. And Charleaux, as progressive as he might be, would undoubtedly fear for his job should the duke discover that the man had left the haggling for the week’s beef and ale in his sister’s hands. Though finding another mentor willing to take on a female student would be difficult at best.
Which was probably why Anne had never mentioned it in the first place.
Her irritation, which had been simmering, boiled over, and she bit back the urge to curse like a damn sailor. Not that it would do any good, but it might make her feel better. The duke needed to leave. Before he caused any more headaches and heartaches with his callous manipulation of everyone around him.
“You’ll need to come with me, I expect,” Clara muttered in the direction of Harland. “And bring your medical bag. Charleaux will have an apoplexy when I tell him who she is. He knows just as well as I that no matter how much money Anne saved the duke and his tavern yesterday by taking the collier to task over the price of coal delivery, Holloway will likely be horrified, not happy—”
“Miss Hayward.” She spun away from the window to find Mathias Stilton striding into the room, a broad smile on his face.
Clara pasted a smile on hers. “Mr. Stilton. Welcome to Avondale.”
“I’m so glad I caught you at home. You are a difficult woman to track down with all your little hobbies,” Stilton said, coming to a stop just in front of her. “But I must say that you look absolutely dazzling. The sea air becomes you.”
Perhaps it was her current mood, but Stilton’s slightly patronizing tone made her want to throw something. Or reach for the whiskey bottle. Or maybe both, just not in that order. “Thank you,” she said, trying to regain a hold on her decorum. It was not Mathias Stilton’s fault that she had been wildly out of sorts since last night.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stilton,” Harland said, making no effort to move out from behind the library table and his pile of maps.
“Lord Strathmore.” Stilton pivoted in surprise. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Mmm,” Harland replied, his eyes sliding to the doorway. “Ah. And good afternoon, Your Grace.”
Clara felt herself freeze, her eyes snapping to the library door. The duke was leaning against the frame, his dark hair windblown, his dark coat dusty, and his expression positively black.
August’s gaze was fixed firmly on Clara. “Lord Strathmore. Miss Hayward.” His lip curled unpleasantly. “Mr. Stilton.”
Clara averted her eyes, despising the way her stomach flipped. She glanced at Stilton to find that his smile had vanished, displeasure now etched across his face. If Stilton had had hackles beneath the confection he called a coat, they would have been raised, and his teeth would have been bared. Even a half-wit would have felt the tension that had inundated the room.
Resentment rose, competing fiercely with her irritation. Bloody hell, but she’d had it with men. Without considering what she was doing, she headed toward the hearth and the small table that rested beside it. She snatched a glass from the polished surface and poured herself a healthy measure of whiskey from the decanter.
“And here I was going to offer tea,” her brother murmured loudly enough for her to hear.
Clara shot Harland a withering look. He sounded as if he was enjoying this.
She put the bottle back without throwing it at anyone, which was something. “Mr. Stilton, I confess it is a bit of a surprise seeing you so far afield of London.” She tried to keep her voice pleasant and conversational while ignoring August, who was still looming menacingly in the doorway like a great, brooding crow.
“Visiting friends and seeing the sights,” Stilton replied, smiling at her again. “You’ve spoken so often of the county’s beauty on our many, many outings, and I just had to see it for myself.” His eyes slid in the direction of Holloway’s and then back.
Clara raised her glass to her lips so she didn’t have to reply to a comment that had clearly been uttered for the duke’s benefit. Her patience was rapidly deteriorating.
“How are you faring with your classes, Miss Hayward?” Stilton inquired.
“Very well, thank you,” she answered politely.
“Your students must be enjoying the beauty of Kent.”
It was like a death by a thousand cuts, this small talk. Usually she was a master at polite conversation. Today she just wanted nothing to do with it. “They are,” she replied.
Stilton smoothed his hands over the front of his coat. “Forgive my forwardness, but I was wondering if I might have the privilege of calling on you sometime later this week, Miss Hayward?” Stilton asked gallantly. “I would be honored if you would accompany me for a scenic drive.” He turned back to Harland. “If that meets with your approval, of course, Lord Strathmore.”
From the corner of her eye, Clara saw August step farther into the room.
Harland shifted. “My sister has a very capable mind of her own,” he said. “She doesn’t need my approval to make her own decisions about how she chooses to spend her time.”
The duke went rigid, setting Clara in mind of a bull about to charge. She suddenly understood how Anne must feel regularly.
“Miss Hayward?” Stilton prompted silkily.
No, she didn’t really want to go driving with Mathias Stilton. Or the Duke of Holloway. Or anyone else for that matter, no matter how gallantly he asked.
“That is a very kind offer, Mr. Stilton, but I fear that I will be very busy with classes—”
Stilton pressed his hands together. “But surely, Miss Hayward, you’ll have a moment of free time? I would love you to show me—”
“She said she’s busy.” August’s words fell like an anvil.
Clara glared at him, her irritation spiking into something that was closer to fury. How dare August presume to insert himself into this conversation? He had no claim on her, her time, or whom she went driving with.
“Of course,” Stilton said flatly. “My apologies, Miss Hayward, I did not intend to—”
“On second thought, I’m sure I could find time, Mr. Stilton,” Clara said impulsively. Bloody insufferable duke. “Perhaps at the end of the week if that would suit. Sunday is a day off for both the students and me.”
August crossed his arms over his considerable chest and glowered at her. She ignored him.
“Oh, indeed. That would be superb. I’m looking forward to it.” Stilton shot August a smug, triumphant look that almost made her change her mind again. “I shan’t take up any more of your time.” Stilton offered a small bow in Clara’s general direction. “I’ll send a message on to Avondale, then, Miss Hayward, to find a time convenient for you?”
“Of course.”
“Good afternoon, then. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Good afternoon.” Clara was the only one who answered, and Stilton sauntered from the library, though he gave August a wide berth.
“You should not feel obligated to entertain Stilton just because he is here, Clara,” Harland said, bending to peer more closely at a map. “Or just because he asked.”
“I know that,” Clara answered in clipped tones.
“The man is a hopeless fop.”
“Perhaps, Harland, but that doesn’t make him unworthy of friendship,” she said.
August made a rude noise.
“You disagree, Your Grace?” Harland’s question was almost mocking, and Clara sent another quelling look his way that was wasted on the top of his head. Her brother did not need to encourage the duke’s bloody barbaric behavior.
“It doesn’t matter if you disagree. Your opinions are not required in this matter, Your Grace,” Clara bit out. “Surely there is a sheep pasture that needs another inspection at this time?”
“The man is clearly infatuated with your sister, Strathmore,” August said to Harland, completely ignoring Clara. “Does that not concern you?” He made his way past her and retrieved the whiskey, then poured himself his own drink.
“Jealousy does not become you, Your Grace.” And bitterness did not become her, but Clara couldn’t help herself.
August turned an intense blue gaze on her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m simply concerned for your well-being.”
“If you weren’t aware, I’ve been looking after myself for quite some time now, and I don’t need your assistance.”
The duke set the decanter back on the table with an angry thump.
“He may be a fop, but he’s treated both my sisters with nothing but respect, Your Grace.” Harland straightened from his map.
August made a face. “But—”
“Are you infatuated with Mathias Stilton, Clara?” Her brother asked, interrupting August.
“Of course not.”
“Planning to elope this weekend with the man?”
“Don’t be asinine.”
“Start a very lewd, very public affair with him in the next few days that I should know about?”
“You’re not funny, Harland. Mr. Stilton is a friend. One whose honesty I value.” Clara knew she sounded like a shrew, but she didn’t care.
Harland shrugged. “Then there you have it, Your Grace. My sister has proven quite capable of managing her opinions, herself, and, in this case, Mr. Stilton. It is not my place to dictate whose company she can and cannot enjoy.”
August’s hand was wrapped around his glass so hard that Clara could see his knuckles were white. “So you’re content to let the man take your sister on a drive. Alone.”
“His sister is standing right here,” Clara snapped. “And his sister drove all over Kent with you alone yesterday, didn’t she?”
“That’s not the same,” August gritted.
No, it certainly wasn’t. Mathias Stilton had never had her up against a stone fence, his hands in her hair and on her skin. Stilton had never kissed her senseless or made her whimper with want. Though those things were never going to be repeated. Clara had misjudged Holloway completely. She’d almost made the biggest mistake of her life because she had allowed a decade of romantic daydreams to obscure harsh reality.
“But it is the same.” Harland put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Don’t mistake me, Your Grace. If I thought a man was a danger to either of my sisters, I would cut off his balls and nail them to his front door. As a battlefield surgeon, I’m handy with a knife like that, you see.”
Clara pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. For the love of—
“Good.” August held Harland’s gaze.
Clara closed her eyes and tossed back the last of her whiskey, letting the liquor burn a trail of fire down her throat. She opened them to find Holloway standing directly in front of her, his eyes like blue fire in the light from the window.
“You and I need to have a conversation very soon,” he said in a voice low enough that only she could hear. “Alone.”
Clara pressed her lips together. “No, we don’t. I’ve said everything I need to say.” It was a harsh whisper.
“And I haven’t.” His eyes dropped to her lips, and need arrowed through her. Dammit, how, after everything, did he still do this to her?
“I don’t—”
“Soon, Clara.” August glanced over his shoulder to where her brother had returned his attention to his maps. “But in the meantime, there are some sheep pastures that need another inspection.”