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.
“We scandalized everyone the first time we did this ten years ago. Why stop now?” he replied, pulling her closer than was proper.
The quartet, which had hesitated, now started playing, and the first strains of music drifted through the air. August led her in the first steps of a dance that was so familiar, yet so breathtakingly new. She followed where he led, never breaking stride, never breaking eye contact. Their surroundings blurred and then faded altogether.
“I’m sorry, Clara,” he whispered as they floated across the floor. “It was never my intention to hurt you.”
“I know. I am sorry too,” she said.
“For what? You did nothing.”
“Exactly. I did nothing. I didn’t trust you; I didn’t ask you for help when I could have. I shut you out and tried to do everything by myself. And then, worse, standing in your library yesterday, I essentially demanded that you apologize for who you were. Something that I once accused you of doing to Anne, and for me to do it to you was unforgivable.”
“I forgive you.” He tightened his hand on hers. “You were in an impossible position.”
“Not impossible. Just hard.”
He was shaking his head. “It wasn’t fair—”
“Life isn’t fair,” she whispered, moving her hand from his shoulder to touch his cheek. “You know that better than anyone.” She paused as they turned, the music thrumming through her. “It’s made us who and what we are, and I don’t want anyone other than the man who stands before me now. I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”
“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
“Don’t ever change.”
His lips twitched. “There might be room for a little improvement. Here and there.”
Clara smiled. “I saw your gift to Anne,” she said softly.
She felt August nearly miss a step. He danced on in silence for long seconds before he spoke again. “I hated what she was exposed to in Marshalsea,” August mumbled. “The filth, the disease, the hopelessness. That’s a hard thing to come back from.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Brookside is not a hotel exactly, but I think Anne will do an incredible job. Especially…”
“Especially because she understands.”
“Yes. Did I do the right thing?” he asked in a voice so low she barely heard him.
Clara tried to find words but failed utterly.
She saw his jaw tighten. “You don’t think I—”
Clara pressed her fingers over his lips. “You’ve done a beautiful thing,” she whispered.
He gazed down at her, his hand coming up to wipe from her cheek a tear she hadn’t even been aware she’d shed. “Thank you,” he murmured. “But don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying. I’m just warming you up for Anne’s reaction,” she sniffled, her hand dropping to his chest.
August laughed, and she felt the vibrations through his chest where her hand rested. “I’ll consider myself warned.” He paused. “Rose told you about Brookside?”
“Yes.” Clara smiled. “Don’t look so surprised.”
“I didn’t think your sister held me in very high regard.”
“Then you think wrong. Besides, Rose insists she could never hate a man her sister is desperately in love with.”
August abruptly stopped dancing, and Clara stumbled into him.
“That was not very well done, Your Grace—”
She never finished what she was going to say, because his lips were on hers in the softest, most gentle kiss. She melted into him, not caring who was watching. Not caring if she scandalized the daughters of half the peerage or all of London. He pulled back, a peculiar expression on his face. “August,” she whispered. At some point the quartet had ceased playing, and there was only silence all around them.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out what looked like a delicate piece of ribbon tied in a small circle. He grasped her hand and looked down at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I should have done this ten years ago too,” he said.
“Done what?”
He touched her face. “Danced with you. Discovered what you think of Lapiths. Spied on you from behind stone fences. Learned a thing or two about purpose. Fallen in love with you.”
Clara tried to speak, but her throat had closed up.
August dropped to one knee and looked up at her. “You asked me once when enough is enough. You are my enough. You are my everything.” August drew her hand into his and slid the tiny ribbon over her ring finger. “I love you, Clara.”
She looked down at the ribbon and touched it with her other hand in confusion.
“This ribbon was tied around a deed to a parcel of land. This land has a small cottage in the back that someone told me is being used as an art studio, a pond that doesn’t seem to have any fish in it, some gardens that are rather pretty in summer, and a building that is currently being used as a school.” He tipped her chin up and found her eyes, the love that was coursing through her reflected in his own gaze. “I thought that it, more than pretty jewels or a flashy horse or a fine house, might make a good wedding present.”
Clara made an inarticulate noise and dropped to her knees in front of him. “Yes,” she whispered. “It would.”
“Is that an answer?” he asked.
“Was that a question?”
“Marry me. Or don’t. But promise me you’ll never dance with anyone besides me for the rest of your life.”
“I like the first option,” she whispered again. “And the third.”
He leaned forward and kissed her again, and this time she became aware of a smattering of sniffles and applause. August got to his feet and pulled her up with him. “I think we’ve properly scandalized your students.”
“I hope so.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “I love you, August,” she whispered.
“And I you.”
“This was a terrible waltz, by the way. All that crying and talking and stopping.”
“And kissing.”
“And kissing,” she agreed, joy and love making it hard to speak. She felt, more than saw, August signal the quartet, and within seconds music once again filled the air.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, pulling her tightly against him. “Because I plan on dancing many, many more waltzes with my wife.”