The travel was always the most odious part.
The two-day journey had been long but uneventful, which was always a relief. No surprises on the road meant that they had arrived in good time and that the students had finally been able to settle themselves into the warm comfort of Avondale last night. Clara knew very well that some had slept fitfully, anticipating the first full day of summer term. For many of these girls, it was the first time that they had been on their own, unaccompanied by family or hordes of familiar servants. It was their first taste of freedom.
Clara smiled to herself and tugged her shawl tighter about her against the breeze, tipping her face up to the sun and letting the tranquility of Avondale settle into her bones. Almost all the girls had returned, having spent their first day discovering that the Haverhall School for Young Ladies was not all that it might seem. And the excitement and the wonder that was invariably stamped across the students’ faces did not disappoint.
A pang of regret and loss came hard on the heels of that thought, and Clara pushed it ruthlessly aside. She might have lost Haverhall, but it did not mean that she needed to lose this as well. Without the school behind her, organizing and managing terms like this would be a little more difficult, but not impossible. But she’d worry about that later. For now she would enjoy every minute.
For now she would enjoy the faint tang of the sea carried on the warm breeze. Enjoy the feel of the sun on her back as it descended in the west, setting each pane of glass on the face of Avondale ablaze. There was a peace and sense of belonging here that she had never found in the malodorous, hectic stew that was London. Perhaps it was the sea that promised adventure and inspired imagination. Perhaps it was the history contained in this place—centuries of lives lived and stories to discover. Perhaps it was the wildness of the cliffs or the grandeur of the sky that opened up around them. Whatever it was, it was one of Clara’s favorite places in the world, and it filled her soul as no other place could.
“Good evening, Miss Hayward.”
Clara jerked, disbelief making it hard to think. The voice had come from behind her, and if she didn’t know better, she might say it sounded suspiciously like the Duke of Holloway’s. Which, of course, was impossible. Because she was in Dover set to embark on a wonderful summer term, while August Faulkner was safely in London seeing to whatever needs he or his gleaming duchy might require. He was certainly not standing in the wide, circular walk that led to the rear gardens of Avondale House.
Ambushing her. Again.
“Miss Hayward?” The address came again.
With reluctance, Clara turned to discover that the Duke of Holloway was, regrettably, not a figment of her imagination, and he was, indeed, standing in the walk. The sun hovered low in the west, gilding him in a strange golden light, and Clara took a step sideways so she wasn’t squinting against the angled rays.
He was dressed casually in a riding coat and breeches that had seen better days. His boots were dusty, his hair windblown, and the lack of polish made him somehow even more attractive than he had been the day he had ambushed her in the museum. Her breath hitched, and butterflies rose again to riot against her ribs, and Clara nearly cringed at the sheer idiocy of her physical reaction to him.
A reaction that was, thankfully, somewhat tempered by the trepidation that was starting to clamor at his sudden appearance.
“Your Grace,” she said, aiming for the pleasant, conciliatory tone that she used for handling difficult parents who initially balked at the idea of sending their daughters into the wilds of Kent. “This is a…surprise.”
“I can imagine.”
Clara felt her smile threaten to falter.
“Did you honestly expect me to stay in London, Miss Hayward?”
Um, yes? Clara tried to make sense of his cryptic comment but got nowhere. “Is there something I might assist you with, Your Grace?”
“I had hoped to have a conversation with my sister.” The duke’s eyes flickered past her as though he expected his sister to pop up from behind Clara’s skirts. “I think I’m owed that at the very least, don’t you?”
“Lady Anne is not available at the moment,” she said smoothly. Lady Anne was, in fact, on her way back from a tavern and inn in Dover. Though her brother didn’t need to know that.
“Not available,” he repeated in a low voice. “Yes, she certainly seems to be good at that.”
Well, then. Clara’s mind was racing, and the conclusions that it was reaching were not good, though at least they were smothering the damn butterflies one by one. “Is there something amiss, Your Grace?” she tried.
“Amiss?” Holloway looked at her askance.
“A death in the family? An impending wedding?”
He stared at her. “You lump death and weddings in the same category, Miss Hayward?”
“Depends on the participants in each, I would imagine, Your Grace.”
His brow creased, and he continued to stare, unsmiling.
Clara resisted the urge to squirm. She had a sinking feeling that Lady Anne had chosen to ask forgiveness rather than permission when she had committed to this venture. It explained Holloway’s presence here, and it explained why he hadn’t brought the subject up during their conversation in the museum. Clara had made the monumental mistake of simply assuming that the payments on Anne’s behalf had been made at the duke’s direction, for very few women had access to the substantial fees that Haverhall demanded.
She would need to speak with Anne later. She didn’t blame her, admired her resourcefulness even, but a warning would have been appreciated.
“My sister, Miss Hayward. Please fetch her.” Holloway was making a visible effort at patience.
“As I said, Your Grace, she is unavailable. If you wish, you may come back on the morrow, and I will ensure that Lady Anne has time in her schedule to meet with you. It’s the best I can do at the moment.”
“The best you can do?” He took a step closer, his eyes not leaving hers. Clara was quite certain many people had quailed under that intense, probing gaze. People who saw only a powerful, ambitious duke and not a boy who had once been dared to dance. “Then perhaps, Miss Hayward, you can give me the answer I came for.”
She lifted her chin and met his gaze coolly, without flinching. “And is there a question?”
His lips thinned. “I’d like to know what it is that you think you can give to my sister that an army of expensive governesses and tutors could not. I could not answer that question. My man of business could not answer that question, nor could he explain how my sister had managed to forge my signature on no fewer than two bank drafts directed to you that he failed to notice. So here I find myself forced to ask the very woman with whom my sister hatched her diabolical, secretive plot that brought her to Dover without my knowledge.”
Clara felt her brows shoot to her hairline. “You think…” She stopped. “Ah.” She supposed it wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion to jump to.
“That is not an answer, Miss Hayward.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t.” Clara looked up at the sky, trying to frame in her head the answer he sought before she spoke.
“Is she well?”
That snapped her attention back to the duke, the note of genuine worry in his voice making something inside her melt. For Holloway’s all-powerful, devil-may-care reputation, it was obvious that the duke cared very much when it came to his sister. “Lady Anne is very well, Your Grace,” she answered. “She is also intelligent and capable and, as it turns out, quite ingenious.”
“She is.” There was a note of pride now, and Clara felt another part of her melt.
“You should know that I was unaware that you were unaware,” Clara said steadily. “Of Lady Anne’s intentions, that is. Bank drafts weren’t the only documents she signed on your behalf. It would seem that she deceived us both.”
Holloway raked a hand through his hair and muttered something under his breath. “Then it appears that I owe you another apology, Miss Hayward.”
Clara shook her head, thinking that the duke suddenly sounded weary beyond measure. “Had I known, I would have encouraged her to share her plans with you.”
“Encouraged? Not insisted?”
Clara gazed at him, considering. “Tell me, why do you think she hatched a diabolical, secretive plot that brought her to Dover without your knowledge?”
She watched with some fascination as a muscle in Holloway’s jaw jumped and he looked away. “I couldn’t begin to tell you.” It came out harshly, but there was a certain unhappy vulnerability in his answer that tugged at her. “I was hoping you knew why she felt she needed a finishing school. And one so far away from London.”
Holloway wasn’t the first man to question the value of Haverhall. Past experience had taught Clara that there was a fine balance in what peers wanted to hear when it came to their wards. The prevailing attitude that women’s natural, and often hysterical, tendencies prevented them from understanding any sort of higher education had to be minded. Even if, after all this time, it made her want to kick something. Or someone.
But Clara had long since learned to use that attitude as a shield, presenting a curriculum that was as familiar as a receipt from a Bond Street modiste. Painting, music, dance, language. A smattering of the geography and history of Kent to justify the travel. Most men nodded and accepted her practiced pitch, either indifferent or more interested in making sure their wards were visibly part of something exclusive and elite than in what those wards might actually accomplish.
The Duke of Holloway, however, was not most men. And he would not be so easily placated.
Clara let a heartbeat pass and picked her words very carefully. “I might suggest, Your Grace, the appeal for Lady Anne lies in the collaborative aspect of many of our classes. Something that a private education with governesses may not be able to provide. I’d like to think that the presence of other like-minded young women offers a unique opportunity.”
Holloway was frowning, gazing past her at the facade of Avondale. “Lady Anne is not a dandizette, interested only in whether her latest bonnet should be trimmed in feathers or fruit. She’s…” He trailed off, and Clara watched in fascination as he struggled for words.
She didn’t dare interrupt.
“I confess I often don’t understand her,” the duke finally said. “But I do know that she is…exceptional.”
Clara already knew this. It had been evident in Lady Anne’s interview when she had first applied to Haverhall. It was why she was here at Avondale.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Clara focused on keeping her tone light. “Because I believe she will find herself in good company this summer.” She paused, wondering just how much he wanted to hear. Wondering just how much she could safely tell him. “I also believe that Lady Anne will find herself adequately challenged. I think she will not only learn a great deal in her tenure here but will be able to contribute significantly as well.”
He was silent for several seconds. “Did you know you are very good at answering a question without providing any real information at all?” he finally asked. His eyes returned from the house to clash with hers. “Perhaps I should get you to teach a class to my stewards on negotiation.”
“I didn’t realize we were negotiating,” she replied warily.
“Everything in life is a negotiation, Miss Hayward.”
Clara fell silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Perhaps Holloway was right. “This program, this very school, is the legacy that was left to me by my parents,” she started. “I have made it my life’s work to ensure that each one of my students gets the attention and education that she deserves. Your sister included. And to that end, I hope that you will see the value in Lady Anne’s remaining here for the duration of her term.”
The duke leveled an appraising look at her. Clara did not look away. Somewhere near the house, a carriage rattled across the drive, and a horse whickered.
“I was told that you were tutored in Latin and Greek by Oxford dons that your parents hired,” he said abruptly. “Is that true?”
“Yes.” She saw no reason to lie.
“Why?”
Clara hesitated, unsure what he was after. But it seemed as if the Duke of Holloway was doing his best to peer beneath the surface, beyond her explanations and careful delivery, looking for something more. And discovering whatever he found lacking.
“Why were you?” she asked instead of answering.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why were you tutored in Latin and Greek?”
“Because it is part of the education required for a gentleman.”
“But not for a lady.”
“I didn’t say that.” His fingers were tapping slowly against his thigh. “But what good could it possibly do you?”
“I imagine the same good it does you, Your Grace.”
He stared at her.
“Do you use it in correspondence? Everyday conversation?” she asked pleasantly.
“Of course not.”
“And neither do I. But a mastery of those languages opens up entire troves of philosophy, wisdom, and tales of those who became legends. It would be a shame to miss such learnings from the past when so many of the same lessons can still be applied to the present, don’t you agree?”
He was frowning at her again, his eyes narrowed, his dark lashes shadowing the blue of his eyes.
“Are they something that you wish Lady Anne to be introduced to? Latin and Greek?” Clara prompted.
“No. Yes.” Holloway’s brows were knit, and he looked as unsatisfied with his nonanswer as she was.
Clara remained silent, still unsure what he wanted from her. Unsure what he was looking for in this labyrinth of a conversation where every step Clara took felt like a trapdoor waiting to spring. She needed to redirect this conversation.
“Where are you staying, Your Grace?” Clara asked. “I’ll make sure Lady Anne sees you tonight, even if I have to drive her myself. You are right—I think it is the least that she owes you.”
“That won’t be necessary, Miss Hayward.”
“But I thought that—”
“You won’t need to drive her. I’m staying here.”
Clara felt the bottom of her stomach drop to her toes. He couldn’t possibly be serious. “I’m afraid there is a mistake,” she said. “Haverhall has let Avondale House from—”
“The Earl of Rivers. Yes, yes, he told me. He also told me that there are more rooms in this pile than anyone could possibly find use for and a vacant dower house that begs habitation. And he asked me to confirm that things were shipshape for you.”
“The condition of this house and its staff is exemplary,” Clara said, trying to keep the alarm out of her voice. “As is documented by my brother at the beginning and end of each of our stays. At the earl’s request, that documentation is delivered directly to him for review. I suspect his steward does the same thing, though at more regular intervals. I can’t imagine why he would require you to be quite so redundant.”
Holloway shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Rivers the next time you see him.”
“I can’t allow you to stay in this house, Your Grace.” The duke frowned, and so did Clara. “You’ll be a distraction,” she said, trying to take some of the heat from her voice and regain her composure. She would not be goaded into raising her voice, certainly not to one of her clients. Even if he was a duke acting in the most illogical, insufferable manner. “To the students. To your sister.” To me.
Holloway made some sort of derisive noise. “I had no intentions of partaking in any of your classes. I will be away most days. You won’t even know I’m here.” He paused. “Think of me merely as Lady Anne’s chaperone.”
This could not be happening. Clara could not allow it to happen. She squared her shoulders. “The earl’s two widowed sisters live here. If their matronly presence isn’t enough, there are nine students, the three lady’s maids who traveled with us, the substantial staff who look after this house, and my sister and I. The girls are well chaperoned. They are here to learn, Your Grace, not to entertain themselves frivolously.”
“A frivolous entertainment and a distraction. Well, I suppose I’ve been accused of being worse.”
“You mistake me, Your Grace.” Clara could feel her fingers curling into her skirts in her effort to remain patient. “That’s not what I was implying—”
“It was a jest, Miss Hayward,” the duke said with a smile. And it was a smile that reached his eyes. Not the practiced, contrived one she had seen when he had kissed the back of her hand, but the one that had once set her heart pounding. The one that now made her breath catch and wiped her mind clear of every rational thought.
“I already know what it’s like to live with one young lady,” he told her, his eyes still gleaming. “I have no intention of tossing away what’s left of my sanity by moving in with eight more. I’ll stay in the dower house.”
Clara fought to catch her breath. “You’re still a distraction. You are a duke. And you don’t need me to tell you that you are handsome, rich, and very, very unmarried. And—”
“An extraordinary dancer.”
“And a shameless fisher of compliments.” She was aware that a grin was starting to creep across her face.
He held up a hand to stop her. “Your commitment to the reputation and care of your students, including my sister, is admirable.”
“You exaggerate.”
“I do not. You took a duke to task over an abominably asinine request. It doesn’t happen nearly as often as it should.”
A decidedly unladylike snort escaped despite her. “You have that many abominably asinine requests?” Clara knew she should simply nod and smile politely, but somehow he was drawing her into this…banter that she had no business participating in. And it was exhilarating.
“You might be surprised.” He grinned, and her pulse immediately skipped.
“You know,” she said, returning his grin, “I don’t think I would.”
Something shifted in his eyes. Something hot and possessive. Something that made her knees weaken and an ache settle low in her belly and her breasts.
“There she is,” he murmured almost inaudibly.
“Who, Your Grace?” She could feel the blood pounding through her body as he gazed at her. His eyes were searching her face, a strange, yearning expression on his.
He reached out, and for a heart-stopping moment, Clara thought he was going to stroke her cheek. Instead he grasped one of the stubborn, unruly curls that invariably escaped from the knot at the back of her head and tucked it behind her ear. “The girl who once waltzed with me.”
She could feel the heat of his fingers as they brushed her skin, and she shivered, every fiber in her body demanding that she step closer to him. Step into his heat and find out what it would feel like if he did truly touch her. Because the way he was looking at her now was infinitely more intoxicating than the way he had gazed at her before.
This time, admiration mingled with desire.
She stepped back slightly. “That girl grew up, Your Grace. I am no longer given to impetuous impulses, just as you are no longer given to imprudent suggestions. Things have changed a great deal, and both of us along with it.”
Holloway’s hand dropped. “True.”
Clara cleared her throat, unwilling to let…whatever this was go any further. Above all, she must remain professional. He was the brother of one of her students, for God’s sake. A client. If she was going to continue as the headmistress of Haverhall, or if the worst happened and there was ever going to be a hope of resurrecting her school later, she could not…dally with a duke. Her reputation, like it or not, was her currency. No one in their right mind would ever send their gently bred daughters to a school in which the headmistress was known for her amorous escapades with one of the most visible, sought-after men in England.
“Will your business here take you long, Your Grace?” She steered the conversation back to safer ground.
“Trying to get rid of me so soon?” He wore a smile again, but it was the practiced one she loathed.
Clara kept her expression neutral. “Merely curious, Your Grace.” What she needed to know was just exactly how long he might linger and where he might show up, either accidentally or purposely. And the faster he could get what he had come to accomplish completed and be away from Dover, the better. For everybody.
She ignored an unacceptable and perilous twinge of disappointment.
“While the Earl of Rivers has insisted that I stay at Avondale, he has also asked for my assessment on the current condition of the estate’s crops and livestock,” Holloway said.
“I see.” This was not good. Not good at all. She did not want a duke, specifically this one, on the property, prowling about indefinitely. “You should know that the dower house isn’t entirely vacant,” she said, aware that she was grasping at straws now. “My brother stays at the dower house when we are here.”
Holloway nodded, and instead of inconvenienced, he seemed almost pleased. “Yes, Rivers mentioned as much. But that dower house is as palatial as Avondale itself. I have been told that it has eight bedrooms, two drawing rooms, a music room, and even its own small ballroom. I don’t think we’ll be tripping over each other, but as I’m sure Lord Strathmore is also a busy man, I will endeavor to stay out of his way.”
Clara grimaced. Clearly there was nothing she could say that was going to deter him. “What do you know of crops and livestock?” A last effort, and one that might be interpreted as rude or insolent, but she no longer cared.
“I’ve educated myself on the basics,” he replied.
“Why?”
“You ask that a lot.”
“Yes,” she replied unapologetically. “You are, of course, under no obligation to answer.”
He considered her for a moment. “Because I own a great deal of land. And crops. And livestock. And I like to understand what I possess.” The glibness had gone out of his voice, replaced with a cool bluntness that rang of truth.
Clara felt a shiver race down her spine. The Duke of Holloway was a man who needed to be kept at a safe, proper distance. And the dower house was definitely not far enough.
“Is Lord Strathmore here?” Holloway asked. “I should like to inform him of my presence so he isn’t unduly surprised to find himself with a tenant.”
“He is here, in Dover, but not at Avondale at the moment.” He was, in fact, with three of her students, somewhere in the parish, seeing to the community’s medical needs.
“I understand that your brother is an accomplished physician,” the duke remarked, as if reading her mind.
“He is.” Clara had no idea how much Holloway knew about her brother. Of course he would be aware of Harland’s training—that wasn’t a secret. Certainly not after Harland’s wife had complained loudly about it to anyone who would listen for the duration of their miserable marriage.
“An admirable profession,” he offered into the silence.
“Not everyone would agree with you. Most would tell you gentlemen are not meant for such common…foolishness.” Clara tried to keep the derision out of her voice, but she wasn’t sure she succeeded.
“Only a true fool would believe that a man who has the knowledge and skills to help a soul cheat death could ever be considered foolish.” August’s eyes were shuttered, and in that moment Clara knew he was thinking about the circumstances that had made him the Duke of Holloway. Spotted fever, she had heard, which had completely wiped out two entire generations of Faulkners summering near Bath. August and his sister, who had been in London at the time, had been the only two survivors.
“I’m sorry. About your family.” Her words seemed inadequate.
He started, as if surprised that his comments had been so transparent. “Thank you.” He shifted. “And my condolences on the loss of your parents.”
Clara nodded and looked away. “It was unexpected.” They had been aboard a packet destined for Boston that had been caught in an Atlantic squall. All crew and passengers had been lost.
“It always is,” the duke mumbled, almost inaudibly.
“Yes,” she agreed sadly, wondering how this conversation had become so melancholy.
“You are fortunate that your brother has so ably taken the reins of the barony’s business. He must be an incredibly busy man.”
“He is busy,” she replied, happy to let Holloway direct the conversation away from death. “But he manages.”
“A tough enterprise, shipping,” he mused. “One fraught with risks and unpredictability.”
He had no idea. “You own ships as well, Your Grace?”
Holloway shrugged. “I dabble. I have a fondness for Virginian tobacco. As does half of London. Owning the occasional shipload of it makes me a popular man.”
Clara almost rolled her eyes. “Then I must assume you’ve educated yourself on the basics of that as well?”
He shrugged again. “Of course. As I said, I like to understand what I possess.”
“Well, then. You and my brother will have much to discuss.”
“I’m counting on it, Miss Hayward. I’m also counting on his ability to play a decent hand of whist or loo if he has the time,” he continued. “Dover can be quite dull—”
“August?” The demand came from just behind Clara. She turned to find blue eyes a shade softer than Holloway’s flashing with poorly concealed ire and not a little apprehension. “What are you doing here?”