The ride back to Avondale was a slow one, August not willing to risk the legs of his already-tired horse that now carried two. Which was just as well, because it took him nearly the entire journey to rein in his emotions and compose himself in a manner that wouldn’t terrify the next unsuspecting person he came across.
When August had seen Stilton forcing himself on Clara, a rage such as he had never experienced flooded through him. When the red had receded from the edges of his vision, colors had seemed brighter, noises louder, every movement a little more pronounced. Looking back, he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t killed the man. How he hadn’t simply ripped Stilton apart limb from limb or beaten him to a bloody pulp.
Perhaps he had recognized the need to defuse the situation for Clara’s sake instead of making it worse. Battering a man to death would not have helped, though the man certainly deserved it. He did not want to take a chance that Clara would feel guilty about that too.
August hoped Clara’s watching the man scurry away with his tail between his legs had lessened the impact of what he’d tried to do. What had happened had not been her fault in any way. Stilton was a coward and a cretin and not worthy of any further thought, and he hoped that Clara believed that.
Clara seemed to recover on the way back. She regained her color at least, and he engaged her in a debate over the theories of Aristarchus that had her talking and occasionally laughing. The feel of her body as it rested in front of his was torture. Her warmth and her scent enveloped him, and he wanted to keep her there forever, wrapped in the safety of his arms.
He reined his gelding to a stop in the drive and helped Clara dismount. She looked up at him, her eyes troubled. “Please don’t say anything about what happened this afternoon. Not yet.” She put a hand to where her bodice had been torn. “I’m going to change, and then I will speak to Rose. And Harland, when he returns.”
Given the baron’s chronic absences, August rather thought it might be Christmastide before her brother returned. But he refrained from pointing that out.
“No one else needs to know. Not the servants. Not my students.” She was looking at him imploringly.
“I understand. So long as you understand that it wasn’t your fault.”
“I do.”
“Good. I’ll see you in and up to your room.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Humor the barbarian.”
She nodded. “Very well.”
“Besides, I have my own conversation to finish with Anne. She said I could find her in the studio when I returned.”
“I might remind you to wait after you knock this time,” Clara teased, and it made August happy to see her smile.
August led the way up the stairs. The house was silent, everyone seemingly occupied somewhere else, including the servants. Clara hurried down the south hall toward her rooms while August wandered in the direction of the studio.
He was almost at the end of the hall when the studio door opened and a woman stepped out, her blond hair tumbling in ringlets around her face. She was wrapped in a heavily embroidered robe, more suitable for a boudoir after midnight than a grand house in the middle of the day. She turned, and with shock August recognized her. More than recognized her. In fact, five years ago he would have recognized her more easily had she been wearing nothing.
“Lady Shelley,” August said dumbly.
The woman froze. “Aug—Your Grace?” she replied with the same incredulity, her green eyes widening. “I beg your pardon for my appearance. I was hoping to make it back to my room undetected. We thought the house was empty.”
“We?” August blurted.
“Miss Hayward. Rose Hayward,” Lady Shelley clarified. Her initial surprise faded, and her lush lips curved into what August could only describe as a smug smile. “I’ve commissioned a portrait.”
“In a robe?”
“In costume,” she said vaguely, that same smile still playing about her lips, seemingly unconcerned about her dishabille. “I was on my way back to my room to change.”
“You’re staying here?”
“Just for the day. I did not know you were staying here as well. Goodness, it’s like a house party.”
“No such luck,” August replied. “I’m here on business for the Earl of Rivers.”
“Too bad. You know what they say about all work and no play, Your Grace,” Lady Shelley teased. “And you work entirely too hard.”
Rose suddenly appeared behind her, wiping her hands on a paint-smeared rag. “Who are you—” Her eyes went to August and narrowed, and her lips thinned. “You again. My apologies, Lady Shelley. I should have insisted you change in the studio. I should have known His Grace might be lurking about the hallways. This is unacceptable and most embarrassing.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence,” Lady Shelley said easily with a throaty chuckle as she headed down the hallway toward her room. “His Grace has seen me in far less than a robe.”
August cursed inwardly.
Rose’s eyes narrowed even further. “Of course he has.”
Lady Shelley laughed again. “There are benefits to widowhood, Miss Hayward,” she called back, with a saucy flip of her hair. “Many, many benefits. And I will never apologize for them.”
Rose sent August another withering look before tossing the rag onto a small table just inside the door. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“I had come looking for Anne,” he said evenly.
“As you can see, she’s not here.”
“Indeed. However, since I am, I’ll extend the courtesy of passing along your sister’s wishes to have a word with you as soon as possible.”
“My sister is out for the afternoon.”
“She is back now.” He tried to keep any inflection from his words.
She shut the studio door firmly behind her. “Is she all right? Is she hurt? Is something wrong?”
“She is fine. She just needs a word. I believe she is in her rooms.”
Rose brushed by him, heading toward the south wing, skirting the stairs and disappearing from view. August slowly followed her as far as the stairs before he stopped abruptly. He glanced in the direction in which Rose had disappeared and, still finding the hallway deserted, turned back the way he had come. He strode purposefully down the hall until he was standing in front of the studio door, wondering if he had completely lost his mind.
He had done more skulking and spying and sneaking in the days since he had become reacquainted with Clara Hayward than ever before in his life. Without wasting another moment on second-guessing himself and his motives, he opened the door, slipping silently into the room. On the dais the settee he remembered so vividly was still there, though it was empty and had been draped in a swath of brilliant emerald silk. Directly in front of the platform a large easel stood, holding a long, rectangular canvas. A small table covered with brushes and palettes and neatly organized pots of pigment rested beside it. Surrounding the dais in a wide arc were the students’ easels and art supplies resting on small tables, one beside each station, waiting for their return.
August wandered around the room studying the drawings and sketches. They showed an eclectic selection of subject matter and no common thread, other than that the compositions had all been made with graphite and charcoal. Someone had sketched a garden the likes of which might have once been found at Versailles, complete with reservoirs and fountains and what looked like…plumbing lines? Alongside were sketches of plants and flowers, a jar half-filled with water and a small bouquet of roses sitting next to the easel, no doubt having provided some inspiration.
Next to the gardens were a completely different set of sketches, and it took August a good minute to comprehend what he was seeing. Anatomy diagrams. What looked like a heart dissected, with the tissue drawn back to expose the insides. A set of lungs, vessels reaching out from each like the branches of a winter oak. An empty tray rested beside that easel, and August chose not to consider what it had once held to provide inspiration. He took a step back, his eyes going to the next easel.
This was Anne’s. He recognized the bold strokes and the clean lines right away. She had drawn schematics of what looking like a coaching inn, given the amount of space and detail dedicated to the stables and yard surrounding it. He peered more closely, noting the large rooms at the front, designed for eating, and the kitchens and storehouses in proximity. It was an efficient design, with careful consideration given to the flow of people from one space to another. Something the Trenton Hotel was lacking. He frowned. Perhaps he did need to reconsider the layout of the hotel. And perhaps he could consult with Anne.
You made me your partner. And there is nothing in the world I value more.
He found himself smiling reluctantly.
He turned away and found himself in front of the long canvas directly across from the dais. This must be what Rose Hayward had been working on because the brushes here were still damp and the smell of turpentine strong. The canvas had been covered with a light, filmy cloth, and before he could reconsider, he pulled one corner of it, letting the cloth flutter to the floor.
The woman gazing out from the canvas at him was instantly recognizable. And breathtaking. Not because she was beautiful, but because Rose Hayward had somehow managed to capture the sultry confidence in Lady Shelley’s expression that August found so seductive in any woman. It was evident in every line of the body stretched out on the green silk, clothed only in the subtle light that the artist had captured with superb skill. Costume, indeed.
This was a woman who knew who she was. Who wasn’t trying to hide the long scar that stretched over her generous hip or the purple birthmark that graced the upper half of her thigh. It was all there on the canvas with no apology. When August had been Lady Shelley’s lover, she’d been ashamed of what she thought were imperfections. She’d tried to cover them with clothes or sheets, or darkness when that wasn’t possible. He hadn’t let her, and now, looking at the image of the woman, he was glad he hadn’t. Perhaps he had, in some small way, contributed to the confidence of the woman gazing out at him.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
August jumped like a schoolboy who had been caught sneaking into the pantries. He hadn’t heard Clara come in.
“She is,” he agreed.
“Did you love her?”
“No. But she made me laugh,” he said.
“Among other things.”
“Among other things,” he agreed again. “Her husband, the marquess, was not very kind to her during their marriage. I was her first lover after he died. Our affair lasted as long as it took her to understand that she deserved better than what her marriage had offered. That she was free to seek her own happiness.”
“That’s what she said when she commissioned Rose to paint her. That she wished to be painted like this because it pleased her. Just her. No one else.”
“I’m glad she’s happy.” August bent and picked up the sheet, then settled it over the painting once more. “I must assume your sister found you.”
“She did,” she said quietly. “I think it would annoy her to know that the two of you are more alike than she would ever care to think. She also offered to kill Stilton, though in a way that would have met with the Inquisition’s approval.” Clara paused. “And she too said that what happened wasn’t my fault.”
“Smart woman.” He watched her out of the corner of his eye. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better.” She let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. “I suspect listening to the merits of thumbscrews will do that.”
He wanted to draw her into his arms. Hold her and kiss her senseless. Lay her down on that green silk and make her forget everything that had happened to her that day. Instead he clasped his hands behind his back, unsure if she was ready for that. “How did you know I would be in here?”
“Your barbaric tendencies.”
“Very funny.”
“You’re not shocked.” She gestured at the covered painting. “By this.”
August let out a bark of laughter. “When it comes to this studio, I’m all out of shock,” he said. “Get back to me next week, and I’ll see what I can do to find some.” He paused. “Though I admit to having been taken aback by what appears to be a set of lungs over there.” He gestured to the smaller easels.
Clara smiled wryly. “The students were asked to sketch what interested them. There were no limitations or requirements, other than that they would present their work to the rest of the class with an explanation. You’d be amazed at what I’ve learned about swine organs this week.”
“Why are you doing this?” August asked suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you hope to achieve? At the risk of sounding like an utter ass, once these girls go back to their families, back to London, they won’t ever have another chance to do this sort of thing. Interests are not encouraged, not these, anyway. You know it, and I know it, and they know it as well. What can possibly come of all of this?”
Clara gazed at him. “You tell me.”
“What?”
“Earlier, you said you had an answer for me that was good enough. I’d like to hear it now instead of at dinner.”
August looked away. “I made Anne a sign.”
“A sign?”
“A tavern sign for the Silver Swan. She had designed one. I had it made from her sketch.”
An expression he couldn’t decipher crossed her face. “Has she seen it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
He dropped his gaze. “She was pleased.”
“I’m sure she was,” Clara said gently. “Were you?”
“Yes.”
“Was this a onetime overture?” she asked. “Or are you willing to admit that your sister has so much more she can offer?”
“I’ve never doubted her intelligence or her abilities. But nor do I want her to worry about…things anymore. The price of fish. The efficiency of the hotel kitchens. Laundry services.” He threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Which is very noble, but by doing so, you’ve taken away her sense of purpose.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Anne doesn’t need to—”
“Did you know that my father gave Haverhall School to my mother as a wedding gift?” Clara asked suddenly, interrupting him.
August blinked, hating the now-familiar guilt that instantly stirred every time the name Haverhall was mentioned. He didn’t want to hear anything about Haverhall that didn’t involve surveyors’ reports and revenue projections. He did not want to know how deeply entrenched the school was in Clara’s family or to be reminded of the legacy it represented to her.
“My mother grew up in a home where the only things she was responsible for were choosing which dinner dress she wished to wear and ensuring she used the correct dessert spoon.” Clara continued. “If she were still alive today, she’d tell you what she told us. That she felt trapped, miserable, and so bored she could scream. Imagine her surprise on her wedding day when her husband presented her not with pretty jewels or a flashy horse or a fine house as a wedding gift, but an entire school, and the purpose, challenge, and expectations that came with it. Things that make a person feel alive. Useful. Important.”
August could feel a muscle working alongside his jaw. Resentment edged out the guilt, and he clung to it like a drowning man. “It has never been my intention to trivialize Anne’s existence, if that is what you’re implying.”
“That is not at all what I’m implying.” Clara softened her voice. “I know Anne lived in Marshalsea.”
August flinched. “How did you know that?”
“She told me.” She gestured around her. “Look, I’m not trying to change the world. Well, maybe I am, but not overnight. Not in my lifetime, even. But what would happen if enough women believed in themselves? Believed that they could do more than what they’ve been told they can do?” She sighed. “I’m not so delusional as to forget that the world we live in is real and we must all adapt to it. The classes I teach in London during my regular terms are not ground-breaking by any stretch of the imagination. But occasionally a young woman attends those classes who, like me, believes that things could be different. And I invite her out here to explore just how much.”
August stared at her.
Clara exhaled loudly, her cheeks pink. “I’ll stop talking now. Although you’ve passed on my earlier invitation to collect your sister and run screaming back to London, I wouldn’t blame you if you did so now.” She sounded as if she was only half joking. “But if you’re sending the Bedlam stewards after me, can you at least wait until the end of next week?”
“You think I find any of what you said crazy?” he asked.
“I hope not, but it would put you in the minority.”
“Good. I prefer to be in the minority. The masses don’t know what they’re missing out on.”
“Oh.” She looked up at him. “Thank you. For believing in me.”
“Always, Clara.” He bent and brushed his lips over hers, the softest of gestures. “Let me show you how much.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Very deliberately August turned and walked to the studio door. Just as deliberately he turned the lock, the click sounding overly loud in the empty room. He returned and stopped just in front of her. He bowed low and straightened. “Dance with me.”
Her lips parted. “I beg your pardon?”
“May I have the privilege of this dance, Miss Hayward?”
“Here? Now? But—”
“No regrets, Miss Hayward. And no excuses.”
“And no music either,” she said with a slow smile.
“Inconsequential details,” August scoffed. He held out his hand. He saw Clara swallow before she reached out and took it.
Her hand was warm in his, and he pulled her to him, his other hand coming to slide around her waist. Her fingers tightened in his, and he heard her slight inhalation. “Close your eyes,” he said.
“August—”
“Close your eyes.”
She gazed at him for a second longer before her eyes fluttered shut. Her free hand went to his shoulder, her fingertips just brushing the back of his neck. “Perfect,” he whispered before he led her in the first step.
It wasn’t the reckless waltz that they had danced a decade ago, surrounded by glittering lights and glittering people. There was no orchestra to keep the time, no constant hum of those trying to make their voices heard over the voices of others. This was a private affair, meant only for them, danced in a small space and danced in silence. But it was no less powerful for it.
August tightened his grip on her waist, pulling her flush against him as they moved in slow circles across the floor in front of the dais. Clara’s hand slid farther around the back of his neck, her fingers tangling gently in the back of his hair. He could feel her body, hot and supple against his, her chest rising and falling. She matched him step for step, and August wondered idly if she could feel the way his heart was thundering in his chest.
He drew the hand that held hers into the space between their bodies, tucking it securely against his chest, and lifted his fingers to stroke her cheek. She kept her eyes closed but her lips curled, and she tipped her head into his touch. God, she was so beautiful like this. So beautiful always, but like this, she was his. She belonged to him in this moment.
He bent his head and caught her lips with his, their steps slowing until they stopped altogether. As before, their kiss started slowly, only for different reasons this time. This time August wasn’t afraid of scaring her or hurting her. This time he was afraid only that he wouldn’t make this last the way he wanted it to. That he wouldn’t be able to make good on his promise to her that he would take his time, learning what made her whimper and writhe with pleasure.
Because holy hell, he wanted her. Wanted her so badly that he ached everywhere. His skin felt two sizes too small, and his cock throbbed. The need to take her then, right there, on the floor in the middle of the damn studio, was pounding through him, making him dizzy with want. His hands slid from her face and over her shoulders and down her back, where they gripped her as though he was afraid to let her go.
And then she moaned, and her mouth opened and her tongue stroked his, and he was completely lost. His hands dropped to her ass, and he hauled her up against him the way he had done once before. She wrapped her legs around him, but her skirts hampered her movements, and it wasn’t enough.
“I want you naked. Now.” His voice was rough.
“Yes.” She slid down the length of him, the friction sending all sorts of uncontrollable shudders through him. He set to work at her bodice, realizing that his hands weren’t entirely steady. He fumbled slightly at the ties until he felt her hands on his, pulling them away.
“You can watch,” she said, looking at him though heavily lidded eyes, her lips parted and her color high.
He cock twitched, and he groaned with need.
Clara took over where he had left off, with a slow, subtle tease as one by one the laces and ties that held her gown and her stays were undone, the garments falling to the floor soundlessly. She stood before him in her shift, the outline of her body a tantalizing breath away. So close and yet so far.
Her eyes dropped to the bulge at the fall of his trousers, and a sultry smile touched her lips even as her fingers played with the ribbon at the neck of her shift. “Steady, Your Grace,” she whispered.
August remained still, his breath coming far too fast. Very deliberately she pulled the end of the ribbon, and the top of her chemise loosened, slipping over one shoulder and then the other before it too joined the pile on the rug at their feet. And Clara Hayward stood before him wearing nothing but a smile.
His heart might have stopped momentarily before it resumed, thundering in his ears with the same rhythm that was pulsing through the rest of him. The sound obliterated everything around him, his eyes riveted on her fingers, which were now trailing over the slope of her left breast, coming to circle her dark nipple, hard and pebbled under her touch. She was watching him watching her, and he had never been as aroused as he was then.
“Don’t stop there,” he rasped.
Clara’s eyes darkened, and her hand slid lower. Her fingers caressed the gentle swell of her abdomen before slipping through the dark curls at the juncture of her legs. He watched as she stroked a finger through the folds of her sex, her eyes fluttering closed and her head tipping back. Her hand circled low and hard, and a soft whimper escaped. She withdrew her hand, her finger wet with her desire, and it snapped whatever control he’d managed to maintain.
August didn’t remember moving, but he hauled her up and against him, and in two steps he had mounted the low dais and deposited her on the edge of the wide settee in the center. He came to kneel just in front of her, her legs falling open as she leaned back. He placed his hands on the backs of her calves, running them up and over her thighs, spreading his fingers to caress as much of that smooth, soft skin as he could. His thumbs skimmed the indentation of her hip bones while his fingers cupped the firm roundness of her ass.
“Don’t stop there,” she whispered, and he might have laughed if he hadn’t been so hot and so hard.
August bent his head and covered her sex with his mouth and felt her body tense even as she sighed. He caressed her with his tongue the way she had just done with her own fingers, the muscles in her thighs trembling under his touch. He found the bud at the apex of her folds and stroked it, her hips arching off the settee. He did it twice more, then stopped only to gaze at her, her head thrown back and her hands tangled in the emerald silk.
Her eyes opened, dismay clear. “Don’t stop,” she said, and he could hear the frustration and desire in each syllable. Her breasts were rising and falling with each rapid breath she took, and he couldn’t look away. He rose, coming to kneel over her, bending his head to take one of her nipples in his mouth. He sucked and nipped and let the noises she was making in the back of her throat guide him. He let one of his hands delve between them as he kissed her, finding her center and slipping a finger deep.
She arched off the settee again with a gasp as he withdrew before sliding deep again. She was so hot and so wet, and it was just as well that he had yet to remove his clothes because that was the only thing preventing him from thrusting mindlessly into that heat. He dipped his head, catching her lips this time, stroking the velvety softness of her mouth with the same tempo with which his fingers stroked her sex. Her hips rose to meet each stroke, each time with more urgency, and he slipped a second finger into her.
“August,” she breathed, a second before she cried out. He felt her body beneath him stiffen as her hips jerked, and she rode his hand as she convulsed and shuddered. It was a long moment before she collapsed back on the silk, breathing heavily, a look of utter rapture on her face.
Christ, but she was incredible. To the day he died, the image of Clara beneath him, offering herself, letting herself go, letting him take control, would be forever burned in his mind.
He pushed himself to his feet, yanking at his clothes. He needed to be deep inside her. He needed to possess her completely. So, so badly.
Clara raised herself up on her elbows, watching him, her skin flushed and her eyes heavy with desire. The pins had long ago fallen from her hair, and it streamed in a glorious mess behind her. She looked like a woman who had been loved and loved well. And was anticipating being so again.
She didn’t speak, made no move to touch him, just watched in much the same manner that he had. He finally stood before her in nothing but his trousers, letting anticipation build. She pushed herself the rest of the way up, coming to kneel on the settee before him.
“Come here,” she said, and he obeyed. For now.
She lifted her hands and ran them down his chest, tracing the edges of his pectoral muscles and the ridges of his abdomen as though she had all the time in the world. She slid her fingers through the hair at the center of his chest and circled his nipples with her fingers. August forced himself to remain still. Her hands slid over his upper arms, along the small of his back, traveling along the waistband of his trousers.
With no hesitation she went to work on the buttons at the fall and slipped her hands inside, pushing the last of his clothing down his legs and away. His erection surged free, thick and aching. She smiled up at him, her hands circling his waist to cup his ass, her head dipping to—
Jesus. A sound he didn’t recognize escaped from his throat, and he closed his eyes briefly as she took him in her mouth. His hands went to her head, his fingers buried in the wildness of her hair. His buttocks clenched, and he thrust up into her soft heat, unable to stop himself.
Clara made a soft noise of approval. Her hands were working their way over the curve of his ass to the backs of his thighs, and her tongue swept down his shaft and then back up, circling the crown. He felt his cock pulse, and lust pooled low and heavy.
“I’m too close, Clara,” he ground out.
She sucked hard in response, and he moaned. Her hair fell forward, and the urge to thrust into her mouth again was overwhelming. August pulled her head back, and his siren looked up at him, her eyes glazed with the same desire that was coursing through him, threatening to undo him where he stood. “Not this time,” he said.
He lifted her and laid her back on the settee, his hands sliding over the tops of her thighs and around to the backs, spreading her legs wide and lifting her hips toward him. His hand slid back up over the swell of her abdomen and along her rib cage, his thumb just brushing the underside of her breast.
Her hips flexed, a tiny, involuntary movement.
He smiled.
“August,” she whispered, though it sounded like more of a plea.
He ran his finger across her lips, over her chin, and down the column of her throat. He paused in the small hollow at the base before he slid his hand down the slope of her breast, palming its weight and brushing the tip of her nipple. He felt her shudder, and her hips moved again, this time more demanding.
“What are you doing?” she demanded hoarsely.
He brought his hand back to her hip, holding her steady. “Understanding what I possess.” He positioned himself at her entrance and thrust into her slick heat.
Clara made a muffled noise and wrapped her legs hard around his waist, drawing him even farther. He could feel her inner walls flex around him, and he ground against her, stars starting to dance along the edges of his vision. Need was pounding through him with more urgency than he would be able to control.
He withdrew and thrust, once, twice, and again, each time harder and faster, never taking his eyes off her face. White-hot pleasure was streaking through him with each stroke, moisture gathering at his brow. His breathing was labored, and he could feel her heels digging into the tops of his buttocks, urging him on. She reached up and ran a hand over her breasts, rubbing her nipples. With a low growl, August knocked her hand away with his and set his mouth where her fingers had been.
“Yes,” he heard her hiss, writhing beneath him.
She was so responsive, so goddamn perfect. He was never going to survive this.
He swirled his tongue around each nipple, sucking hard as he pumped into her. He lifted his head only enough to find her mouth. “I want you to come for me,” he said roughly against her lips. “I need you to come right now.”
Clara whimpered, a raw sound that sent another wave of pleasure slamming through him. He tilted her hips and thrust hard, grinding himself deliberately against the very apex of her sex, and just like that, she flew apart. She cried his name, a ragged, wild declaration of ecstasy as her orgasm crashed through her. She arched up and into him, her legs clamped around his waist as her inner muscles spasmed and pulsed around his cock. He drove into her, riding her climax, prolonging every wave of euphoria. His fingers dug into her hips as he caged them, his vision dimming as his own release bore down on him.
“Clara,” he groaned, pulling out just as his own orgasm ripped through him, but she was ready for him, her hand fisting him between their heat-slicked bodies. He gasped and shuddered, pumping himself into the friction of her palm. Pleasure of an intensity he hadn’t known rolled through him in unending, merciless waves, one after another without respite. His thrusts finally slowed, though it took them a long time to stop altogether, his body seemingly caught in the eddies of their lovemaking. It took him even longer to catch his breath and his wits, and when he did he rolled to the side, feeling a little out of control.
“We should have done that ten years ago,” Clara said into the silence.
He laughed, a sound that caught him by surprise. “Agreed.”
“Thank you.” He felt her shift, and he turned on his side so he was facing her.
“For what?”
She smiled crookedly. “For your…ministrations.”
“Twice,” he teased.
“Twice,” she agreed. The smile slipped. “And for your control and your responsibility.”
“Oh.” He was a little taken aback. No woman had ever thanked him for that.
“We should have spoken of it earlier.”
August gazed at her. “I suppose we’re speaking of it now.”
“True. And I appreciate your…unselfishness.”
He grinned. “You can make it up to me. I have some ideas.”
She grinned back. “Good. So do I.”
Desire surged through him and stole the breath he had just caught. He leaned forward and kissed her deeply, not wanting this to end. Not ever wanting to leave this studio and return to the real world. Not wanting to remember what sort of reality waited for them outside these walls. And the nagging guilt and discontent that came with it. He pulled back. “Are you happy?”
“Deliriously.” Her forehead creased in puzzlement. “What a strange question.”
He shook his head, wondering what he was doing. This was usually the part where he got up, set his clothing to rights, and left. Instead he found himself lounging naked on a settee in an art studio with a woman who had just shaken his world to its very foundations, and he was asking her about…happiness. Perhaps he was fishing for compliments.
“August?” she asked, sounding concerned. As she should. This whole episode was concerning.
“If you couldn’t teach at Haverhall, what would you do?”
Clara stared at him. “Teach somewhere else.”
He reached for her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. “Where?”
“I’d like to say Oxford. Maybe Cambridge if they’d have me.” She made a wry face.
“I’m being serious.”
She propped her head up on her hand. “Teaching is what gives me my purpose.” Her eyes had a troubled, faraway quality to them. “I don’t think I could ever stop, no matter what happened. Whatever circumstance might change, I’d always try to find a way.”
That should have made him feel better. She was prepared to move on, even if she wasn’t prepared to tell him why. Except there was something that was crowding into his chest, making his heart hurt. “Oxford or Cambridge would be lucky to have you.” He looked down, staring at their entwined fingers. “If you ever need a recommendation…” He trailed off before he looked back up. “If you ever needed anything, Clara, would you tell me?”
She averted her gaze. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Just that. If you ever needed…help.” He wanted her to trust him. Needed her to trust him.
She looked at him again, her dark eyes unreadable. “That’s very kind.”
August swallowed his frustration. “My father never asked for help,” he said.
“When he went to prison, you mean?”
“Even before that. My father…” He had no idea why he was talking about this, but now that he had started, he couldn’t seem to stop. “My father was an inveterate gambler, reckless and selfish. He defied his family to marry an actress and embrace the wildly popular notion of true love. Except after they were married, he gambled away everything that they possessed and then everything that they didn’t. And when that happened, he stole from his family to cover the debt.”
Clara’s fingers tightened in his.
“My mother was a good woman. I think she believed that she could change him up until the day she died. That love would change him. But of course, it didn’t. And by the time he was finally thrown into debtors’ prison, there wasn’t anyone left who cared.”
“I’m sorry,” Clara whispered.
August shrugged. “I spent two years living on the streets,” he said. “I know what it feels like to starve. I know what it feels like to be so cold that the skin on your fingers and toes burns and peels. I know what it feels like to have to defend yourself against those who would kill you for the shoes on your feet. But would I be where I am today without living that? I don’t know.”
“And does it make you happy?” she asked him suddenly. “Where you are today?”
He should have expected that Clara would turn his question back on him, yet it caught him off guard. What was even more disturbing was that he didn’t seem to have an honest answer that he liked.
He untangled their fingers and reached out to push her thick hair away from her face. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d want to be right now,” he murmured, dipping his head to kiss the smooth skin of her shoulder. “And you have no idea just how happy that makes me.”
He heard her sigh, and he knew that he had fooled no one. But she didn’t say anything, simply rolled onto her back, looking up at him with those knowing dark eyes. She reached out to touch his face with her fingertips, a gentle, butterfly-light touch before her lips curled into that half smile he knew so well.
“Very well, then, Your Grace. Why don’t you show me how much?”