A Duke in the Night by Kelly Bowen (9)

Clara paced across Avondale’s hall.

The clock near the bottom of the stairs ticked loudly, and Clara wondered why she had never noticed before that this house had so many wretched ticking clocks. Five minutes to six. No sign of her brother. And no sign of the duke.

Which, after the conversation, or rather the lecture, she had given Holloway earlier, was probably understandable, though the duke hadn’t sent word canceling his invitation. Clara wasn’t sure what it was about the man that provoked her into blurting truths that had no business being aired, especially to the paying clientele of Haverhall. Perhaps because he had trapped her hand in his, his steady warmth giving her courage to be more honest with him than was wise or safe. As though by keeping her with him, her fingers clasped within his, he was promising to at least try to understand her words.

That gesture of possession still sent chills through her, accompanied by a strange feeling of vertigo. Much the same way she felt when standing on the edge of the cliffs, looking down at the crashing sea far below. Not safe or wise at all.

“You’re pacing, dearie.” The voice came from the stairs.

Clara looked up and saw Lady Tabitha coming down the wide staircase. She was dressed in one of her walking outfits. “On your way out?” Clara asked.

“Yes.” She pulled her shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders. “Theo is waiting for me outside. There is a section of the beach where the cliffs have sloughed in the last day that we’d like to take a look at. You never know what you’re going to find in unexpected places.”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” Clara muttered.

“A gentleman stopped by earlier asking after you,” Tabby said. “While you were with your students.”

“A gentleman?”

“A Mr. Stilton? He mentioned that he was in the area visiting friends and that he would return at a later time to call on you.”

Clara frowned slightly. Stilton hadn’t mentioned anything about traveling to Dover the last time she had seen him.

“Is he someone you would rather avoid?” Tabby asked, her eyes narrowed.

“No, no, of course not. He is a London acquaintance who has graciously lent his company for an occasional outing.”

“Mr. Stilton asked after His Grace as well. Are they also acquaintances?”

Clara shook her head. “They are familiar, but from what I could tell, I don’t think that there is much love lost between those two.”

“Mmm.” Tabby gazed at her. “Well, speaking of His Grace, I understand you are dining with the duke this evening,” she commented casually. “At a tavern.”

“Yes.” All thoughts of Stilton’s unexpected appearance evaporated at the mention of the impending evening.

“Not that I’ve had a great deal of experience dining with dukes, but one might have thought he’d insist on a proper dinner in a proper dining room. We have a perfectly opulent one here.”

“His Grace does not always conform to the expected.” Clara glanced at the clock again.

“Including punctuality?”

Clara squirmed. “I’m not sure he hasn’t rescinded his offer of dinner entirely. I might have incensed him beyond repair.”

“The duke does not strike me as a man who easily gets his breeches in a twist.”

“I don’t think that applies when broaching the subject of his sister.”

“Protective, is he?”

Clara sighed. “I believe I might have accused him of being a controlling dictator. And suggested that he alter his behavior before he further alienates the very person he wishes to understand.”

“Yes, well, Julius Caesar learned that lesson the hard way, didn’t he?” Tabby murmured.

“I did not point that out,” Clara said, though she felt a smile tug at her lips. “I didn’t think it would help the situation.”

Tabby shrugged. “I was married for thirty-seven years, dearie. Sometimes men need to figure these things out on their own.”

“Figure what out on their own?”

Clara’s head whipped around as the Duke of Holloway strode through the door, pulling at his gloves. He was dressed in rough breeches, an unadorned coat, and dusty boots, and save for the unmistakable aura of power that emanated from his person, he might have passed for a simple country gentleman just coming in from a ride.

Except that a simple country gentleman would never steal Clara’s voice and scatter her wits the way this man did with a single smile. A simple country gentleman would not turn her insides into molten heat. The room suddenly felt suffocating.

“Figure out that a lady does not like to be kept waiting,” Tabby said smoothly into the silence.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lady Tabitha,” Holloway said with a charming smile. “Which is why I am”—he pulled a battered-looking watch from his pocket—“a full three minutes early. Though I confess that our ride is somewhat delayed. I had a hankering to drive, so I asked for the earl’s barouche to be prepared, only to discover that one of the horses had thrown a shoe. It is being reshod as we speak, and should be ready shortly. I did not wish you to believe that I had abandoned you.” He looked around with interest. “Is Lord Strathmore not here yet?”

As if on cue, a footman rounded the corner, his heels ringing over the polished marble floor of the hall. “Miss Hayward, a message from his Lordship.” He held out a gleaming silver tray with a creased, smudged, and hastily folded scrap of paper on it.

Clara plucked it from the tray, and the footman disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. She opened the note, although she already knew what it was going to say.

“It would seem my brother is running a little behind schedule,” she said, using the note as an excuse not to have to look at Holloway. She wasn’t sure if she was ready yet to weather the full attention of those intense eyes. “He asks if we will meet him at the Silver Swan.” She smoothed the paper with her finger, frowning at the rust-colored stains at the edge. Good Lord. Was that blood?

“That works for the best, doesn’t it?” Holloway replied amicably, and Clara did look up at him then, wondering at his cheerful, charming demeanor. After leaving him angrily scowling in the middle of a field earlier, she’d rather expected at least an air of reserve. Even Lady Tabitha was eyeing him somewhat suspiciously. “I am honored that his Lordship entrusts me with your safety and well-being.”

“I’ve been ensuring my own safety and well-being for almost thirty years, Your Grace. I’m a capable woman, not a capricious lapdog. I promise not to throw myself out a moving equipage after a squirrel. At least while we’re traveling at high speeds.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Miss Hayward.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned at her, and Clara felt rivulets of longing run down her spine. No man had the right to look that handsome when he smiled. “Would you care to join us, Lady Tabitha?” Holloway continued. “I should have thought to extend the invitation. My apologies for my oversight.”

“No, thank you, Your Grace. My sister and I have an evening of collecting planned.” Tabby shifted her basket to her other hand and moved toward the door. “And I’ve kept her waiting long enough. Perhaps another time. Enjoy your evening, Miss Hayward, Your Grace.”

Clara watched the woman depart, excruciatingly aware that she was now alone with the duke. She turned back to face him warily. “Your Grace—”

“I can have the equipage brought around while you wait here, Miss Hayward,” Holloway interrupted her before she could say anything further. “But it is a beautiful evening that would be made only more beautiful by your company. Perhaps you would walk with me back to the dower house to collect our transportation?”

Clara blinked. Yes, the reckless part of her hissed. Absolutely not, the more prudent part of her countered. “Um.”

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Look for excuses to hide behind as to why you should not. You didn’t do it ten years ago. Don’t do it now.”

Clara could feel her heart thrumming in her chest. She looked up at him, completely at a loss for words. Simply lost, period.

“I’ll ask again, Miss Hayward. Perhaps you would like to walk with me a bit before we depart?”

“Yes,” she heard herself reply. “I’d like that.”

“Very good, then.” He offered her his arm.

Clara stepped forward, her hand sliding around his arm. Instantly his other hand came up to cover hers, and she could feel the heat of his palm bleeding through her thin gloves. She could also feel the steely strength of his arm and the way his body brushed against hers as they moved. She closed her eyes and told herself again that he was not escorting her to a night of wicked revelry but to a casual dinner with her brother. Which meant that if this night was to be bearable, it would be better if she cleared the air with the duke before they ever reached the tavern. She did not want to draw Harland into what had been an ill-advised topic of conversation.

She cleared her throat. “Your Grace, I’ve been thinking about our last conversation, and I believe I should apol—”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking a great deal about our last conversation as well,” he said, leading her down the steps into the early-evening light.

“It wasn’t my place to—”

“Please let me finish,” he said, and Clara made a funny noise in her throat. He looked at her quizzically. “What?”

“You will not offer me the same courtesy? You haven’t let me finish a sentence yet,” she murmured.

“For good reason, Miss Hayward.” He led her around the far side of Avondale and toward the path that would take them across the expanse of field and through the small copse of trees separating the dower house from Avondale. “You’ve been trying to apologize for something that requires no apology. In fact, I rather feel you’ve apologized to me far too much of late. And that, I can only conclude, is borne of a fear that, when challenged, I’ll conduct myself in a manner befitting a temperamental two-year-old, collect my sister, and storm my way back to London in a self-righteous rage.”

Clara turned her head to stare at him. “That sounds very…dramatic.”

“Doesn’t it?” His hand tightened over hers. “And that is not I. And that is not Anne either. She rarely complains of anything. Which is probably why I have done a poor job of considering her point of view of late. And I should be thanking you for drawing that to my attention.”

It suddenly became difficult to draw a full breath. They were walking very close together, and she could see the flecks of sapphire scattered in the azure of his irises. His eyes were even more startling given the sun-darkened planes of his face, and they had her firmly in their thrall. Should winged dragons start spewing from Avondale’s chimneys at that moment, Clara doubted she’d even notice.

“I see,” she managed to utter, because that was the only thing that her addled mind could come up with. Holloway had shaved just recently, and she could smell the sharp, clean scent of the soap he’d used. Near his ear was a slightly reddened mark where the blade had pressed a little too hard, and she suffered a sudden urge to rise on her toes and press her lips to that skin.

“I love my sister very much, Miss Hayward. And I do not want to see her unhappy.”

Good Lord, but if she didn’t remember how to breathe again soon, she might simply drop like a sack of onions at his feet. “I’m glad I could be of some small help, Your Grace.”

“Don’t ever stop,” he said in a low voice, searching her face.

The aching need to kiss him unfurled into a need for something far more wanton than mere kisses. Her nipples hardened against her bodice, and an unmistakable dampness had gathered between her legs.

“Stop what?” she whispered. When had this gotten away from her? When had this conversation turned into something so dissolute in her head? Because all she could imagine was what it might be like to have him at the mercy of her hands and her lips and hear him say, Don’t ever stop.

“Don’t ever stop asking me difficult questions,” Holloway said. “Don’t ever stop making me accountable for my actions.”

Clara shook her head, not trusting her voice.

“You did it the day I first met you, and you did it again yesterday. And I think I might just be a better man—or at least a better brother—because of it. Because of you.”

“I rather think you’re doing just fine on your own.” It sounded a little uneven. “I very much doubt you need my help.” Clara’s eyes slid from his, focusing on a small white butterfly that was fluttering near the edge of the grassy path.

Holloway didn’t answer. They continued walking, the path now following a low stone fence that ran to the edge of the wind-buffeted trees. Here, away from the house, the sound of the surf was louder, the breeze a little stronger. They were almost to the trees when the duke stopped.

“I should have kissed you,” he said suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” Her eyes flew back to his.

“That night when we waltzed.” He held her gaze. “I wanted to kiss you then. I want to kiss you now.”

Clara swallowed with difficulty. Not only was she having trouble breathing, but the ground beneath her feet suddenly felt unsteady.

“Why?” It slipped out, and Clara cursed at the awkward inanity of such a question.

Holloway chuckled. “Only you would ask that.” The mirth slid from his face, replaced with a smoldering heat. His hand slid slightly, and his fingers gently caressed the exposed skin of her upper arm.

“Why did you really invite me out here?” she asked abruptly.

“Why do you ask?”

She bit her lip. “You’re getting better at that, Your Grace. Turning the why back on me.”

“Before I met you, I believed myself to be one of the best at it. You, however, have proven me wrong.”

“I’m not sure if that is a compliment.”

“It is.”

“And you have yet to answer my question.”

“That’s true.”

Clara ran the fingers of her free hand over the cool, rough stone. “I’d appreciate the truth.”

The duke was silent for a long minute. “Because you fascinate me. You’re extraordinary.”

Clara felt her cheeks flush. She cast about for a suitable response but could find none.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable.” His voice was low.

“You just surprised me with your flattery.”

“Not flattery. The truth.”

“Your Grace—”

“August. I want you to call me August.”

Clara’s mind was racing, but not as fast as her heart was slamming in her chest. “I’m not sure that is appropriate given my position as—”

“As what? A beautiful, brilliant woman? Because right here, right now, that is who you are.” He ran a finger down the side of her face before slowly threading his fingers through the hair at the back of her head. She could feel pins tumble to fall soundlessly into the grass. “The woman I once let get away.”

His fingers caressed the nape of her neck.

“You were right, you know,” he said, stepping closer so that the backs of her legs were pressed against the stone wall and the front of her was a whisper away from the entire length of him.

“About what?” she managed to whisper.

“That regrets are nothing but excuses. And I’m done with both.” His other hand came up to catch her face.

Clara closed her eyes, every nerve ending she possessed on fire. Time seemed to have slowed. A strange sense of inevitability enveloped her, as though this moment had been unavoidable since the very second she had said yes to a waltz. His fingers dropped from the side of her face to trail along the side of her neck, along the ridge of her collarbone, and down to the edge of her bodice.

The heat that had been chasing itself across her skin pooled low in her belly and between her legs. Her breasts felt heavy, and her nipples hardened. She kept her eyes closed, focusing solely on the feel of his hands and the warmth from his body as he closed the distance between them and pressed against her.

And then she felt him move again, and his lips brushed hers, softly, deftly. She remained perfectly still, lust screaming through her limbs. His hand that had been resting at the edge of her bodice lowered, stroking the side of her breast and coming to rest at her waist, urging her more firmly against him. She could feel the hard solidity of his body through the light fabric of her skirts, and she sucked in a breath, her arousal sharpening and a pulsing restlessness stealing whatever coherent thought remained.

And then his mouth returned to hers, controlled and soft again as he teased her lips. It was an exquisite, gentle torment, as though he feared she might shatter. Clara brought her own hands up, slipping them inside his coat and sliding them over his waistcoat to his shoulders, feeling his steely strength under the soft linen of his shirt. Her hands roamed farther under his coat and down his back, intoxicated by the way his muscles flexed beneath her touch.

He made an incoherent noise and deepened their kiss, though still with the same careful control. Not enough. She opened her mouth, catching his lower lip and tracing it wickedly with her tongue.

It was as if she had branded him. His head jerked back, and he stared at her, his breath coming quick and shallow, his hands still holding her in place. “Bloody hell,” she thought she heard him groan.

Clara wasn’t sure if she should embrace her confusion or her mortification first. What was wrong with her? What had she done?

“Was it something I said?” she murmured, willing the ground to open up and swallow her so that she wouldn’t need to hear him answer or face him when he did.

“I am not the first man to kiss you,” he blurted, sounding just as confused as she felt.

Clara goggled at him. “What?”

“I thought…I mean to say…I wasn’t expecting…”

“Bloody hell indeed,” she breathed. “You thought I’d never been kissed?”

He had the grace to redden. Good Lord, that was exactly what he had thought. Well, that might explain why he had been so very, very careful. She wasn’t sure whether to be moved by his gentleness or appalled by his astounding arrogance.

“Why would you have thought that?” she breathed.

August shook his head. “I’m not…I can’t…”

A very inelegant snort escaped. “Because I was the wallflower at the ball? The bluestocking who never married and became a spinster?”

“I despise how you make that sound,” he growled. “As if you are…less. You are not.”

“While I am touched by your words, let me assure you I have never considered myself less. Different, of course, but not less for it.” She paused. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Been kissed. Before tonight, that is.”

“That is the most idiotic question I’ve ever been asked.”

“I take that as a yes. But you’re not married.”

“Of course not.” Now he sounded cross.

“Do you see my point here?”

“I’m not a half-wit,” he growled. “It just…took me by surprise.”

“Would you like to stop?”

His head dropped, and Clara saw his lips twitch. “That’s what I was prepared to ask you.”

“Ah. Well, I think you had my answer. Before you reacted like a scalded cat.”

His hand tightened at her waist. “I resent being compared to a cat.”

“And I resent being kissed like a schoolgirl.” She wanted those words back the second they were out. Because the humor was wiped clean from his face, to be replaced with something dark.

“I can assure you, Miss Hayward, it won’t happen again.”

She swallowed. “Perhaps that is for the best.” It was true. Her mind seemed to have regained its grasp on sanity, and this kiss, however short and sweet it had been, shouldn’t go any further.

“You misunderstand me.” The duke shifted, bringing his leg forward so that it was wedged between hers. The hand that still rested at the back of her head lifted and stroked the hair that had tumbled down, coming to rest at the small of her back, his fingers splayed possessively. “When I kiss you again, it will not be like a schoolgirl.”

Clara’s mouth went dry.

“Who kissed you before me?” he asked in a low voice.

“What?” It was hard to concentrate with so much of him pressed against so much of her.

“The man who kissed you. Were you in love with him?”

Clara shook her head. “The woman you kissed before me. Were you in love with her?”

Holloway laughed, a low rumble she could hear in his chest. “That was well done.”

“It was a reasonable question. At the least, as reasonable as the one you asked me.”

“Touché.” His hand at her back slid back up to the nape of her neck. “So tell me, Miss Hayward, was kissing part of your impressive education?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

He drew back. “What?”

“Yes. It was.”

“I was jesting, Miss Hayward.”

“And I was not.”

“I don’t understand.”

Clara brought her hands to the front of his coat and ran them down the lapel, picking her words with careful concentration. This was not something that she had ever intended to discuss with this man. But here they were, and she would not retreat. And if he could not accede to what she was about to say, then it was better that everything stop here and now. “The idea that a gentleman should go to his marriage bed well versed in the art of bed sport, while his fine lady should go to that same marriage bed utterly ignorant, is a bit of a conundrum, isn’t it?”

She felt him still. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did you know that when my mother, as a very sheltered daughter of a baron, married my father, she didn’t know how babies were made? She didn’t know what parts were supposed to go where. She was told that marital relations were painful, but her duty, and something to be suffered through.” She looked up at Holloway. “I can’t imagine that is the speech given to most young lords, is it?”

The duke was staring at her.

“In fact, as I understand it, if a titled man hasn’t taken his son to his favored courtesan or mistress by the time the young buck is sixteen, he’s failed in one of his principal duties as a father.” She tilted her head. “Am I wrong?”

Holloway was frowning fiercely now.

“Luckily, my mother married a very loving, very patient, very open-minded man. Not every bride is quite so lucky. So when she had daughters of her own, she encouraged us to…educate ourselves. At the very least understand exactly how it is that children are conceived. Empower ourselves with knowledge and understanding. And yes, experience, though that is a personal choice.”

Holloway still hadn’t spoken.

“You don’t approve.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do that. Put words in my mouth again.”

“Your Grace—”

“August.” He touched his finger to her lips. “I asked you to call me August.” He made a funny sound of amusement. “Given the nature of this…entire conversation, I think we are well beyond proper titles. And I don’t think it’s my place to approve or disapprove.”

Clara traced one of the buttons on the front of his coat with her thumb, something squeezing relentlessly in her chest. “I appreciate that, but I’m not sure that is entirely true.”

“What do you mean?”

She kept her eyes firmly on the button beneath her fingers, reluctant to look up. “There is an old midwife who lives just outside Dover,” she went on. “During the summer, I hire her to speak with my students. Fill in any gaps in their education when it comes to…amorous congress and childbearing. Answer questions about a woman’s health that most of the world they live in deems inappropriate or scandalous to ask. Some of my students are fortunate enough to have women in their lives who have already taught them much, but others are as ignorant as my mother was.” Clara paused. “Your sister will be part of that class.”

The duke stepped back from her, his hands falling away, taking his heat with him. Part of Clara, the part that had managed to find a little sanity, was relieved. The other part of her wanted to weep with frustration, loss, and regret. She tried to read his expression, but his features gave none of his thoughts away.

“If ever there was a time you’d like to collect your sister and storm back to London in a self-righteous rage, now would be it,” she muttered.

“Have you lost your mind?” Holloway demanded.

Clara’s chin came up along with her indignation. “I’ve had young girls confess to me that they thought they were dying the first time they got their monthly courses because no one had taken the time to explain even that. I cannot abide by such—”

“Stop. You misunderstand me again,” he said, sounding a bit strangled. “Completely.”

“Your Grace—”

“August.”

“August.” She squared her shoulders.

“Thank you. And I’m not…” He trailed off, as if searching for the right words. “I am not sure that I am the…source of guidance my sister needs when it comes to…feminine matters. The fact that you have taken it upon yourself to provide such guidance is a relief.” He exhaled heavily. “So, yes, you’ve lost your mind if you think I think I can do better. If that makes any sense.”

“Oh.” The strange feeling that had been squeezing her heart returned.

August braced his hands on the stone wall and leaned forward, studying the horizon. “You are full of surprises, Miss Hayward.”

“Clara.”

He turned his head.

“Given the nature of this entire conversation, I think we are well beyond proper titles.” She echoed his words, trying to make it light, but she wasn’t sure if she had been able to keep the longing from them.

“Well, then, I’m glad we got that sorted.” He straightened and stepped toward her again. “Clara.”

The sound of her name on his lips set her pulse pounding. Cocooned as they were by their sun-kissed privacy, it was tempting to forget that reality existed. “I understand if you’re scandalized. Horrified. Given what—who—I am supposed to be. Though I’m not prepared to apologize for it.”

“Which is what? What are you supposed to be?”

“A woman of modesty and virtue. A woman who is deemed fit to tutor her young charges not because of her experience and knowledge of the world, but because of her lack of it.”

“I don’t want the woman you’re supposed to be,” he said, his voice low. “I never have. I want the woman you are, and everything that that encompasses. I wanted her ten years ago, and I want her now.” He stepped closer to her, his hand coming up to toy with the ribbon at the front of her bodice. “A woman who knows her own mind. A woman who can make a man lose his. Make him do reckless things.”

“August—”

He closed the remaining distance, once again pressing her back against the stone fence. His hands went to her lower back and then suddenly they dropped to her buttocks, and she was being lifted up, coming to sit on the edge of the cool stone. He ran his hands down the backs of her thighs, shoving her skirts up slightly and bringing her legs to rest on either side of his hips.

Desire streaked through Clara. She tightened her legs around him, her heels pressed firmly against the small of his back. August made a guttural sound of approval and leaned into her, and she could feel his own arousal, pressed firmly against her core.

His breath brushed against the side of her neck, and she shivered. “You should be kissed, and kissed often,” he whispered. “Kissed often by a man who knows how. A man who will kiss you until you can’t breathe. Can’t think. Someone who will set your blood on fire and make you feel like the only woman in the world.”

Clara was pretty sure he had accomplished everything on that list before he had even kissed her. His hands roamed over her rear and then up her back, urging her even closer. “But tell me what you want, Clara.”

“I’d like to be kissed by a man who knows how,” she whispered back. “Until I can’t breathe. Can’t think.” Her fingers found the sides of his face, skimming over his cheeks before she let them delve into his hair the way she had longed to, tangling them in the silky thickness. She brought her mouth to his, starting the way he had. Gentle, soft brushes of her lips over his. Controlled, measured tastes. He let her, for long seconds, and only the increasing pressure of his fingers at her shoulders betrayed the steady fraying of his control.

And then his hands moved, and he caught the base of her head, curling his fingers in her hair and tipping her head back so that his mouth could slant over hers. She gasped, and he angled his head farther, his tongue now stroking deep against hers as he claimed her. This wasn’t a gentle kiss. This was hot and hard and demanding and stole every lucid thought other than her need to belong to this man. She kissed him back, all the pent-up emotion and longing she had ever suppressed channeled into a language he seemed to understand perfectly. It could have been seconds or minutes or hours that he kissed her, but it was difficult to tell, because time ceased to have meaning. Sensation coursed through her, making her ache and throb with need. She tightened her legs around his hips, and he made a tortured noise, his hands sliding from the base of her skull to skim her bodice.

He cupped her breasts through the fabric, filling his hands with them, rubbing his thumbs over her aching nipples. It was excruciating to have him touching but not touching. To not have his hands on her skin. His mouth dropped to her neck, his tongue and lips leaving trails of fire everywhere they went. Her head tipped back as she arched against him, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

“Clara,” he whispered against her skin.

She could hear her heart thundering in her ears, growing louder with each passing second. It vibrated through her veins, a relentless pounding that couldn’t be ignored. Her head fell to the side, her gaze unfocused, spots of color dancing before her vision.

And then she blinked, and with horror she realized that the thunder was not just that of her pulse, but also that of two dozen horses pounding their way across the grassland below them.

August suddenly yanked her hard against him, gathering her tight and dropping to his knees just behind the wall. His hands were wrapped around her back, keeping her steady. She looked up at him in the pale light, and he nodded, releasing his grip slightly so that she was able to relax her legs and slide away from him. She came to rest on her hands and knees and cautiously peered over the top of the wall, praying that they hadn’t been spotted.

The soldiers didn’t seem to have noticed them at all. Instead they had reined in their horses and had their attention fixed on the glittering sea. Clara could hear faint shouts as orders were issued, though the breeze was not strong enough to carry their words. The horses milled about restlessly for a minute before the riders split into two groups, one heading farther north, and the other angling inland, back in the general direction of the town.

“Do they ever stop?” August whispered roughly beside her. “The damn soldiers?”

She turned to him in surprise. “What do you know of them?”

“Enough.”

She frowned slightly at his incomplete answer. “It’s going to be a clear night with a full moon. Easy to see anyone out who shouldn’t be. Anyone along the beaches. Small craft out on the water. They must have received a tip.” Her heart rate was slowly returning to normal. She slid back down the stone fence and turned, leaning her back against it. “The soldiers come to Avondale from time to time. Asking if Tabby and Theo have seen any suspicious activity, given the proximity of the house to the coast. On occasion they interrogate Harland when we’re here.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a doctor who gets called out at all hours of the day and night. And there is probably little that he hasn’t seen in his travels.”

“Will the soldiers go there now?” August was frowning. “To Avondale?”

“I don’t think so.” She pushed herself to her feet. “We should go.” The men were distant smudges of color down the coast, while the soldiers who had gone inland had vanished over the rise.

“Yes.” August stood beside her but caught her arm before she could turn away. “Are you…Are we good?”

“Good?”

“I don’t want what just happened to make things awkward between us.”

“You’re having regrets already?”

His expression hardened, and he suddenly pulled her to him, kissing her long and hard, ravaging her mouth and promising far more carnal things to come.

She should pull away. She kissed him back instead.

“Does it seem as if I have any regrets?” he growled against her lips.

“No,” she replied a little unsteadily.

“Then I’m glad we got that sorted too.” He raised his head slightly. “Because I’ll kiss you again.”

“Is that wise?”

“I don’t care if it’s wise. It’s what I want. And I think what you want.”

Yes, she wanted to tell him. Yes, yes, and whatever else he thought she wanted when it came to him, yes to that too. Because he would be right. And that wasn’t wise at all.

“Where is this going?” she asked suddenly.

“This?”

“Us.”

He reached up and pushed her hair away from her face. “Wherever you wish it to.”

“August, I don’t regret what just happened here either. But it can’t ever become…anything,” Clara said, loss and loneliness stabbing at her as reality took hold. She shoved it back. “I cannot be the mistress of a duke and still have any hope of running Hav—a school for young ladies. If it became known that we were an us, I would lose my reputation and my livelihood. And I will not sacrifice that for a temporary tryst.”

His expression was unreadable, and he remained silent.

She went up on her toes and brushed her mouth against his. “Let’s go,” she said, and this time he let her pull away.