He had danced with her on a dare.
Childish, certainly. Boorish, most definitely, but it was easier to critique such behaviors when one was no longer in the throes of obnoxious youth, surrounded by arrogant acquaintances who snickered and leered and sought entertainment at the expense of others. And to this day, August Faulkner, the twelfth Duke of Holloway, had never forgotten it.
He hadn’t been duke of anything then. Though his bravado and sense of self-importance had seemed to make up for that shortcoming. At the time, he’d thought Clara Hayward, the eldest daughter of the charismatic and wildly popular Baron Strathmore, would simply be a means to an end.
She had been pretty—flawless fair skin framed by lustrous mahogany tresses shot through with rich, ruby highlights. Dark eyes ringed by darker lashes, set into a face that smiled often. An elegant figure displayed by tasteful gowns and a graceful poise that was remarked upon often. Combined with the staggering wealth of her family, there should have been earls and dukes and princes falling all over themselves begging for her attention.
Instead, her dance card remained empty despite a flurry of proper introductions. And those earls and dukes and princes kept a wary distance—held at bay by the single, inexcusable flaw that illustrious lords could simply not tolerate in a potential wife: an education and an intelligence greater than their own.
August hadn’t understood that then. Instead, he had foolishly put Clara Hayward in a box labeled “wallflower,” confident in his superiority. And with the snickers and guffaws of his companions echoing in his ears, he had sauntered up to where she stood at the edge of the dance floor that night and offered her the privilege of his presence.
Miss Hayward had gazed upon him with what looked like bemused tolerance when he had bowed dramatically over her hand. Her dark eyes had flickered over his shoulder to where his cronies watched, waiting for her to stammer or stumble. Instead, her full lips had only curled a little farther and her eyes had returned to his, a single brow cocked in clear, knowing amusement, and he knew then she had heard every crass, careless word. And it had been August who had stammered and stumbled as she took his arm.
He had led her out on the dance floor, appalled at the way his heart was hammering in his chest. She had placed one steady hand in his, another on the sleeve of his coat, and met his eyes directly as the first strains of music floated through the ballroom. August had tried then to recoup whatever advantage he seemed to have lost and used every ounce of his considerable prowess on the dance floor, leading her in a sweeping, reckless waltz that should have wilted a wallflower into a blushing mess.
But Clara Hayward had only matched him step for step, never once looking away. And by the time the waltz had concluded, the conversation in the room had faltered, every damn guest was staring at them, and August was experiencing a horrifying shortness of breath that had nothing to do with his exertions.
“Good heavens,” she had murmured, not sounding nearly as breathless as he. “I was told that you were daring, Mr. Faulkner. And you do not disappoint. You are exactly as advertised.”
“And you, Miss Hayward, are not.” He’d blurted it before he could stop himself, unsure if her words were a compliment or criticism. And unsure what to do with either.
She’d grinned then—an honest-to-goodness grin that suggested that they were collaborators, complicit in something deliciously wicked. “Good,” was all she had said, and his world had tilted. He had found himself grinning foolishly back, disoriented as all hell.
August had left Miss Hayward in the care of her brother after that, and Harland Hayward had gazed upon him with the reproach and pity that August both deserved and hated. He’d not danced with her again, a fact that evoked a peculiar regret if he thought about it for too long. In fact, he had never spoken to Miss Hayward since that night, their paths seemingly diverging in two completely opposite directions.
He to a duchy he’d never expected. She to a life of refined academia she’d undoubtedly planned as the headmistress of the most elite finishing school in Britain.
That was, until August had made an offer to buy that school yesterday. Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate, he supposed, because the final sale would not go through until six weeks from now. Not a long time for August to wait to purchase a property he’d had his eye on for years, but a long time in which Miss Hayward might change her mind.
He glanced down at the papers his solicitors had left on his desk. Miss Clara Hayward was written in neat letters on the previous deed of ownership, and the sight of her name still jolted him even now. Which was absurd, because it mattered not which Hayward actually owned the damned school, only that they were finally willing to sell. But seeing her name had triggered a flood of memories and somehow undermined the fierce satisfaction that he should have felt at the prospect of the Haverhall School for Young Ladies becoming part of his vast holdings.
August had made the unforgivable mistake of assuming that the current baron had owned Haverhall, along with the shipping empire that had given rise to the Haywards’ extensive fortune. But now August was left contemplating why, in a world where women very rarely owned a freehold property that hadn’t been conveyed to trustees, Clara Hayward would let it slip away from her.
To anyone else, the why probably wouldn’t matter. Not when one had gotten what they wanted. There was a whole slew of advice that involved gift horses and mouths that most individuals would heed. But August was not most individuals. He despised questions that did not have answers. He abhorred not knowing what motivated people to act as they did. His sister, Anne, often told him that it was an unhealthy compulsion, his need to pry into the dark corners of other people’s lives for profit. But he hadn’t become as wealthy as he had by simply accepting what was on the surface. There was something more to this that he wasn’t seeing. Information was power, and he could never have enough.
August frowned and reached for his knife, trimming the end of a quill absently. It was ironic, really, that he knew so little about a woman he’d been unable to forget, even after all these years. He knew Miss Clara Hayward had a reputation for graciousness, propriety, and common sense—by all reports she was a damn paragon of politesse. The ton, while unsure what to make of her as a debutante, seemed to have enthusiastically embraced the idea that the woman guiding their young charges was one of them—from a family of means, breeding, and good taste. That, combined with limited availability and exorbitant fees, had made her school as popular with the most elite of London society as it had with those young ladies on the fringes of the upper crust who possessed dowries large enough to buy all of Westminster. Even peers with staunch traditionalist views, who closeted their daughters or sisters with governesses, had weakened at the opportunity for their female relations to take part in painting instruction given by Thomas Lawrence or to be coached in the cotillion or quadrille by Thomas Wilson. One did not have to enroll in the entire curriculum to participate in individual classes.
An unorthodox system to be sure, but one that had proved shockingly successful. August had to admit he admired Miss Hayward’s business model. It was the sort of thing he looked for in the many acquisitions he made.
It was almost unfortunate that none of that would be enough to save the school once it was his. Which also evoked a peculiar feeling of regret if he thought about it for too long. And that was utterly unacceptable because inane emotion had no place in lucrative business, no matter how unforgettable Clara Hayward may have been.