A Duke in the Night

by Kelly Bowen

  “You are not foolish to trust someone you’ve known for years,” August told her forcefully. “What happened just now is entirely on Stilton, not you. You did nothing to deserve that.”

  “I never encouraged him,” she said miserably. “And I certainly never wanted to kiss him.”

  “I noticed.” August’s voice rumbled in her ear.

  “God.” She squeezed her eyes shut briefly before pulling back. “How did you find me?”

  “Anne told me you had gone for a drive. It wasn’t hard to follow the sightings of a peacock in a chartreuse coat.”

  Clara made a muffled noise. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you come looking for me?”

  August was silent for a long moment. “A brilliant woman once told me that jealousy did not become me.”

  “That woman knew nothing.”

  August was silent.

  “I would never have married him,” Clara said fiercely. “No matter what he did.”

  “I don’t think Stilton anticipated that.”

  Clara bit her lip. “Would you really have killed him?”

  “Yes. If it had been necessary to protect you.” His voice was flat.

  “How very barbaric of you,” she said, and the tremor she could still hear in her words was no longer just from her ordeal.

  “Did you know that barbarian was a term that the Romans gave to everything and everyone who wasn’t them?” he asked, and Clara knew he was trying to distract her now.

  “The Greeks used it first,” she mumbled.

  August made a funny noise. “That is not the point. My point here is that in truth the barbarians were courageous, cunning, and ruthless and, in the end, drove the Romans all the way back to where they had started.”

  “Are you fishing for compliments, Your Grace?” She felt the pull of a smile.

  “Possibly. Probably.”

  “Then I rather like your barbarian tendencies,” she said wryly. “All of them.”

  “Good. So you won’t mind if I do this.” Without warning, he bent and scooped her up into his arms.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you back to Avondale.”

  “What? You can’t— Where— I don’t—”

  “Once we are there, if you are so inclined, you will ask me to stay for dinner.”

  “I will?”

  “Yes. Because I finally have an answer that is good enough for the question you once asked me.”

  “Oh.” She laid her head against his shoulder. “I’m having dinner tonight with the students. Lady Tabitha and Lady Theodosia as well.”

  “Splendid. I’ll join you.”

  He heard her laugh softly. “You might be the only male in attendance.”

  “Splendider.”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “It can be for a man who took to slaying dragons on behalf of his fair lady,” he said lightly.

  “You insult the dragon family, for Stilton is not so noble.”

  “You’re right. I always fancied dragons to be green or blue and not chartreuse.”

  Clara sobered suddenly. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”

  August pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her forehead. “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter 16

  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 Gr
ace 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.

  “W
hat 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.”