A Duke in the Night

by Kelly Bowen

  “This just makes me want to cry.”

  “I’m all out of aprons, so pace yourself.”

  Clara laughed and hiccupped at the same time.

  “This will make Anne so happy,” Rose said, as both women watched the children on the rope swing shriek with laughter.

  “Yes.”

  “What about you?” Rose asked.

  “What about me?”

  “I want to see you happy, Clara. You deserve it.”

  Clara looked down at her hands. “I love him. I’ve probably loved him since the first day I ever saw him. Which sounds absurd, I know. But I don’t know where to go from here.”

  Rose leaned against Clara, linking an arm through hers. “I doubt he does either. You’re both in uncharted territory, and I’m afraid I’m the last person who can offer you any guidance.”

  “You seem to be doing well so far,” Clara sniffed.

  “Perhaps.”

  “He’s never promised me anything.”

  Rose gave her a long look. “And what have you promised him?”

  Clara looked sightlessly out at the sheets swaying on the line. “Nothing.” And there it was. Neither one of them had dared to take a leap of faith. Neither one had dared risk everything. Instead they had both retreated to what they knew. Loyalty to their families. Determination to handle whatever needed to be done. Alone.

  “Good God, but you two deserve each other,” Rose scoffed quietly. She sobered. “Just don’t…turn away from him. Don’t retreat. Your duke is not like the others.”

  “No. He’s not.” But she’d already turned away. She’d already retreated.

  She wondered if it was already too late.

  Chapter 22

  It was just as well that Clara Hayward had never truly been in love before. Now that she had admitted it freely, now that it had been flushed from the dark, secret corners of her mind, it seemed to gain power with every minute that ticked by. It made logic difficult, and it made her emotions swing wildly between giddiness and terror. It had stolen her appetite and her ability to concentrate on a task for any amount of time.

  She hadn’t gotten much sleep that night, her sister’s words and everything she had learned that day rolling through her mind incessantly. When dawn had crept around the edges of her curtains, she hadn’t been any closer to knowing what she would say to August Faulkner. But she did know that she would say something. She would not turn away from this. She would take this leap of faith, and whether or not he would be there to catch her remained to be seen.

  But she would not harbor any regrets. There would be no excuses. And if the worst happened, if he turned from her, then she would at least have her answer. She would not spend another decade wondering what might have happened.

  “Step and turn!”

  The shout and stomp jarred her out of her musings, and she hastily returned her attention to her surroundings. She was in the middle of one of the dance classes that she always offered in the fall term at Haverhall. She had twenty young ladies with a collection of titles that read like a chapter in Debrett’s, a London dance master, and a string quartet awaiting its cue, all arranged in Haverhall’s small ballroom. The dance master was demonstrating the movements of a French waltz in the center of the room, counting loudly in time with his steps.

  Clara turned her attention from the man and surreptitiously studied the girls. Some were watching the dance instructor, their lips moving in time with his count, their bodies swaying involuntarily as they followed his steps. Others were examining their fellow students with varying degrees of superciliousness, distrust, and judgment. Those were the ones whispering behind their hands the same way they would whisper behind their fans. Clara almost rolled her eyes.

  Her gaze fell on the young lady standing slightly apart from the group. She was perhaps sixteen, with jet-black hair and pale-blue eyes. She was watching the entire scene with a look of bemused interest, as though she had discovered that she had the finest seat in a theater. Every once in a while she would produce a small notebook and the stub of a pencil from somewhere in the fabric of her voluminous skirts and jot something down. She caught Clara watching her and blushed, jamming her notebook back into the folds of her skirts and feigning interest in whatever the dance master was droning on about.

  Clara smiled. She would be having a conversation with this young lady after class. Any young lady who had seemingly sewn pockets into her gown to conceal writing paraphernalia might just prove to be an excellent candidate for her summer school—

  “Miss Hayward?”

  The dance master was looking at her expectantly.

  “I beg your pardon?” Clara said. There were a few giggles.

  “I was wondering if you might care to demonstrate what a proper French waltz looks like to your students before they practice.”

  “Of course.” She gave herself a mental shake and stepped forward.

  The dance master took her hand in his cool one, and she stifled a sigh. Every waltz, for the rest of her life, would be a disappointment. The dance master held up his hand for the quartet, and there was a general shuffling as it prepared to play. He glanced back in its direction and dropped his hand for it to start.

  Except it never did.

  Instead there was a more pronounced shuffling, some frantic whispering, and then a flurry of giggles.

  “Pardon my intrusion, but I believe that this dance belongs to me.” The voice came from just behind her, and Clara froze.

  The dance master’s eyes widened slightly before they narrowed. “Excuse me, sir, but in case it had escaped your notice, you are interrupting a class. My class.”

  “My class,” Clara corrected him abruptly. She pulled her hand free from the instructor’s and turned very slowly to find August standing behind her, his hands clasped behind his back, his intense blue eyes fixed firmly on hers. His hair was a little windblown, as if he had just come in from a hard ride, and his clothing was simple and unadorned.

  “Miss Hayward, if I may have the honor?” He straightened and held out a hand. “And keep in mind that I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  Her eyes flickered over his shoulder to where twenty young women were staring openly. Except one who was scribbling something frantically. She smiled.

  “You may, Your Grace.”

  The dance master blanched and backed up, nearly tripping over his own feet. They both ignored him. Clara placed her hand in August’s, and the warmth of his touch instantly sent heat skating across her skin and down her spine. She placed another hand on his shoulder, and he slid his over her waist to rest at the small of her back.

  “You’re going to scandalize my students,” she murmured. She could feel her pulse pounding through her veins.

  “We scandalized everyone the first time we did this ten years ago. Why stop now?” he replied, pulling her closer than was proper.

  The quartet, which had hesitated, now started playing, and the first strains of music drifted through the air. August led her in the first steps of a dance that was so familiar, yet so breathtakingly new. She followed where he led, never breaking stride, never breaking eye contact. Their surroundings blurred and then faded altogether.

  “I’m sorry, Clara,” he whispered as they floated across the floor. “It was never my intention to hurt you.”

  “I know. I am sorry too,” she said.

  “For what? You did nothing.”

  “Exactly. I did nothing. I didn’t trust you; I didn’t ask you for help when I could have. I shut you out and tried to do everything by myself. And then, worse, standing in your library yesterday, I essentially demanded that you apologize for who you were. Something that I once accused you of doing to Anne, and for me to do it to you was unforgivable.”

  “I forgive you.” He tightened his hand on hers. “You were in an impossible position.”

  “Not impossible. Just hard.”

  He was shaking his head. “It wasn’t fair—”

  “Life isn’t f
air,” she whispered, moving her hand from his shoulder to touch his cheek. “You know that better than anyone.” She paused as they turned, the music thrumming through her. “It’s made us who and what we are, and I don’t want anyone other than the man who stands before me now. I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

  “Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Don’t ever change.”

  His lips twitched. “There might be room for a little improvement. Here and there.”

  Clara smiled. “I saw your gift to Anne,” she said softly.

  She felt August nearly miss a step. He danced on in silence for long seconds before he spoke again. “I hated what she was exposed to in Marshalsea,” August mumbled. “The filth, the disease, the hopelessness. That’s a hard thing to come back from.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Brookside is not a hotel exactly, but I think Anne will do an incredible job. Especially…”

  “Especially because she understands.”

  “Yes. Did I do the right thing?” he asked in a voice so low she barely heard him.

  Clara tried to find words but failed utterly.

  She saw his jaw tighten. “You don’t think I—”

  Clara pressed her fingers over his lips. “You’ve done a beautiful thing,” she whispered.

  He gazed down at her, his hand coming up to wipe from her cheek a tear she hadn’t even been aware she’d shed. “Thank you,” he murmured. “But don’t cry.”

  “I’m not crying. I’m just warming you up for Anne’s reaction,” she sniffled, her hand dropping to his chest.

  August laughed, and she felt the vibrations through his chest where her hand rested. “I’ll consider myself warned.” He paused. “Rose told you about Brookside?”

  “Yes.” Clara smiled. “Don’t look so surprised.”

  “I didn’t think your sister held me in very high regard.”

  “Then you think wrong. Besides, Rose insists she could never hate a man her sister is desperately in love with.”

  August abruptly stopped dancing, and Clara stumbled into him.

  “That was not very well done, Your Grace—”

  She never finished what she was going to say, because his lips were on hers in the softest, most gentle kiss. She melted into him, not caring who was watching. Not caring if she scandalized the daughters of half the peerage or all of London. He pulled back, a peculiar expression on his face. “August,” she whispered. At some point the quartet had ceased playing, and there was only silence all around them.

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out what looked like a delicate piece of ribbon tied in a small circle. He grasped her hand and looked down at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I should have done this ten years ago too,” he said.

  “Done what?”

  He touched her face. “Danced with you. Discovered what you think of Lapiths. Spied on you from behind stone fences. Learned a thing or two about purpose. Fallen in love with you.”

  Clara tried to speak, but her throat had closed up.

  August dropped to one knee and looked up at her. “You asked me once when enough is enough. You are my enough. You are my everything.” August drew her hand into his and slid the tiny ribbon over her ring finger. “I love you, Clara.”

  She looked down at the ribbon and touched it with her other hand in confusion.

  “This ribbon was tied around a deed to a parcel of land. This land has a small cottage in the back that someone told me is being used as an art studio, a pond that doesn’t seem to have any fish in it, some gardens that are rather pretty in summer, and a building that is currently being used as a school.” He tipped her chin up and found her eyes, the love that was coursing through her reflected in his own gaze. “I thought that it, more than pretty jewels or a flashy horse or a fine house, might make a good wedding present.”

  Clara made an inarticulate noise and dropped to her knees in front of him. “Yes,” she whispered. “It would.”

  “Is that an answer?” he asked.

  “Was that a question?”

  “Marry me. Or don’t. But promise me you’ll never dance with anyone besides me for the rest of your life.”

  “I like the first option,” she whispered again. “And the third.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her again, and this time she became aware of a smattering of sniffles and applause. August got to his feet and pulled her up with him. “I think we’ve properly scandalized your students.”

  “I hope so.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “I love you, August,” she whispered.

  “And I you.”

  “This was a terrible waltz, by the way. All that crying and talking and stopping.”

  “And kissing.”

  “And kissing,” she agreed, joy and love making it hard to speak. She felt, more than saw, August signal the quartet, and within seconds music once again filled the air.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he said, pulling her tightly against him. “Because I plan on dancing many, many more waltzes with my wife.”

  Eli Dawes, fourteenth Earl of Rivers, assumes that his name has been permanently etched in the long lists of soldiers who died at Waterloo. But now here he is, back on English soil, heading for the one place where he knows his arrival will go unmarked and his presence unheeded by anyone save a handful of servants.

  Avondale. And, unbeknownst to him, Rose Hayward.

  Please turn the page for a preview from Last Night with the Earl.

  It wasn’t the first time Eli Dawes had broken into this house.

  The rain seemed to slow slightly as he headed for the rear, toward the servants’ entrance near the kitchens. The doors of the house would be bolted, but there was a window with a faulty latch, which he had taken advantage of a lifetime ago when he would stumble back from town in the dead of night after too much whiskey. Eli gazed at the empty windows that lined the upper floors, relieved to find that the vast house was dark and silent. Avondale would be operating with only a skeleton staff—aside from maintaining the structure and grounds, there would be little to do.

  Eli slipped his fingers under the edge of the lower window and tapped on the top left corner while gently pushing upward. The window inched up slowly, though with a lot more resistance than he remembered.

  Above his head another roll of thunder echoed, and he cursed softly as the rain once again came down in sheets. Quickly he wrestled the window the rest of the way up and swung himself over the sill, then lowered the window behind him. The abrupt cessation of the buffeting wind and the lash of rain was almost disorienting. He stood for a long moment, trying to get his bearings and listening for the approach of anyone he might have disturbed.

  But the only sounds were the whine of the wind and the rattle of the rain against the windows. He breathed in deeply, registering the yeasty scent of rising dough and a faint whiff of pepper. It would seem nothing had changed in the years he’d been gone.

  The kitchens were saved from complete blackness by the embers banked in the hearth on the far side. Eli set his pack on the floor and wrenched off his muck-covered boots, aware that he was creating puddles where he stood. A rivulet of water slithered from his hair down his back, and he shivered, suddenly anxious to rid himself of his sodden clothes. He left his boots on the stone floor but retrieved his pack and made his way carefully forward, his memory and the dim light ensuring he didn’t walk into anything. Every once in a while, he would stop and listen, but whatever noise he might have made on his arrival had undoubtedly been covered by the storm.

  He crept soundlessly through the kitchens and into the great hall. Here the air was perfumed with a heady potion of floral elements. Roses, perhaps, and something a little sharper. He skirted the expanse of the polished marble floor to the foot of the wide staircase that led to the upper floors. Lightning illuminated everything for a split second—enough for Eli to register the large arrangement of flowers on a small table
in the center of the hall, as well as the gilded frames of the portraits that he remembered lining the walls.

  He shouldered his pack and slipped up the stairs, turning left into the north wing of the house. The rooms in the far north corner had always been his when he visited, and he was hoping that he would find them as he had left them. At the very least he hoped there was a bed, and something that resembled clean sheets, though he wasn’t terribly picky at this point. His stocking feet made no sound as he advanced down the hallway, running his fingers lightly along the wood panels to keep himself oriented. Another blaze of lightning lit up the hallway through the long window at the far end, and he blinked against the sudden brightness.

  There. The last door on the left. It had been left partially ajar, and he gently pushed it open, the hinges protesting quietly, though the sound was swallowed by a crash of thunder that came hard on the heels of another blinding flash. He winced and stepped inside, feeling the smoothness of the polished floor beneath his feet, his toes coming to rest on the raised, tasseled edges of the massive rug he remembered. This room, like the rest of the house, was dark, though unlike in the kitchen, there were no embers in the hearth he knew was off to his right somewhere.

  Against the far wall the wind rattled the windowpanes, but the sound was somewhat muffled by the heavy curtains that must be drawn. Eli drew in a breath and suddenly froze. Something wasn’t right.

  The air around him was redolent of scents he couldn’t immediately identify. Chalk, perhaps? And something pungent, almost acrid. He frowned into the darkness, slowly moving toward the hearth. There had always been candles and a small tinderbox on the mantel, and he suddenly needed to see his surroundings. His knee unexpectedly banged into a hard object, and something glanced off his arm before it fell to the floor with a muffled thud. He stopped, bending down on a knee, his hands outstretched. What the hell had he hit? What the hell was in his rooms?

  It hadn’t shattered, whatever it had been. Perhaps it—

  “Don’t move.”