Chapter 5 #2
Clara glanced across the row to see how Mrs Chesson had taken her question being answered by Mrs Fairway and found the woman glaring at her daughter.
Clara bit back a smile, knowing full well why the lady had been trying to ingratiate herself with the dowager after the duke’s recent condemnation of Miss Chesson’s behaviour towards Clara.
Perhaps sensing Clara’s eyes upon her, Miss Chesson turned, saw Clara, and went scarlet.
Clara smiled, finding she was not above enjoying the young woman’s mortification.
Gracious, how dreadful she was, but then Miss Chesson was a spiteful little beast who had not been above kicking poor Benny, and whilst she might forgive the girl’s behaviour to her, she could not forgive that.
Finally, the meeting was at an end, and Clara took out the book she had brought for the exchange, laying it on the table and perusing the offerings.
“The Midnight Heir?” Eustacia smiled as she picked up the book Clara had placed on the table. “You like Mrs Wildblood, then?”
“I do,” Clara admitted, wondering if Eustacia would judge her for enjoying such sensational novels. “I was rather hoping there might be more of hers here.”
“Then you are in luck.” With a flourish, Eustacia reached into the little bag she carried and brought out a book, handing it to Clara.
Taking it, Clara read the title. “The Widow of Blackthorn Abbey. Oh!” She stared at Eustacia, speechless with excitement. “But this only came out a few weeks ago. I never dreamed I should find a copy. Have you read it?”
“I have, and very good it is too.” Eustacia smiled, looking pleased at Clara’s enthusiasm. “I shall look forward to discussing it with you. I think you’ll like the heroine. Eleanor is a rather shy young woman, but she is remarkably courageous.”
Clara blinked, rather startled. Surely Eustacia did not think to compare her with the courageous heroine of a Gothic novel? Eustacia returned a wry smile.
“Yes, Clara. I believe you have hidden depths, try as you might to pretend otherwise.”
“Oh, but I-I’m not pretending,” Clara stammered, though she fervently wished she was. It was rather wonderful that such a splendid creature as Eustacia Foxworthy regarded her with interest and believed she had hidden depths! How ridiculous.
If Eustacia knew about the dreadful letter she had sent the Duke of Hawkney, she would not be so admiring, Clara thought sadly.
She shuddered, having promised herself she would not think of it, for it was too dreadful.
Worse still, she was a little uncertain of what exactly she had written.
She had the devastating notion that she might have mentioned bees.
Bees, of all things! Clara shook her head before realising Eustacia was watching her.
“I’m not hiding anything interesting, I’m afraid,” Clara said sadly, glancing up at the woman. Perhaps she would not wish to paint her now.
Eustacia only returned a swift grin. “No, no, my dear. You forget that the artist’s eye sees all. You cannot hide from me.”
She winked mischievously, giving Clara the feeling they shared a private joke. It was rather nice, even if Clara had no idea what the joke was.
They sat and enjoyed a cup of tea but declined the cakes—lovely as they looked—for there were scones awaiting them at Eustacia’s house. They were just about to leave when Eustacia was called back by the dowager duchess, who wished to speak with her.
“I’ll wait outside,” Clara said with a smile.
She walked through the entrance hall and out into the fresh air and stopped in her tracks as she discovered the dowager’s carriage waiting, and the duke standing beside it.
As ever, he was immaculate, from the tips of his polished boots up over marvellously powerful legs, muscular thighs, and a perfectly cut coat that made the most of his broad shoulders.
Clara’s heart plummeted to her toes, and for a tense moment she almost turned and fled back inside.
But the duke had seen her and would know she was running away.
Writing a stupid letter whilst intoxicated on his brandy was bad enough, being too hen-hearted to face the consequences…
well, she could bear him to think her a fool—just about—but a coward too? No.
So, she carried on down the steps towards him, her heart thudding erratically. Drat the man, could he not leave the house with an egg stain on his cravat or a scuff on his boots? Why must he always be so wretchedly perfect?
“Your grace,” she said, dipping a curtsey.
“Miss Halfpenny. How do you do?”
If he was appalled by whatever she had written in the letter—and not knowing just how ridiculous she’d been was going to drive her to Bedlam—then he was far too well bred to show it.
“Quite well, I thank you. As it happens, I am glad to have bumped into you, for I—”
Clara swallowed, it was dreadful of her to have written to him at all, but to acknowledge her wrongdoing when she might pretend it had never happened was appalling.
Yet she must apologise. It was absolutely not done for a single female to write to an unmarried man, but to have the temerity to write to a duke!
Clara felt sick, but there was no escaping it.
She knew right from wrong, or at least she did when she was sober.
“Yes?” he prompted, one dark eyebrow lifting.
Clara took a breath. She may as well get it over with. “I wish to apologise.”
His expression cleared, satisfaction smoothing the harsh lines of his too handsome face.
“Ah, at last. I wondered how long it would take before you realised you had been dreadfully rude to me. Somehow you have convinced the world that you are shy and retiring, but I, for one, know otherwise.”
Clara gazed at him. “Rude?” Surely not. She knew the letter had been ill-advised, and she had the disquieting idea that she might have complained about her aunt; possibly the word nip-cheese had been mentioned. But rude to him?
“Well, I believe calling me an ‘ill-mannered creature’ in front of my family and several hundred guests, might be construed as rude, yes.”
“Oh, that. No, that’s not what I’m apologising for,” Clara said, waving this away.
The duke’s eyebrows went up. “It’s not?”
Clara shook her head. “No. You were an ill-mannered creature. The observation stands. Just because you have since redeemed yourself does not make it any less accurate.”
She thought perhaps a muscle in his jaw ticked, but she could not tell if he was holding back a biting comment because he was furious or trying not to laugh. Deciding she had better just get it over with, she ploughed on.
“I am apologising for… for the ill-judged letter I wrote you. It was most out of character and quite wrong of me, and I would never have done so only—”
“Only you had dipped rather deep,” the duke observed. “I might go so far as to say you were tap-hackled, Miss Halfpenny.”
Heat climbed up Clara’s neck, but she held his gaze, noting the amusement dancing in his blue eyes. He was enjoying her awkwardness she realised with exasperation.
“Certainly not,” she replied, putting up her chin. “Though I will agree I was perhaps a trifle….”
“Bosky?”
“Disguised,” Clara amended sternly.
“Ah. Yes. I see.” The duke folded his arms and Clara tried not to notice how muscular his biceps were.
Surely dukes ought to be old and bent, or at least young, frail and consumptive. The Duke of Hawkney seemed to enjoy the rude health of a blacksmith. He was altogether too large and… and ducal.
“I suppose that’s my fault for supplying you with the brandy.”
“Of course not.” Clara glared at him, irritated that he should imply she would blame him for her own foolish behaviour. “It was entirely my fault. I did not realise how strong the brandy was and how deeply it would affect me. It was just so delicious and… and it made me feel—”
She sighed and shook her head, the duke did not care how she felt, only that she did not cause him any further trouble.
“What did it make you feel?”
Shocked, Clara looked back at him. He certainly looked interested, though probably only because he wanted to confirm she was queer in her attic. Still, she shrugged. “I don’t know. It just felt like my troubles went away for a little while. It was…pleasant.”
“Your troubles?” His expression tightened, and she suspected he was about to give her a lecture on the evils of drink when Eustacia appeared.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, I—oh.” She stopped in her tracks upon seeing Clara conversing with a man.
Whatever the duke had been about to say, he changed his mind. Instead, he nodded coolly to Eustacia.
“If you will excuse me, Miss Halfpenny, Madam. I had best inform my grandmother that I am awaiting her. Good day to you.”
Without another word, he strode off into the hotel.
Eustacia turned to stare at Clara, her mouth open. “Was that—?”
“The Duke of Hawkney, yes.”
With a startled laugh, Eustacia gazed at Clara with fascination shining in her eyes. “I knew it. Hidden depths.”