“You do not strike me as being that altruistic.”
Michael grinned. “No. But it cannot hurt my position for the other traders to see that you have some of the finest thoroughly bred horses in all of England. To see I recognize that and how I bid.”
“So we will be washing each other’s backs, so to speak.”
“Indeed.”
Embleton glanced at the dance floor, and Michael followed his gaze. He stiffened as he realized Wykeham had led Honora Durham out for a dance, and the duke cut a gaze at him. “Does all of this have anything to do with your lovely dance partner?”
Michael’s teeth ground. “Possibly.”
“Hm.” Embleton leaned a little closer. “Do not take Wykeham for granted.”
Michael looked at him. “Sir?”
Embleton, a veteran of the Napoleonic wars who reminded Michael of his father, both in age and wisdom, looked out over the dance floor again. “He appears to be a simpering pink, but it is a façade. He is far wilier than that, and his goal is always about gaining more power. His machinations in Parliament are legendary. If he is determined to marry Lady Clara—and according to all rumors, he is—he will not take competition gracefully. He wants Durham’s favor in Parliament. He is also an experienced duelist, and despite current protocol, is still prone to take umbrage at the least slight.” The marquess stepped back. “Now. I must find my wife, Lord Michael. Good luck to you, and I will see you Monday.”
Michael bowed. “Your Grace.”
As Embleton weaved his way through the crush, Michael looked back at the dancers. The tune ended and Wykeham escorted Lady Durham back to the edge and claimed Clara for a dance. Although her mother appeared flushed and joyous, Clara looked as if she were marching to the gallows, her eyes down. Wykeham spoke to her, but Clara barely nodded a response.
The cotillion began and Michael watched the duke bounce in step beside Clara. With a start, Michael realized that the color of her gown matched the accents on Wykeham’s topcoat and waistcoat, and he knew he had been correct—the gown that so painfully re-formed her had been the duke’s idea.Rufus marks his territory with more subtlety.A petty thought, but Michael didn’t care. Yet he would not ignore Embleton’s words either:“Do not take Wykeham for granted... his goal is always about gaining more power.”The man might not be subtle, but he was devious. It would not do to become the man’s enemy. A different tack would be needed.
As the cotillion ended, the duke returned Clara to her mother, then searched the floor until his eyes met Michael’s, a move Michael had waited for. When the man smirked, Michael bowed from the waist, then mouthed the words,She’s yours.
The smirk became a grin.Of course.
Another bow. Then Michael pivoted and headed for the front of the mansion. He needed air and a lot of it. Instead of waiting for his carriage, he strode toward the line of parked vehicles near the back of the house. He found the Kennet carriage completely blocked in. He released the coachman to return to Ashton House whenever he could find a way out, then Michael walked back to Berkeley Square, his long legs making quick work of it. The earlier rain had left the air, if not entirely fresh, somewhat cooler and cleaner than in the recent summer drought. He took long, deep breaths, which helped clear his head. But still lost in his thoughts, he was not quite prepared to return home. The nagging restlessness Michael had felt since a child had returned in full force, pulling at his spirit, making him want—something—he was never sure what. A deep yearning for something...more.
He made a second circle around the square, then aimed his steps farther afield, relishing the sounds of the night—wheels on cobblestone, the occasional call of one voice or another, tinny echoes of a pianoforte from this house or that, the varied chirps and whistles of a nightingale.
A memory hit Michael with lightning clarity, and his steps slowed. Home from school for the Christmas holiday, he had sneaked his pony out of the stables and set off for a wild gallop across the fields. It had been cold, the midnight air slicing through his clothes and chilling him to his very marrow. But he barely felt it, the exhilaration far more consuming as he pushed the pony harder and faster than he had ever been allowed to by his father or the grooms. The darkness of the countryside had turned the stars to diamonds, the Milky Way—Caer Gwydion, according to the Welsh—a bright fire in the sky. When he finally halted his mount at the top of a steep hill, he stared up at the display before him. In that moment, the unfathomable restlessness had lifted, and Michael had felt a happiness he had seldom known before or since. A moment he had never shared with anyone, not even Eleanor. He had wanted to, but the time to share such a thing needed to be special—and that had never come to him since that night.
It had cemented his love of horses, although he realized now it had been a pure miracle that they had not both been killed. Horses, he knew now, had been his life all along; he had simply refused to acknowledge it in the wake of all that had happened to him. Horses—and the brilliant fire of the midnight sky.
This has to work.
Michael stopped, looking up, but in London few stars were visible, even in this part of town. Even on relatively fog-free nights a haze hung over the city, obscuring all but the brightest points of light. Still, the memory left him feeling emboldened. He needed advice, most likely from his father, who would have insights on business, horses, members of Parliament, power—and women.
Tonight, Michael had recognized the danger Wykeham represented, and not just to his courtship of Clara Durham. His attempts to build his reputation as a horseman—a businessman who dealt wisely with horses, the way the Tattersall family did—were on sketchy ground. A noble with the power of the Duke of Wykeham could blow to flinders any of Michael’s efforts.
Thus, Michael’s apparent surrender of Clara Durham to the “greater” man. Public versus private. To all observers, Clara would be the duke’s to win or lose. But Michael had seen the look in her eyes as he had partnered her in the quadrille, a light as bright as any star as she gazed at him. He had also watched that beautiful gleam fade into an impassive expression, dull and placid, as her mother had harangued her and the duke had taken over the evening.
He would do anything it took, whatever it took, to return that spark. Hewouldfind a way.
*
Saturday, 20 August 1825
Beckcott Hall
Half-past midnight
Everything ached. Herhead. Her feet. Her ribs. Even Clara’s fingers seemed to throb, most likely the result of clenching her fists at her side to keep from screaming. But it was finally over, thank God, and she sank back against the cushions of the carriage in pure relief. Even Honora seemed exhausted, limp against the carriage door, her eyes closed. But she was not asleep.
“You almost ruined the evening, you realize. Dancing with that man.”
Clara’s patience had evaporated. “He is a lord. His father is a duke. His family is nobility.”
