Michael slipped back into the stall to see Clara gathering a few last pins off the floor and dropping them into a pocket in her skirt.
“Won’t those poke you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She adjusted the gown again, and he could see that both side pockets bulged. “Not if I’m careful. Remember I am used to walking with a squirmy kitten tucked away.”
He pulled the pelisse off the door and went to her. “Clara—”
She put a finger to his lips as she shook her head. “We were foolish to attempt anything in a stable with all sorts of staff above us.” She paused, tilting her head, and she grinned. “At least it was not Lord Robert this time. Although I see you have as much difficulty talking to the servants as I do. I’m sure the duke would have simply ordered the boy back upstairs.”
“As ifthatwould raise no gossip among them.”
The touch on his mouth lightened, and she pushed up on her toes, replacing her finger with her lips, a feathery touch that made him shiver and want more. He draped the pelisse around her shoulders, then pulled her into his arms. “I will find a way. I promise. I don’t know how or where or when, but I will claim you as my own.”
She leaned against him, the side of her face resting on his chest. “I believe you. And please remember this is the hope I need to get me through this.”
Michael held her like that for a long time, just breathing in the scent of her, feeling her warmth seep through his clothes. Her hair felt like silk against his jaw, and he closed his eyes, his mind envisioning a time when he could hold her like this in his bed, her skin satiny against his as he caressed her. A time dependent on so many things changing for both of them. “Clara—”
Clara leaned back and gazed at him. The pure adoration in her eyes sank into his very soul, welding him to the spot. Whatever he had been going to say fled from his thoughts. He merely stared at her, taking her in.
After several moments, her smile widened. “I should return home.”
“I will walk with you. It is not safe—”
“I have two pockets full of pins and combs. I could take on an entire army of thieves.”
He shook his head and released her, stepping back. “I do believe you would try. I have seldom met a woman less likely to swoon in the face of trouble.”
“Especially now that I can breathe again.”
“But I’m still going to walk with you. At least as far as your back gate.”
She secured her pelisse around her, then pulled her hair free from the collar and let it cascade down her back. “Then lead on, sirrah.”
He grinned and peered over the door. The stable boy had gone, so Michael donned his top hat and pushed the door open. Their steps light, they exited the stable, dowsing the lanterns and securing the door. He held out his hand and she took it as he led her through the alleys round the edge of the square. Near the back entrance to the Beckcott Hall yard, he paused, squeezing her hand one more time. He kissed her temple, then whispered again, “Iwillfind a way.”
She nodded, touched his cheek, then disappeared through the gate. Michael watched the closed wooden slates for several minutes, listening for the latch on the servants’ door.
Silence closed around him for a short moment, then he heard wheels—more carriages returning from the ball—the calls of coachmen and hackney drivers to their horses. The song of a nightingale. A faint whiff of baking bread reached him—a cook already preparing for the next day. This was the time of year when the servants barely rested as the nobility moved from one event to another, sleeping until noon before heading out again to soirees, calls, and musicales.
Michael strode back to his own home, entering through the front and heading for the stairs. Two steps up, however, the light sound of voices caught his attention, and he backed down, looking down the hall toward his father’s study. A light shone from under the door, and Michael headed for it. His quick rap on the door stopped the voices, and the door opened.
Robert stood there and his eyebrows arched. “Talk of the devil.” He moved backward and gestured for Michael to enter.
“I thought you were going to stay in Kent.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
Robert pointed into the room and Michael slowly stepped inside, an unexpected wariness building in his gut. The Kennet clan did not gather in the middle of the night for no reason. Philip Ashton, the Duke of Kennett sat behind his desk, his face drawn with shadows but his eyes alert. His wife’s illness had disturbed the heart of the family and exhausted the duke, but he seemed to be returning to his old self with gradual and graceful progress. Stacks of papers, folders, and ledgers, like orderly rows of soldiers, lined the edges of the desk. As the weather remained too warm for fires, even at night, the fireplace opposite Philip’s desk sat cold and empty, and the two wingbacks that normally faced the flames had been turned toward the desk.
In one, Thomas Ashton, the oldest of the three brothers sat, reviewing a sheath of papers. Thomas had taken on the burden of running the estate in this first month following Emalyn’s apoplexy, and he remained more partner than son to the duke. As Michael entered the room, Robert shut the door and dropped down into the other wingback, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
Michael focused on his father. “Why am I the devil?”
Philip took a deep breath. “Because we were discussing your ambition to go into competition with Tattersall’s. Which, of course, you cannot.”
Michael glanced at the three men again. “Whyever not?”
