Page 33 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

She crouched and made a fuss of Benny, so he stopped dancing about, before returning her attention to the butler.

“Howard, did I leave a small sketchbook here the other day? I’ve been looking all over for it.”

“I don’t know, Miss Halfpenny. Would you like me to check the music room for you?”

“Oh, no. I can do it, if that’s all right?” she asked, not wanting to impose if anyone was using the room.

“Of course. You know the way by now, unless you prefer I accompany you.”

“No, indeed. I’m certain you have more pressing things to take care of.”

“Are you coming, Clara?” Eustacia called, walking to the door.

“I’ll catch you up. I’ve forgotten something,” Clara said, waving to her.

Eustacia returned a look of surprise, but Clara didn’t explain herself. Instead, she hurried off with Benny trotting at her heels.

“We’d best be quick. Auntie will be awake soon and wanting a cup of tea, I daresay,” she told Benny as she turned the handle and entered the music room.

“Oh!”

Clara stopped in her tracks, startled to discover the Duke of Hawkney sat at the piano, though he wasn’t playing. Her gaze fell to the little cloth-covered book in his hands, and colour flooded her cheeks. Hawkney too, looked rather chagrined, as if he’d been caught doing something he ought not.

Well, it was her sketchbook he was looking at. It wasn’t a private diary, but to Clara it still felt personal, and as if he had glimpsed a part of her she had not been prepared to share. Had he looked at all the drawings, or had she entered the room in the nick of time?

Hawkney got to his feet, his expression neutral as Benny hurried to greet him, tail wagging furiously. “I was playing when it caught my eye. I did not mean to pry, but I didn’t know what it was at first, and then… you draw beautifully.”

Clara let out a huff. “Hardly that. I only do it to amuse myself.”

Hawkney gave in as Benny kept jumping up at him, and bent to greet her little dog, scratching him behind the ears just as Benny liked best. He looked up at Clara.

“They are not, perhaps, the drawings of a trained artist,” he allowed, frowning a little. “But there is a charm to them, a vivacity that brings them to life. The one of Benny charging into the duck pond and sending the ducks flying off is marvellous. It made me laugh. The poor ducks looked so indignant.”

He straightened, and to her relief, Benny quieted, trotting back to her. Clara stared down at him, uncertain what to do with such fulsome praise as the duke had given her. No one had ever commended her drawings before. No one had ever seen them before. It was an odd sensation, as if he had glimpsed some private corner of her heart and found it worthy of admiration. A glow of pleasure unfurled inside her.

“You are too kind, I suspect,” she replied, though the notion that she had made him laugh was so delightful that she could not keep the smile from her face. She wished she had been there to see his reaction.

He held the book out to her, and she walked farther into the room, reaching for it. As her fingers closed on the book, he held on, not letting her take it from him. “You drew me too.”

Clara’s heart gave a heavy thud in the chest, her skin burning so fiercely she feared she might set her drab muslin dress on fire. Oh, devil take the man. Why had he looked all the way through the dratted book!

“I drew lots of people,” she said, putting up her chin and meeting his eyes.

He nodded, a slight frown tugging his eyebrows together. “Yes. There’s a wonderful likeness of my grandmother. Do I truly look so… so cold and haughty to you?”

Clara stared at him in astonishment. It had never occurred to her that her silly drawing of him might…might what? Upset him? Surely not? But he appeared troubled by the notion.

“You have been nothing but kind to me, your grace. If that is what you saw, then it is my poor draughtsmanship at fault,” she assured him, wishing she had never captured his likeness at all. It was impossible anyway. She could never draw the stark lines of his handsome face and capture the complexities of his character. It was beyond her skills.

He nodded, but did not look especially comforted by her words. “Hawkney,” he reminded her, relinquishing the book.

“Hawkney,” Clara repeated. It was still his title, not his given name, but she knew he honoured her by giving her the use of it. She wished she could say something else to reassure him she did not believe he was cold, nor haughty. Well, no more than one might expect from a man of such wealth and power.

“Well, I’ll not keep you. Feel free to make use of the piano if you wish to,” he said briskly, suddenly formal once again, and the moment was lost.

Clara felt the shift, felt him withdraw behind his polite façade, and regretted it, but she knew it was for the best. She liked the idea that she might be a friend to him, but she was not a fool and realised how ridiculous it was. “But were you not playing?” she asked him, wishing to stall his departure just a moment longer.

“No, only tinkering. I haven’t played in a long while. I just came…” He trailed off, looking as if he did not know why he had come. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Halfpenny. I have things to attend to. Good day to you.”