Page 37 of A Duke Makes a Deal
“Where are you going?”
“To get some air.”
Silas exited the room, passing the dining room where the table was set for an elaborate feast of roasted quail, steamed vegetables, creamy soups and copious amounts of wine to take place in the coming hour. For now, the early guests were still in the parlor.
Silas was sure he would be able to take a moment alone. He walked swiftly towards the back of the house where a terrace sat before the garden. He pulled out a cheroot and a match, lighting it quickly and inhaling in a startled rush when he realized he wasn’t alone.
Exhaling, he turned and saw Clara, back pressed up against the wall that separated a set of doors. Her ice blue gown seemedto glow in the moonlight and those damn beads that seemed to decorate her bust in each of her hideous dresses sparkled like crystal. He watched her chest rise and fall as she inhaled deeply, her eyes on the sky above.
He moved towards her and leaned his back against the wall right next to her. Tilting his head back to see what she saw, he spoke.
“I didn’t know you’d arrived.”
“Mama’s dress caught on the carriage door when we exited and it caused a tear. She was so embarrassed; she asked the footman to see us in quietly so that she might bother one of the maids for a needle and thread.”
“So, you snuck in?”
Her head rolled against the house to look at him and he felt his heart pound.
“Yes.”
“And what are you doing out here?”
“Gathering myself before the rest of the evening. I know we’ve been out publicly together, but a party like this reminds me of Trembley’s ball and, well…I’m a bit nervous I suppose,” she said, her eyes shining in the moonlight. “What are you doing out here?”
“The same,” he said. After a moment he pushed off the wall and went to lean against the baluster. “People talk too much.”
“They do,” she agreed. “I didn’t know you smoked cheroots.” He shrugged, but made no move to speak. “I always believed it was an unhealthy habit. Breathing in smoke seems unwise.”
“Then you shouldn’t do it,” he said, smirking.
She squinted her eyes at him. “You shouldn’t either.”
“Why not?” he asked, feeling rather maudlin. “It’s not like anyone cares.”
“I do,” she said.
The honesty in her tone made something in him react. It felt as if she had simultaneously kicked him in the stomach and kissed him on the mouth.What a bizarre feeling, he mused as he stared at her.
“Do you?” he asked and she nodded.
“Of course,” she said, taking a step towards him. “We are friends, are we not?”
Friends. What a glorious and hateful word. To be honest he had wanted to be her friend, but there was something unmistakable about Clara Woodvine, something he couldn’t articulate that made him want to be so much more.
Lost in thought, Silas flicked his cheroot too zealously as the tiny ember end caught the knuckle of his left ring finger. It didn’t hurt, but the surprise of the burn caught him off guard and he dropped the burning cylinder.
“Damn it,” he said, pulling his hand up to his mouth.
“Oh dear,” Clara said, coming toward him. She reached for his hand. “Here, let me see.”
Clara’s gentle fingers pulled his close to inspect his injury.
“It’s nothing,” he insisted.
“It’s a burn. It’s already turning,” she said. “I once burnt my finger on the French toaster that sat in our hearth when I was younger.” She held up her pointer finger for him to see. Though it was dark, he could make out a tiny, white slash across her fingerprint. “I howled like a baby when it happened.”
“I assure you; I won’t do that.”
