The room went silent when Clara Whitmore sat beside the Duke of Ashborne. A gentleman near the wine decanter actually stopped pouring. Across the table, Clara's brother stared at her as if she had mistaken a cliff edge for a chair. Nathaniel Blackwood turned his head slowly. The scar beside his left temple caught the candlelight.
"You know who I am?" he asked.
"I should hope so, Your Grace. Our hostess announced you rather loudly."
Someone smothered a laugh. Nathaniel did not. "And yet you chose this seat."
Clara unfolded her napkin. "It was the only one remaining."
"There is usually a reason for that."
She finally looked directly at him. "I assumed there was."
His gray eyes narrowed. "And you are not curious?"
"Very." She reached calmly for her water. "But curiosity and fear are not the same thing."
Nathaniel stared at her, and for the first time that evening, the feared Duke seemed to have no prepared reply.
Six hours earlier, Clara had been standing beside the drawing room window at Hartwell Manor while her brother explained why she should make herself useful.
"Lady Hartwell invited us because of you," Edward Whitmore said, adjusting his cuffs.
"Because of the estate," Clara corrected.
"The distinction hardly matters."
To Edward, distinctions rarely mattered when Clara was expected to repair them. At 31, she had spent enough years standing one step behind prettier young women to become nearly invisible at country gatherings. Society had decided that an unmarried woman past 30 was safe, useful for accompanying nieces, filling card tables, remembering birthdays, and listening to complaints. Clara had discovered there were advantages to being overlooked. People spoke carelessly near invisible women. They also left account books unattended.
"Lord Pembroke may ask about the north tenants," Edward continued. "Tell him the arrears are temporary."
Clara turned from the window. "They are not temporary."
His fingers stopped at his cuff. "Not tonight. The drainage repairs were delayed again, Clara. And Mr. Fletcher has written twice about the mortgage interest." Edward lowered his voice. "You promised not to embarrass me."
"No, I promised not to discuss private accounts unless necessary. Tonight it will not be necessary." Clara held his gaze until he looked away first. "Then I hope no one asks."
By dinner, 40 guests filled Lady Hartwell's candlelit dining room. Clara entered near the end of the procession and immediately understood why conversation had developed an unnatural brightness around one end of the table. Nathaniel Blackwood, Duke of Ashborne, sat there alone. His reputation had arrived before him. Five years earlier, he had publicly broken with his own uncle during a family scandal. Since then, society had collected stories. Ashborne was merciless. Ashborne remembered every insult. Ashborne had once reduced a member of Parliament to silence with six words. Clara had never discovered what the six words were. She suspected the story improved every season.
One chair remained. Beside him, Lady Hartwell glanced desperately around the room. Two young women suddenly found reasons to adjust their gloves. An elderly baronet became fascinated by the arrangement of his fork. Edward caught Clara's eye and gave the smallest shake of his head. Don't. Clara looked at the empty chair, then at the Duke, then back at her brother. She sat down. The silence was exquisite.
Nathaniel turned toward her. Up close, he seemed less frightening than tired. The scar at his temple was pale, his dark hair touched with silver, and his expression suggested a man accustomed to watching people decide what he was before speaking to him.
"You know who I am?" he asked.
Clara answered, and the conversation unfolded exactly as the room had feared it might not: without disaster.
When Nathaniel warned there was usually a reason his neighboring chair remained empty, Clara said, "I assume there was."
"And you are not curious?"
"Very, but curiosity and fear are not the same thing."
Something shifted in his eyes. The first course arrived. For several minutes, neither spoke. Clara ate peacefully. Nathaniel seemed increasingly suspicious of this.
"Most people attempt conversation when seated beside me. Would you like conversation?"
"No."
"Then we are doing remarkably well." His mouth moved almost imperceptibly. "Miss Whitmore, is it?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"You know my reputation. Several versions. Which do you believe?"
Clara considered him before answering. "None yet."
His fingers stopped against the stem of his wine glass. "Why?"
"Because everyone who told me about you wanted me to feel something before I met you."
Nathaniel's gaze sharpened. "And what do you feel now?"
Clara glanced at the untouched chair on his other side, then at the guests carefully pretending not to watch them. "I think," she said quietly, "that everyone in this room is more frightened of you than you deserve."
For the first time, Nathaniel's composure cracked. Not anger. Surprise. He leaned slightly closer. "And what, Miss Whitmore, makes you think I don't deserve it?"
"Because you asked me what I thought." Clara lifted her spoon. "Truly frightening men rarely invite an honest answer."
Nathaniel watched her for a moment. "Perhaps I wanted to know whether you would give one."
"Then you already suspected I might."
"I suspected you were either unusually sensible or entirely reckless. Have you reached a conclusion?"
"Not yet."
"How distressing for you." His eyes changed again. This time Clara was certain she had almost made him smile.
The second course arrived, bringing pheasant, roasted vegetables, and enough renewed conversation for the rest of the table to pretend it had stopped listening. Nathaniel said nothing for several minutes. Clara did not rush to fill the silence. She noticed his shoulders ease by degrees.
"You are very good at this," he said eventually, eating pheasant.
"Silence?"
"Silence."
Clara set down her fork. "Silence is only uncomfortable when someone is trying to escape his own thoughts, and you never do. Frequently, I simply don't expect strangers to rescue me from them."
Nathaniel's fingers rested against his wine glass. "You have an answer for everything."
"No, I have spent years listening to people who assume I have nothing to say."
That silenced him more effectively than any clever reply. Across the table, Edward was speaking loudly about improvements at Whitmore Park.
"We have expanded the western fields," he announced. "Very profitable decision."
Clara's gaze flickered toward him. Nathaniel caught it. "You disagree?"
"It is my brother's estate."
"That was not my question."
Clara looked back at him. "The western fields flood every spring."
"Then why expand them?"
"An excellent question. One your brother did not ask."
Her expression warned him away. Nathaniel ignored it. "What would you have done?"
"Repaired the drainage channels first, negotiated shorter leases on the eastern acreage, and kept enough reserve to survive a poor harvest."