Blessedly Peter appeared unaware of their great-aunt’s machinations—quite possibly the only person on the planet who was, Clara thought wryly. He scoffed. “I do believe your visits with the fine merchants of London have done enough damage to my coffers, madam. I cannot handle many more ‘unfinished things’ on your behalf.”
“Please,” Aunt Olivia said with a roll of her eyes. “Your bank account has not even been dented by our little shopping excursions.”
As Peter sputtered, no doubt ready for a fight with his favorite adversary, Lenora laid a gentle hand on his arm.
“His Grace and I would, of course, be honored to host the wedding at our home,” she said, giving both Aunt Olivia and Lady Crabtree a look that proved she was every inch the duchess.
“We should, of course, defer to the bride and groom’s wishes,” she continued as the two older women appeared to retreat with reluctance. “Phoebe, a marriage at Danesford would be absolutely lovely. But with only four weeks to plan, and four days of that spent in travel to the Isle, it will not be very grand, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I don’t care for grand,” Phoebe said with a beatific smile for her intended. “If I wear a sack and carry weeds as my bouquet, I would still be the happiest bride in England.”
“And you would be the most beautiful as well,” Oswin murmured with a besotted smile.
Perhaps, Clara thought as she watched the young couple make calf eyes at one another, a hasty wedding was best for all involved. It was a look she saw often, when Peter and Lenora gazed at one another—right before they disappeared with some flimsy excuse, returning sometime later looking decidedly more disheveled. It indicated that time was of the essence where the passions of the newly engaged couple were concerned.
She would not look too closely at the pang in her chest. It was not jealousy; what Phoebe and Lenora had was not something she wanted. Such desires had brought her only grief and were best left in the past with the destruction of her girlhood dreams.
“I think it’s a grand idea,” Clara announced firmly.
As the rest of the party erupted into excited chatter, Aunt Olivia leaned close to Clara. “You’re against me, too?” she hissed. Her gnarled fingers stroked Freya’s scraggly fur, making her look for all the world like a villain in a play.
Clara stifled a sigh. She should have expected the viscountess’s ire; her great-aunt wasn’t one to look kindly on being thwarted. Schooling her features into the pleasant expression she often adopted with the older woman—and just managing to bury the frustration that attempted to rear up—she replied with soothing tones, “There are no sides in this, Aunt Olivia.”
“Of course there are sides.” The older woman’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Oh, you’re a clever one, aren’t you. I know why you would be more than happy to return to Synne. You think the question of you searching for a husband will be forgotten once we’re away from London and the social whirl.”
Well, she hadn’t until just now. But if that wasn’t incentive, she didn’t know what was.
Rather than admit such a thing, however, she said with what she thought was an impressively innocent expression, “I don’t have the faintest idea what you mean.”
“Hmmm,” was all Aunt Olivia would say. Though if Clara wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of respect in the woman’s disconcertingly sharp eyes.
The viscountess turned back to the assembled. But any hope that she was done with the subject of Clara’s marital prospects—or lack thereof—was snuffed out the moment she began to speak.
“And will your next eldest son be at Danesford in time for the wedding?” Aunt Olivia asked Lady Crabtree, her voice rising over the general din.
Lady Crabtree raised a perfectly polished brow. “I know not.”
“What of Oswin’s single friends? Will they be present?”
Clara’s cheeks burned. “Aunt Olivia,” she said, feigning a bright smile, “I’m sure we’ll have more information on that soon. For now, let’s keep focused on the pertinent matter at hand. Namely when we should return to Synne.”
“As always, Clara dear, you are the voice of reason.” Margery gave her hand a small squeeze, the compassion in her eyes a potent thing. And was it any wonder? She would have seen Aunt Olivia’s attempts at matching Clara with anything that breathed during their months in London. It was embarrassing, really. Blessedly, however, everyone was oblivious to the painful fact that, even should Clara wish it, she would never know the joys of marriage. She had given up any chance of that fifteen years ago. And it had nearly killed her.
For a moment memories assaulted her, of a time when promise turned to betrayal, hope transformed into despair. When living from one second to the next had taken every ounce of effort she had possessed. She shook her head to free herself from her memories and pressed her lips tight together, annoyance rearing up. It was ridiculous, really. Half her life had passed since then; it should not still have such power over her.
Though it was different now, wasn’t it? Mixed in with the familiar grief was something much sharper, much newer, a creeping regret for a life of her own, a life that had been stolen from her in one ill-conceived moment.
Why this sudden ache deep in her gut for the impossible? Was it because of these weeks in London witnessing the wide-eyed hope of young women just starting out on their futures? Or was it due to her younger sister, the last living member of her immediate family, marrying and leaving her?
Or worse, was it due to Mr. Nesbitt’s return?
While the first two were natural reasons for her sudden restlessness, the last was troubling indeed. Nothing could come of it, even if she wished it. Which she did not.
At least she kept telling herself that.
“I shall concede that Phoebe and Oswin will marry at Danesford. I am not such a harridan to deny them what they wish. But”—Aunt Olivia pointed a glare at each and every person in the room—“I will not miss out on a grand London engagement ball. I will have that much, at least.” She gave an injured sniff.
“As will I,” Lady Crabtree joined in with an outraged air. “Oswin is my eldest, after all.”
“Of course,” Lenora soothed. “With Clara, Margery, and myself working together, we can manage it in a week, I think, and leave for Synne the following morning. Phoebe, you do not oppose such a scheme, do you?”
“Not a bit,” she said with a smile.
With that the planning began in earnest. And Clara found her exhaustion returning tenfold. It had all seemed a dream, her sister leaving her. Now, however, with the dates and times pinned down, bringing that possibility into clear focus, she could see the end of their time together, the end of her usefulness. And it frightened her.
For years she had been the foundation of their family, holding them together after her younger brother Hillram’s death some four years prior, and then during their father’s lengthy illness. With his passing last year she might have felt lost, for most of her time and energy had been spent caring for him. But there had been Phoebe to look after and see through the grief, and Peter to help guide in his new position as duke.
Yet now Peter was more than capable of taking on the duties that had been thrust on him, and Phoebe was setting off on a new life. And Clara was left behind.
A hand on her arm brought her back to the present. She blinked owlishly, looking into Margery’s concerned face. She realized belatedly that they were quite alone.
“The others have decided a walk in the gardens is in order,” she explained gently, “to get some air. And, I suspect, to provide a bit of distraction for my grandmother and the terrifying Lady Crabtree.” Her full cheeks lifted in a wry smile.
“Of course,” Clara said, trying with all her might to shrug off the sadness that continued to cling to her like a barnacle. She forced a smile, standing and shaking out her skirts. “Let us be off at once.”
But Margery’s hand landed once more on her sleeve, staying her. “I think,” she said quietly, “that it might be
wise for you to return to Dane House.”
“Nonsense,” Clara declared, though she could not meet her cousin’s eyes for the understanding she knew she would find there. Margery might not know the tragedy in Clara’s past, but she had an intuitive soul and had offered Clara a compassionate ear more than once in the past year of change and upheaval.
That did not mean, however, that Clara could take her up on her kind offers. Clara only knew to be strong, to help where it was needed, to prop others up when they might collapse. She didn’t know how to lean on another—and feared ever finding strength again should she let her guard down.
But despite Margery’s mild disposition, she could be stubborn when she put her mind to it. “I will not hear another word on it,” she declared, pushing Clara toward the door. “They have gotten the important details out of the way and shall only be discussing the color of the flowers and the style of cake. Besides”—she gave Clara a sly look—“think how much help you’ll be by returning home and giving Mrs. Ingram and Yargood advance notice of the coming move. There is no one who can start the necessary coordination of packing and preparation like you.”
Clara gave her cousin a smile. “You can be a crafty thing, did you know that?”
Margery grinned. “Go,” she said firmly, shooing Clara out the door.
Clara relented, giving a soft chuckle as she turned for the stairs. Just as she reached the ground floor, however, Margery called her name. Clara looked up and spied her cousin’s round face peering over the banister.
“Oh, and dearest? Lenora quite forgot to tell Mrs. Ingram of Mr. Nesbitt’s appearance for dinner. Can you please let her know?” Her eyes shone. “How exciting to have him back in England. I cannot wait to see our friend after so long.”
Dazed, Clara could only watch numbly as Margery waved merrily and ducked out of sight. For a blessed moment she had forgotten him.
But she was not a young, impressionable girl any longer. She was a woman, with much more sense than she’d had at fifteen. Yes, Mr. Nesbitt was handsome, and kind, and she was attracted to him as she had not been to anyone in ages. But that did not mean she was foolish enough to act on her desires. With so many years of practice at keeping her head in control and in silencing the urgings of her heart, it would be an easy thing to ignore her feelings for the man.
And perhaps, she mused wryly as she accepted her outer things from the butler, she might eventually believe it herself.
* * *
Quincy took a steadying breath as he looked up at the imposing façade of his family’s London townhouse. It had taken a good pounding ride, followed by several hours of walking the stately streets of Mayfair, to get him to this point. And still something deep inside urged him to turn tail and flee and not look back. When last he’d been this nervous he’d been a mere lad, leaving this place for a new life. Away from the hell that home had become and the terror of the future his mother had mapped out for him.
But no, this feeling wasn’t the same. His hand tightened into a fist, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached. The anxiety he’d felt then had been overshadowed by youthful pride, and rage, and a certainty that the path he was about to embark on was right. And he could not regret it one bit. He had carved a new life for himself, had made himself into a man he could be proud of.
Now, however, his nervousness was accompanied by the anger of a man who knew what he’d been robbed of, who had seen that there were loving mothers in the world who did not feel obliged to ship their sons off to war in order to rid themselves of the burden of them.
Fury pounded through him, so hard and fast he could feel the pulse of it in his temples. He saw it clearly then, the reason he had delayed coming back, that thing that the anger had sprouted from like a poisonous weed. No matter he was a grown man and had spent half his life building his confidence, along with his fortune; he was still that frightened, hurt boy who could do no right.
Well, no more.
Shoulders set in determination, he strode up the front steps and rapped sharply on the grand oak door. Within moments it swung open.
Quincy had not realized what seeing the butler would do to him. For there was Byerly, still at his post, though with a decade and a half of gray hair topping his head, new lines bracketing his eyes and mouth, and extra weight about his middle.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said in his sonorous voice. “Are you expected by Her Grace?”
This man had known him since he was a babe in arms, had given him rides upon his back, and had snuck him sweets when things were at their worst. That he now had no idea who Quincy was should not have affected him as it did. Yet he felt a slight cracking in the region of his heart. He pushed the feeling aside and plastered a carefree grin on his face. “Come along, Byerly. Never say you have forgotten me.”
The butler frowned at the familiarity, his mouth opening no doubt to lay Quincy low with a scathing retort. Whatever words he had been about to utter, however, stalled when recognition sparked. The man’s jaw dropped. “Master Quincy?” he whispered.
Quincy smiled. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”
But there was no answering smile. Instead a dawning horror filled the man’s features. He bowed, deeply. “Ah, but forgive me. I forget myself.”
Quincy’s smile faltered, his insides lurching. That sensation only worsened as Byerly’s hands came together, the fingers tangling in a mass of white-gloved digits. “But you’ll be wanting to see your mother. Please, allow me to show you the way. Or would you rather find the way yourself?” He shook his head sharply. “Oh, dear,” he muttered. “Dear me.”
Quincy, growing more alarmed by the second, stepped toward the man. He looked as if he was about to keel over on the spot. “I say, are you well?” Perhaps he was losing his faculties. Though he could not see his mother, a stickler for all that was perfect and proper, allowing Byerly to keep his post if that was so.
To Quincy’s everlasting shock, a desperate laugh burst from the butler. Then, without another word, he turned and began a swift stride across the front hall and up the sweeping staircase. Utterly bewildered, Quincy nonetheless followed with alacrity. He didn’t know what the devil was wrong with the man. But if the desperation in his step was any indication, he was headed to Quincy’s mother to apprise her of her youngest son’s sudden appearance. With that woman Quincy would finally have the answers he sought. Hopefully.
The near sprint through the house was short. Even so, Quincy was stunned by the physical reminders of his childhood, memories he had banished from his mind in an attempt to survive. Here was the railing he had slid down more times than he could count under his father’s mischievous tutelage, there the bust of some long-dead ancestor he had once dressed as a woman, complete with his mother’s best rouge and wig. As they made their way up another flight, turning the corner into the family apartments, he tried not to look at the long line of doors before him. But he was aware of each and every one. And in his head he recited the litany of names: Gordon, Kenneth, Sylvester, Quincy. Their bedrooms in a neat row leading to their parents’ apartments. Each door was firmly closed, and it surprised him, the ache in his chest to glimpse within those rooms.
He had not been close to his brothers, being the last born long after the others. His three elder brothers had been close, in age and friendship. And forever excluding Quincy, who would have given anything to be included. Before Quincy’s flight from home all three had moved out of the London house, Gordon returning only to take their father’s place after his death, Kenneth and Sylvester at university preparing for their lives as younger sons. And no doubt finding relief from their mother’s constant criticisms.
His boots clicked sharply on the polished wood floor of the hall, sending back echoes of his mother’s sharp reprimands, something that had haunted him despite all the happiness he had managed to scrape out with his father between these walls. Would that he could go on with his life without needing this meeting to close the last of his wounds. Would that h
e could turn around and never think of this place again.
No matter the urges deep inside him, however, it was too late to retreat. The door to his mother’s sitting room loomed. And then Byerly was pushing open the door, his agitation making him forget to knock.
“I told you I was not to be disturbed, Byerly.” His mother’s voice, sharper than Quincy remembered, rang out into the hall. And suddenly he was a boy again, being called to the carpet for one of the thousand things he had done wrong. Forever a disappointment.
Drawing himself to his full height, he pushed into the room before Byerly had a chance to announce him. “Hello, Mother,” he said, pasting a devilish smile to a face that felt stiff and unyielding—so quickly falling back on defenses he had always used to hide his hurt. “Have you missed me?”
His mother’s face was frozen, halfway between shock and fury. As if upon seeing him her mind had simply stopped working, and she was now caught in some horrible purgatory. She was as beautiful as ever. That much was obvious to him, though he could comprehend little else. Yet that same coldness that had taken away from her beauty was still present, even in her shock. She was as flawless as a marble statue, and without an ounce of warmth. Though perhaps, now that he was returned to her after so long, she might show a modicum of happiness.
That pathetic hope died a quick and complete death as she came back to her senses. Her eyes narrowed as she took him in, from the top of his carefully mussed hair to the tips of his gleaming boots. “You’re not dead.”
The words were spoken without emotion. It was no different from any interaction they’d had when he was a child, and so should not surprise him in the least.
Someday My Duke Will Come Page 3