Someday My Duke Will Come

by Christina Britton

  And yet Mr. Richmond was just as patient as he’d been all those years ago when, as a young man just starting out on his career, he’d visited Quincy’s father to conduct business. He’d never minded the presence of a small child beneath the duke’s desk, often bringing Quincy sweets, allowing him to sit on his knee, telling him fantastic stories of his travels as a boy aboard his father’s merchant ship.

  Those stories had inspired Quincy, making his dreams to see the world much more concrete and attainable. And now that same man, through no fault of his own, was the one forced to snuff that dream out.

  Quincy cast a despondent eye over the piles of papers and documents and ledgers before him. Each one alone was a simple stone to be stepped over. But together they were an unscalable mountain. Or rather, a wall, each stone laid with devastating precision, one on top of the other. Like some macabre mausoleum, closing him off from his childhood dreams.

  How had his brothers done it? How had they destroyed the entire dukedom in fourteen short years?

  Anger flared in his gut, hot and bitter. He knew, of course. They had been too much like the duchess, self-centered and privileged, believing a chance of birth gave their lives more value. Not realizing—or caring—about the many lives they’d trampled to get there.

  Maybe that was why his father had taken Quincy so firmly under his wing, why he had been so determined to instill in him a sense of honor.

  “I will, of course, keep looking, Your Grace,” Mr. Richmond said. “Though your cousin was blessedly quick to hand over the reins now that he has been informed he is not the duke, we’ve still to receive everything from the steward at Reigate Manor. There may be something there.” He gave Quincy a bracing smile. “Don’t give up hope just yet.”

  Hope? No, he hadn’t given up hope, though it was in danger of being snuffed out for him.

  But he couldn’t keep the man from the rest of his work indefinitely. Standing, he held out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Richmond. For everything. You have always been a great support to my family. And please do tell Mrs. Richmond she has my eternal devotion for allowing me to steal you away for a time.”

  Mr. Richmond chuckled and took Quincy’s hand in a firm grip. “I rather think my wife was happy to have me out from under her feet for a few evenings.” Suddenly he sobered. “I only wish there was something I could have done to prevent this from happening.”

  Quincy gave him a halfhearted grin, shrugging. “What could you have done? No, the fault is on my brothers for ignoring your advice. But you will let me know the moment you receive word from Reigate Manor?”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.”

  Quincy took his leave, striding through the bustling offices. But with each person he passed, for each Your Grace and deep bow, he felt the walls closing in on him, the hallway lengthening, until he had to fight the urge to yank off his cravat and sprint for the door.

  Finally he stepped out onto the street. Gulping in air, he hardly registered the warmth and faintly putrid smell of it, so grateful was he to be outside.

  And yet, now that his head was clearing, he could not stop the litany of words that spun about it like manic dancers, bouncing against one another but never slowing their mad twirling: Ruined, Bankrupt, Insolvent, Impoverished.

  Every property, every parcel of land not entailed had been sold off on the altar of his brothers’ greed. But they had not stopped there. No, they had ransacked every bit of the dukedom not nailed down. Furniture and antiquities, statuary and paintings—some priceless to their family, portraits of long-dead ancestors—so much history, gone.

  He should not complain, of course, he thought as he strode blindly down the bustling street, sidestepping merchants and bankers and men of business. The sale of his portion of the business back in Boston had left him with just enough funds to keep the dukedom afloat. More important, he could provide much-needed relief for the people who worked Reigate land; they had suffered horribly under his brothers’ mismanagement, and he’d be damned if they endured a moment’s more heartache.

  But his dreams of travel…

  His lips twisted. Unless some miracle fell from the sky, those dreams would never be realized.

  Exhaustion overwhelmed him. He’d been so close, had had it in his grasp. And now, by some quirk of fate, it had been yanked from his fingers. He stumbled to a halt on the walkway. Several men jostled him, letting loose obscenities at having their paths impeded. But a few angry businessmen were the least of his worries. He ran a hand over his face. What the hell was he going to do?

  He thought of his mother with her damnable pride. She kept control over everything in her orbit with a fanaticism that bordered on obsession, most especially her older sons. Surely she would not have allowed them to squander everything.

  But the very idea of seeing her again made him physically ill. If only he had a way to prepare for the necessary meeting. Or had support.

  Peter’s face flashed in his mind. Of course. There was no one Quincy trusted more. He would keep a clear head when Quincy could not. And maybe Quincy might come out of it with his sanity intact.

  That faint spark of hope flared back to life. Filled with a new energy, he turned about, eager to collect his horse and return to Dane House and, hopefully, salvation.

  * * *

  Clara sifted through the immense pile of responses before her, diligently adding small checks down the long column of invitees to Phoebe’s engagement ball. Just as she was finishing up Phoebe entered the drawing room, busily adjusting the brim of her bonnet. Clara set aside the last of the responses and smiled at her sister. “Aunt Olivia and Lady Crabtree can only be pleased that their combined importance has ensured your engagement ball will be the height of the season,” she said. “Not that they’ll admit any such thing, of course.”

  Phoebe laughed, moving closer to look over the list. “Goodness! How can they fail to be content with such a guest list? I had no idea it would turn out to be such a crush. You’re an angel for keeping track of the responses. Though,” she continued with a worried frown, looking over the invitations and handwritten notes and half-formed plans that were laid out in neat piles on the desk’s surface, “you’ve taken on entirely too much of the planning. You should let us take some of the burden from your shoulders.”

  “Nonsense,” Clara declared. “I’m happy to do it. Now you’d best be on your way. I’m certain that our great-aunt is impatiently awaiting you in the front hall with Margery and a fleet of footmen even as we speak, ready to lay siege on the fine merchants of Bond Street.”

  Phoebe, laughing, allowed herself to be shooed from the room. Alone once more, Clara turned to the pile of invitations she had yet to address for the wedding itself. Keeping the two events separate, ensuring that every detail was gone over meticulously, was proving to take up much of the household’s time, and Clara’s more than anyone’s. As she had intended. Being useful filled the time while she figured out her place once the wedding was over and done with.

  Not to mention, it also kept her from spending more time than necessary in the presence of a certain handsome male.

  At the unwelcome thought, Clara’s pen went skidding off, leaving an unsightly scrawl across Lady Pennyweather’s invitation. She scowled down at it before, with a huff of exasperation, she tossed it aside and picked up another to begin again. Yet now that Quincy had infiltrated her thoughts, he would not be kept out of them.

  Not that she had seen much of him in the past three days. Between the engagement ball and wedding taking up her every waking moment, and Quincy preoccupied with his newly realized dukedom, she seldom saw him. Why, it was almost as if he were not staying at Dane House at all—which had proved to be equally a relief and a disappointment, much to her consternation.

  That was not to say there had not been attempts by a certain someone at getting them together.

  She frowned as she dipped her quill once more in the inkstand. Aunt Olivia had appeared to see the presence of an eligible duke under he
r roof as an invitation to play matchmaker. Not that Clara should have been surprised. The woman had made it no secret that, with Phoebe happily engaged, she was not going to rest until Clara was matched as well. It was a relief that Quincy had appeared to be completely unaware of the viscountess’s meddling the few times they had been together. It was as if the idea of Clara being an eligible female had not even entered his brain. Yes, it was a relief. And she would continue to tell herself that.

  She let out a breath, pressing her lips tight in annoyance. One of the reasons she had come to the drawing room to work on Phoebe’s wedding preparations was to ensure she did not think of Quincy.

  Which she was failing at spectacularly.

  Letting out a low growl, she refocused her attentions on the pile of invitations before her. No easy thing, especially when Aunt Olivia’s voice carried to her from the front hall.

  She feared for a moment that her great-aunt might once more attempt to convince her to join them on their outing. Not counting her growing list of things to accomplish before the ball, Clara had no wish to be paraded in front of the eligible men of London again, especially as Aunt Olivia seemed to be growing more desperate in her attempts at matchmaking, not only with Quincy but with every other unmarried male she came across. And so she waited, hardly breathing, her ear cocked for the faintest sound of that telltale cane on the stairs.

  Instead she heard the welcoming echo of the front door closing. She slumped in relief. It seemed she had managed to escape any such scenarios today. With Peter and Lenora away from home for the time being, and Quincy still off at his family solicitor’s office, she could return to the job at hand.

  Tightening her fingers on her quill, she put her head down and was in the process of rewriting Lady Pennyweather’s address when a deep voice sounded behind her.

  “Clara, good afternoon.”

  She jumped with a gasp, just managing to keep her pen from damaging the carefully penned directions. That did not stop the large drop of ink from shivering from the tip and splattering the creamy vellum, however.

  “Blast,” she muttered, the frustration of ruining yet another invitation combined with Quincy’s appearance making the word come out in a hiss.

  “What was that?”

  “Oh! Nothing at all.” Clara turned and offered him a feeble smile. “What are you doing here?”

  Which sounded horribly like she did not want him here. Only too true, of course, seeing as how her body was already reacting to his presence, her heart galloping about in her chest and her breath coming faster. Yet she could not in good conscience be so rude to the man.

  “That is,” she managed, her cheeks flushing hot, “you’ve been busy these past days. How nice that you are able to step away from it.”

  It was a weak excuse at best, yet seemed to suffice. “It’s been unconscionable of me to spend so much time on my own matters when I have such wonderful hosts. Would that I could put them off indefinitely.” He grinned, moving into the room.

  This was the most time they’d spent in one another’s presence in three days—and the first in all that time that she’d allowed herself to truly look at him. The sparkling smile was the same as it ever was, of course. But there was something brittle to it today. She was shocked by the pale cast to his skin and the dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. As he came closer those circles became more pronounced. And if she was not mistaken, there was a new slump to his broad shoulders, proof of the toll his increased responsibilities were taking on him.

  Biting her lip, she saw her productive afternoon vanishing before her very eyes. She had no wish to be in the man’s presence any longer than she had to, but she could not very well turn her back on him. Heaving an internal sigh—truly, she was the biggest fool in England—she placed her quill down and stood. “You look as if you’re dead on your feet. Sit, and I’ll order us up a tray. I’ll assume you haven’t eaten a thing since your early breakfast.”

  He smiled as she gave directions to a maid in the hall before ordering him into a chair. “Clara, you are, as ever, the voice of reason and kindness personified.”

  She accepted his praise with a nod. Yet bitter regret weighed heavy on her. Confused by her reaction, she turned it over as she sat, and was shocked to realize she did not want him to see her as prim and proper. She wanted to let loose her inhibitions, to follow her heart. To show him she was not all rules and lists.

  A sentiment that she was swift to nip in the bud. What the devil was wrong with her? Following her heart had given her nothing but ruin and shame, and a secret heartache that haunted her to this day.

  “Do you know where Peter is?” he asked as the silence stretched between them. “Before she left, Lady Tesh said I might find him here.”

  And any generous thoughts Clara might have been harboring for her great-aunt went right out the window. The woman had known well and good that Peter was out, and that Clara had planned to spend the day working on the wedding preparations. Her polite smile turned to a grimace. “I’m afraid my aunt was mistaken. Peter left this morning to accompany Lenora on a painting expedition.”

  A gleam of understanding lit his eyes, and Clara thought she might melt from embarrassment. Of course he would have seen Aunt Olivia’s ill-concealed attempts at pairing them up. She had been a fool to think otherwise.

  “Do you know when they might return?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry to say I don’t.”

  For a moment the cheerful mask slipped, and he appeared absolutely disheartened. Her humiliation disappeared, compassion and a burning curiosity taking its place. Don’t ask him the reason, don’t ask him the reason. The litany repeated in her mind, stern and unyielding, yet she found she was helpless against the words bubbling up in her when faced with his downcast expression. “Was there a particular reason you needed Peter?”

  The man flushed—actually flushed. “It’s silly, really.”

  Well, now she was truly curious.

  She bit her lip and scooted forward in her seat. “Perhaps I might help in Peter’s stead, if you’re comfortable sharing.”

  He let loose a chuckle, though there was an undercurrent of strain to it. “Truly, it’s so ridiculous as to be laughable. I’d hoped to meet with my mother this afternoon. There’s only so much I can glean from papers, and there are certain aspects of the dukedom I find…unsettling.” His lips twisted in a pained smile. “I admit, I’m dreading it. We’ve never had the healthiest relationship.”

  “And you had hoped to bring Peter with you as support?” Clara asked quietly.

  The warmth in his eyes sent her heart right up into her throat. “You’re uncommonly perceptive. Yes, that is exactly what I’d hoped. I should perhaps have planned more in advance for this. But once the idea took hold I only wanted to get it over and done with.” He let out a breath. “You must think me a veritable coward, that I would need my friend to accompany me.”

  “Oh, certainly not cowardly,” Clara was quick to declare. She leaned forward and laid a hand on his sleeve, heart aching from the self-disgust barely concealed in his dark gaze. “This situation cannot be easy on you. We all need support from time to time; there’s no shame in it.”

  He looked down at her hand as if trying to make sense of it, making her realize just how forward she had been. Just as she was about to pull it away, however, he laid his hand over hers.

  Every one of her senses centered on her fingers, trapped between the hard muscles of his forearm and the strength of his hand. A longing in her belly reared up, swift and potent. How starved she must be for physical touch to react in such a way to something so innocent. A feeling that only intensified as his eyes darkened and dropped to her lips. She found herself swaying closer to him—

  The butler’s voice tore through the moment like an arrow through the heart of a target. “The Duchess of Reigate.”

  * * *

  It took Quincy several long seconds to comprehend what was happening. One minute he was transfixed by the dee
p blue of Clara’s eyes, the rosy fullness of her lips.

  The next she’d pulled away with a gasp as the butler announced…his mother?

  Well, hell.

  “Reigate.”

  The title, spoken in that hard, bitter voice, latched onto the base of his skull like talons. And any peace he might have found in Clara’s presence went right out the proverbial window. He lurched to his feet, spinning to face his mother, his breath leaving him in a low hiss. She’d purposely come here with no warning, knowing how much he would hate being caught unawares. It was a wonder she hadn’t stormed the solicitor’s offices.

  Quick to recover, he sketched a shallow bow that would be certain to infuriate the woman, rearranging his features into an unconcern he didn’t feel. “Your Grace. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Her hard eyes traveled to Clara before settling on him again. “You have remained absent since your abrupt departure from Reigate House. It was only after some effort that I learned you were staying with the Duke of Dane. I’m glad to see you’re at least not bringing your uneducated American ways back with you, and are embracing your status by consorting with your own kind.” She arched one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Though I certainly did not expect to find you entertaining a light-skirt in His Grace’s home.”

  Fury pounded, swift and fierce, through his blood. He was not one to anger quickly, and it hit him all the harder for it, a crashing wave that drowned out his intention to remain aloof. He took a step forward, unable to control the trembling in his clenched hands. “You will not insult Lady Clara. Apologize to her. Now.”

  His mother’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Clara?”

  Her tone dripped with disbelief. Before he could demand she leave, however, Clara moved to his side, her hand light on his back, grounding him as nothing else could have.

  “Your Grace,” she said, dipping into a graceful curtsy. “In my cousin the Duke of Dane’s absence, I welcome you to Dane House. I am Lady Clara Ashford.”