Someday My Duke Will Come

by Christina Britton

  It was her turn to laugh. “Me, brave? You’re delusional.”

  He rolled his eyes in a blatant pantomime of her. “Shall I list the reasons off as you did for me? You took care of your father when he was ill, helped Peter settle into his new position, came to London—a place you appear to despise—for your sister while having to deal with a stubbornly interfering viscountess, and stood up not only to a horrid duchess who would love nothing more than to eat you for breakfast, but also to that surly brute of a duke you call cousin. If that isn’t brave, I don’t know what is.”

  “Ridiculous,” she declared dismissively, busying herself with smoothing her skirts, at once pleased and embarrassed and confused. He saw all that in her?

  He took hold of her hand, and she gasped at the electric touch of his fingers cradling hers. She looked into his eyes and was shocked to see a fierce certainty there.

  “I am ridiculous in a good many things, but not in this. You think because you’ve led a quiet life at home that you’re not brave. It’s easy to leave everything behind when times are hard. Often it’s the person dealing with the difficulties of day-to-day living that turns out to be the bravest there is.”

  “Oh,” she managed on a soft exhale, melting under his regard. She tried to remember why she should keep her heart barricaded against the pull of him as, with a smile, he wished her a good night and headed back for the house. But goodness, he was making it difficult.

  Chapter 8

  The day of Phoebe’s engagement ball came with a swiftness that would have stunned Clara breathless had she time to breathe at all. As it was, her days had been packed to the gills with planning and organizing the myriad tasks necessary to pull off such a momentous occasion in such a short time. Not to mention the added necessity of taking on the persona of bride-to-be, taking walks on Quincy’s arm, sitting with him after dinner, blushing and smiling and appearing incandescently happy.

  All of which had been much too pleasurable for her peace of mind. And taking up entirely too much of her thoughts and energies.

  She could only be grateful that Quincy had been called to his solicitor’s offices and would not be present for the beginning of the ball. Though she was grateful for Aunt Olivia’s retreat on the matchmaking front, Quincy was proving to be a troubling distraction. And so, peering once more at her reflection in her full-length cheval mirror, studying with a critical eye the beautifully made pale green silk gown and the small seed pearls threaded through her hair—and trying her hardest not to wonder what Quincy might think of her when he saw her—she set her jaw and strode out the door.

  Phoebe was already dressed, her maid putting the final touches to her hair when Clara entered her room. Margery was there, trying her best to rein in Aunt Olivia, who was loudly directing the maid on the placement of the creamy white roses being threaded into Phoebe’s golden curls.

  It was a scene she had witnessed numerous times since the beginning of the season. She had not realized until that moment just how dear such things were becoming to her. Swallowing back the sudden burn of tears, she smiled and moved forward. “Goodness, Phoebe darling, you look like an angel.”

  And she did, in the faintest pink silk, embellished with small roses and ivory ribbons twined into fanciful rosettes, ivory lace overlaying the bell-shaped skirt. When Phoebe’s eyes met hers in the glass, her sister’s entire face was shining with her happiness.

  “Do you think Oswin will like it?” she asked, her voice breathless, cheeks blooming.

  “I think he’ll love it,” Clara said with utmost honesty. The maid smiled at her, handing her a rose. “Thank you, Justine,” Clara murmured, and as had become custom over the last months she carefully tucked the last bloom into Phoebe’s soft curls.

  “Oh, my dear, you are a vision,” Margery murmured with a wide smile.

  “Yes, yes, a vision,” Aunt Olivia said with no attempt to conceal her impatience. “And as your intended is below as we speak, awaiting your appearance—along with his overbearing mother—it’s past time we were off.”

  She wielded her cane, shooing them toward the door. As Clara made to walk alongside her sister, however, Aunt Olivia’s voice held her back.

  “Come and help an old woman, Clara.”

  Phoebe gave her an apologetic smile before, linking her arm with Margery’s, she sailed from the room, her eagerness to get to Oswin palpable.

  Clara heaved a barely perceptible sigh, forcing a smile and offering her aunt her arm. “Well, Aunt Olivia,” she said, patting the woman’s hand as they made their way down the hall, “it’s finally here. We managed it. You must be so very happy.”

  “I’ll be happy when I see that this event is the crush I wanted it to be,” the woman muttered. “Otherwise that harridan Lady Crabtree will never let me hear the end of it.”

  “Oh, I’m certain she would not be so petty,” Clara said, impressed with the even confidence in her voice. She didn’t believe what she said one bit.

  Aunt Olivia cast her a severe look. “Don’t think you can fool me, girl. The woman is worse than me for holding things against a person. And I’ve had more practice than she has. Besides, even should this event prove successful, there’s still the matter of the wedding itself to worry about. What if no one makes the ungodly trek to the Isle for it? What if it’s a disastrous failure?”

  “Then you shall be content that Phoebe will still be the happiest bride in creation,” Clara said firmly, guiding her great-aunt down the stairs. “Truly, none of that matters to her.”

  “Hmph,” Aunt Olivia grumbled.

  They reached the ground floor, and Clara’s eyes were immediately drawn to Phoebe and Oswin. They stood just off to the side of the hall, their hands clasped tight, their faces alight with love. A small ache started up in Clara’s chest. She was so very glad for her sister’s good fortune. There was nothing more she wanted than Phoebe’s happiness.

  And she would determinedly ignore her grief for all she’d be losing.

  “I don’t see that fiancé of yours, girl.”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Clara said in an offhand manner, knowing full well she hadn’t, as she’d been studiously avoiding her great-aunt for the better part of four days. “Quincy received a missive from his solicitor earlier this afternoon. Something about documents from his Lancashire estate. He said to expect him later this evening.”

  Which, as she’d expected, did nothing at all to assuage Aunt Olivia’s ire.

  “His place is beside you. Why I ever agreed to keep quiet on such a momentous bit of news I’ll never know.”

  “Aunt Olivia,” Clara hissed as Lady Crabtree eyed them with more than a fair bit of interest. She gave the woman a sick smile, dipping into a curtsy before doing her best to guide Aunt Olivia away.

  But the woman would not budge. “Don’t Aunt Olivia me, girl. My great-niece, at the advanced age of nearly one and thirty, finally lands herself a husband, a duke no less, and you expect me to stay quiet? It’s ridiculous.”

  “But Phoebe—” she tried helplessly.

  “Will not know a moment’s less joy from having her dear sister announce her own good fortune. If anything, it will increase it exponentially.”

  A valid point. Hadn’t Phoebe told her that very thing more than once over the past days? When Clara considered her decision to delay the announcement, she found there were only two possible reasons. The first, that she feared for the widespread damage to her reputation once she ended the engagement—laughable, really; with Phoebe wed she had no use for such a thing. And the second, that her feelings for Quincy ran deeper than she had first surmised.

  She blanched. No, that could not possibly be true. She could not be so stupid as to fall for the man. Physical attraction she could understand. And control. But if she were falling in love with him—

  No, she would not even consider such a thing. To prove that her heart was in no way in danger, she purposely turned to her great aunt and declared, “You’re right, Aunt Olivia. It’s
ridiculous to delay. We’ll announce it tonight.”

  Her great-aunt blinked at the abrupt about-face before she grinned. “Splendid, my girl. You are, once more, my favorite niece.”

  Before Clara could think what to say to that, Peter approached.

  “Aunt Olivia, Lenora has set up a chair for you here in the receiving line so you don’t have to miss a minute of gloating.”

  The viscountess’s eyes narrowed as she took his proffered arm. “I think I’ve a right to gloat, don’t you? Especially now that Clara has agreed to let us announce her engagement as well.”

  Peter glanced at Clara, his shock palpable. “Has she?”

  “Yes,” Aunt Olivia said with a fond smile for Clara. “And so my happiness is complete. All save, of course, for Freya.” Her voice turned stern once more. “Why you won’t allow her to come down is beyond me.”

  “She’s a dog, Aunt,” he gritted as he guided her away, shooting Clara a troubled look that warned of a later conversation about her unexpected reversal. “She has no place at a London ball.”

  “She is not just a dog to me, my boy,” she said in ringing tones. “And besides, she’d be a good deal better behaved than many of our guests, I’d wager.”

  Lenora joined Clara as they moved out of earshot. “You truly wish to have the announcement tonight?” she whispered in her ear.

  “There’s no sense in putting it off,” she said with a bright smile. “It will make everyone happy. Especially Phoebe, whose joy is paramount to me.”

  “And what of your happiness, dear?”

  Anger flared deep in her, a spark to dry tinder; when had her happiness ever been a consideration? Since her tragic youthful mistake she had always put her own wants and desires last. And everyone had seemed more than content for her to do so. If her happiness had ever been part of the equation, she would—

  What? She blinked, her anger draining from her as quickly as it had come. What would truly make her happy? And it hit her: she had no idea.

  She shook her head, nearly blanching. Of course she knew what would make her happy. Making this blasted engagement seem real enough that, when the time came to end it, she would be free of ever having to deal with her great-aunt’s matchmaking again. And finding her new place in her family so she might feel like she wasn’t a burden to them.

  “This will make me happy,” she said firmly.

  Lenora gave her a cautious look. “Should we wait to talk to Quincy?”

  “No. I’m certain he would agree. We’ll do it tonight,” Clara said, with much more conviction than she felt. And prayed that she wasn’t making an enormous mistake.

  * * *

  If Quincy hadn’t promised he would make an appearance at the ball, he would have gladly crawled into bed and pulled the covers over his head.

  He put the finishing touches to his cravat, trying and failing to rein in the hopelessness that threatened to engulf him. Mr. Richmond’s letter informing him that the papers from the Lancashire house had arrived had seemed a beacon of hope. But in the last hours Quincy had come to the realization that he’d been fooling himself. If anything, the documents had only made his situation more dire. Reigate Manor was fairly rotting from negligence, the grounds in no better shape. Added to that the repairs demanded in the village, a decade and a half of inattention leaving the people desperate, and a need for expediency had been added to the whole mess. He could not let the tenants hurt any longer than necessary. And so it seemed there was no more hope to be had.

  But now wasn’t the time. He had a ball to attend, and people to charm. And a fiancée to see to. He did not have time for self-pity.

  Clara’s face swam in his thoughts, and for a moment he forgot his troubles. These past days, as he’d waited with increasing anxiety for word from Lancashire, she had been the brightest spot. And his suspicions that there was more to her than he’d first assumed were proven right with each stroll, each conversation.

  He peered at himself in the glass, making one final adjustment to his cravat before hurrying from the room, suddenly anxious to get to her. How was she handling this evening? Was she enjoying herself? Was she so fixated on her sister that she forgot to eat?

  Then and there he determined to focus on Clara tonight. Not only would she have someone looking out for her—not a common occurrence, as he’d seen firsthand—but it would take his mind from his own troubles as well. And if there was anything he needed, it was to pretend for a few blissful hours that he was still the same carefree fellow he had always been, before the noose that was the dukedom had been placed around his neck.

  The sounds of revelry grew in volume as he reached the stairs, proof that Lady Tesh’s wishes on this being the crush of the season had come to fruition. He hurried around a group of stragglers loitering in the front hall, hardly noticing as they fell silent and stared as he passed, his focus on the hall clock.

  Damnation, was he truly that tardy? Not a one of Peter and his family would reprimand him for the lateness of the hour—well, save for Lady Tesh, who would be only too happy to rake him over the coals. No, his guilt was self-inflicted. These people were more family to him than his own had ever been. He should have been here for them, to celebrate Phoebe and her good fortune, to raise a glass with the others on this momentous occasion.

  To lend an arm for Clara to lean on.

  It did not matter that they were not engaged in truth. He cared for her. As friends, he reminded himself sternly. But all the more reason to help her where he could.

  The noise grew louder, conversation and laughter and music all coalescing into a nearly unintelligible roar. It should have perhaps warned him of what he was to find at the end of his journey. Just then, however, he ducked around a group of ladies conversing near the doors to the ballroom. They fell silent as well, their eyes widening when they saw him before they began a mad whispering.

  A sliver of unease dug its way under his skin as he entered the ballroom. That unease transformed into shock as he caught sight of the sea of humanity before him.

  Which made it that much worse when the butler, having spied him, announced in sonorous tones, “His Grace, the Duke of Reigate.”

  Well, hell.

  The hush that momentarily fell over the room suddenly exploded in a din of voices even louder than before. So much for making a quiet, unobtrusive entrance. How had he forgotten just how title-hungry the ton was? That the appearance of a new duke in London was like waving a red cape before a bull?

  And he couldn’t blame them one bit. A long-lost heir, returning from America to find himself a duke? It was a story straight from a novel, too sensational to be real. His lips twisted. This was his life now. As much as he wished it otherwise.

  Plastering a carefree smile on his face, he sauntered down the stairs and into the throng.

  And was immediately set upon by a veritable tidal wave of well-wishers.

  Though well-wishers was a generous term. They smiled and shook his hand heartily, claiming whatever tenuous connection to his father or his brothers or, worse, his mother that they could manage to concoct as an excuse for ignoring the rules of polite society in not waiting for a proper introduction, the calculation in their eyes unnerving.

  But Quincy, while completely unprepared for such a barrage—though why he had been foolish enough to think his first entrance into London society might go unremarked upon was beyond him—was not without talents. He grinned and shook hands heartily and winked at the ladies, charming his way across the ballroom.

  Even so, he could only be grateful when Clara came charging through the crowd, his knight in shining silk, wielding a fan instead of a sword.

  “Your Grace, my cousin requires your assistance,” she said, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm. She smiled at Lady Fulton and her two eager daughters, gave pretty excuses to Lord Kendrick and Lord Greeveson, complimented Lady Bulville on her turban, and deftly extricated Quincy from the small crowd that had closed in around him.

  He exhaled
for the first time in what felt hours, letting loose a small chuckle. “Well, you’ve gone and saved me again, Clara. Truly, I have a running debt with you that I’ll be hard-pressed to pay off.”

  “You may not be thanking me in a moment,” she muttered, sidestepping a group of elderly ladies that would try to intercept them. “But we have to do this before I lose my nerve completely.”

  He blinked, taking in for the first time the seriousness of her face. Before he could question her on it, however, Lady Tesh called to them, her strident voice carrying through the crowd, seeming to push a clear path through sheer intent alone. She waved her cane, and the few people who had not heeded her unspoken wishes to get out of the way scuttled aside with alacrity. Quincy, bemused and not a little apprehensive, rather thought that if she donned a long white beard she would make a fine Moses.

  “It’s about time, my boy,” she snapped as Quincy and Clara approached.

  If he hadn’t already adored her, that short, clipped sentence would have earned her his eternal devotion. After the past minutes of fawning flattery, all of which had made him feel akin to a damp rag wrung out to dry, her insistence in seeing him as nothing more than Quincy was like a balm to his soul.

  “Missed me, did you?” he murmured, kissing her lined cheek. “Well, I have missed you, too.”

  “Flatterer,” she said, though the faint flush of pleasure on her face softened the arch tone considerably. “But we’ve delayed long enough.” And with that she peered up toward the orchestra gallery, giving a regal nod.

  “You didn’t have to wait on announcing Phoebe and Oswin for me,” he said.

  “Oh, we didn’t.”

  Quincy, more confused than ever, waited for her to elaborate. But the dowager viscountess was apparently done with him, for she turned to Lenora and Margery and fell into heated conversation. “Clara,” he said, his apprehension returning, “what is going on?”