But she was prevented from answering him as Phoebe, her face alight, approached and linked her arm through Clara’s free one.
“I thought my joy could not be greater,” she said through a throat that sounded suspiciously thick with tears. “But this has increased my happiness tenfold.”
What the devil was going on? He looked once more to Clara, but the worry in her eyes only confused him more. The rest of her family was not a bit of help, either. Margery smiled while dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, Lenora chewed on her lip in a blatant sign of anxiety, and Lady Tesh looked as sly as a fox about to raid a chicken coop.
Just then the orchestra, which had been playing a lively cotillion, fell silent. And suddenly Peter was on the balcony, calling for everyone’s attention.
“As you know,” he said, his voice strong, silencing the few guests still talking, “we are here to celebrate the good fortune of my cousin Lady Phoebe Ashford and her intended, Lord Oswin. What you may not know is that our family has been doubly blessed, in the engagement of Lady Phoebe’s sister, Lady Clara Ashford, to my friend the Duke of Reigate.”
The room, already quiet for Peter’s announcement, went silent as a tomb. One young woman stomped her dainty slippered foot and gave a frustrated growl.
“Oh,” Quincy managed. Clara’s hand, still tucked in his, tightened.
Peter looked down at Quincy and Clara, his features fierce, belying his cheerful announcement. “And so,” he said, his displeasure palpable, “please raise your glass in toasting the happy couple. May they know years of joy.”
A glass was pressed into his hand as the room erupted in cheers. He looked down at Clara. But the worry was gone from her face, a beaming smile in its place.
“Clara?”
She looked up at him, and the breath was knocked from his body. Damnation she was beautiful. For a shining moment he believed this was real, that she was his. The yearning that reared up in him at the very idea had him nearly staggering back in shock.
“Smile,” she whispered. “You have to look happy.”
He started. Of course this was all a ploy. A necessary subterfuge. He shook off the longing that she might care for him as more than her cousin’s friend. What the devil was wrong with him?
Gifting the room with a dazzling smile, he raised his glass to Clara before downing the lot, hardly registering the light, sweet tickle of the champagne. The cheers grew louder as the orchestra started up a lively waltz. Without a word, he handed off his glass and offered Clara his arm.
“I’m assuming you have a perfectly logical explanation for this,” he said under his breath as he guided her to the floor.
“Aunt Olivia,” was all she said.
“Of course.”
Chapter 9
I take it,” he said, swinging her into a turn, blessedly distracting Clara from how lovely it felt to be held in his arms, “that your great-aunt used her considerable powers of persuasion to finally get her way?”
“Partly.” At his raised brow her cheeks heated. There was no way she would tell him it had also been a way to prove to herself she wasn’t falling for him. “And I thought it would hold more weight if our engagement went public.”
“You’re right, of course. However,” he continued, the only indication that he was annoyed being the charged tone of his voice, “perhaps next time tell me what you’re planning ahead of time? Or leave a note for me so I don’t stumble in unawares?”
“I would have,” she gritted, the sting of his censure added to the strain of the past hours finally snapping her patience, “if you had been here for me to tell.”
The floor was beginning to fill. He maneuvered them past a young couple staring at them with avid interest, sidestepped another that seemed intent on catching Quincy’s eye. “It was not by choice,” he growled through a smile that was quickly transforming into a mere baring of teeth. “Though the next time I’m in the process of learning the dukedom is entirely bankrupt I’ll keep that in mind.”
Clara nearly stumbled, her annoyance gone in an instant. It was only his steady hand that kept her on her feet. “Bankrupt? Was the news from your solicitor so dire as that?”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” he muttered, regret replacing the simmering anger in his eyes, “especially now. You have your own concerns; you’ve no need to worry about mine as well.”
“As if I would let you get away with such a flimsy excuse,” she declared, and was rewarded with his strained chuckle.
But the dance floor was no place for a serious conversation. She caught sight of the garden doors over his shoulder, left ajar to let in the cool night air. Well, she thought with a mental shrug, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“Guide us to that side of the room, will you?”
Quincy gave her a curious look but did as he was bid, expertly weaving them through the thickening crowd of dancers. Once they reached the edge of the dance floor she broke from his embrace, taking hold of his hand and pulling him out the doors into the night beyond.
The balcony was blessedly empty, any guests who had taken advantage of the cool night air having been lured back to the ballroom by Peter’s announcement. There was not a single person to act as witness as she dragged Quincy down the stone steps to the garden beyond.
Between the bright moon and the lantern light it was a simple thing to locate the small alcove nestled between towering box hedges. Secluded and quiet as it was, with its small stone seat, it was yet another place in the garden she had escaped to in her early days in London. She gave a small sigh of relief when they were safely inside.
“Now we may talk freely,” she said as she spun to face Quincy.
Only she hadn’t realized how close he was to her. Or how intimate the darkness would be. The sounds from the ballroom were hushed behind the dense hedge, cool blue moonlight barely reaching to where they stood. Everything was leached of color, shadows surrounding them, closing them in. Yet the night had never been more alive. Her heart pounded out a desperate rhythm in her chest, the sound of it drowned out only by the harsh rasp of their combined breaths. Her overly sensitive skin reacted to every brush of the faint breeze, to every wave of heat emanating from him. The soap-and-sandalwood scent of him enveloped her, combining with the rich earth and foliage, and the faint scent of roses. It was a heady perfume that had her mind swimming. She swayed.
His hands were suddenly at her waist. She gasped softly, planting her palms on the broad expanse of his chest, an attempt to steady her wildly spinning head. But nothing would help with that; she was quite lost in that regard.
The heat of his skin seeped into her gloved fingers through his tailored coat and waistcoat and fine linen shirt, the pounding of his heart making her palms tingle. Her gaze, which had been centered on the strong column of his throat, tripped up over his square chin, over the generous curve of his lips and his aquiline nose to find his eyes. They glittered down at her, seeming to hold all the brightness of the stars, all the brilliance of the moon.
“Oh,” she breathed.
He cleared his throat, tried to speak, cleared his throat again. “Why are we out here?” he asked, his voice hoarse. His breath, warm and still sweet from the champagne he had drunk, further scrambled her already addled thoughts.
“I…I don’t recall,” she managed.
He let loose a small, breathless laugh. “Me neither.”
She swallowed hard. “Mayhap we’d best return.”
“Mayhap,” he whispered. Yet his fingers tightened on her waist, drawing her closer until her breasts brushed his chest.
Desire, stronger than any she had ever felt, shot through her, pooling between her thighs. It left her shaken. She sucked in a sharp breath, hoping the cool night air would help to free her from the spell of him. But it only managed to make the scent of him more potent. Her fingers curled around his lapels, tethering her to him as surely as any chain.
Suddenly his eyes, which had grown heavy-lidded and hot in the shado
ws, cleared, his gaze sharpening. A low curse escaped his lips. She blinked, cheeks heating, and made to pull away.
When she heard the voices, coming closer, her eyes widened and her grip on him tightened again. She looked up into his face, saw the same panic there that was coursing through her. Being found together would be understood; their engagement had just been announced, after all. The rules were relaxed for betrothed couples, allowing them much more freedom to enjoy one another’s company.
But they were planning to end their engagement. And being seen giving her favors to Quincy would only make the scandal when they broke things off so much worse.
The couple—for indeed it was a man and woman, talking in hushed voices—came even closer. Clara could hear their steps on the gravel path, a small giggle, a low rumble of male voice. She cast her eyes about their small space, looking for any way to disguise themselves. But save for the stone bench, hardly large enough for one person to sit upon, much less two people to hide under, they would be quite exposed when the couple passed by.
She looked up at Quincy and saw intense determination fill his face. Before she could make sense of it, he pivoted their bodies so his back was to the path. When it became apparent that even that could not completely conceal her identity, he cradled her face in his large hands and lowered his head to hers.
The moment his lips touched hers the world exploded in color and sensation. Molten fire seared her from the inside out, burning her defenses to ash, releasing the passions and desires she had so carefully hidden away. She gasped, her fingers finding his broad shoulders, and she held on tight, as if he could save her from the flames that licked at her. When all along he had been the one lighting the spark.
He stilled, his shock palpable. Embarrassment, immediate and staggering in its intensity, tore through her. Of course he would be taken aback by her reaction. This was an attempt to escape from detection, camouflaging them as just another amorous couple hiding in the bushes. It was in no way due to any desire he felt for her. She made to pull away, desperate to escape.
His low groan stopped her. And then his mouth opened over hers, the kiss deepening, and she was lost.
Ah, God, how good it felt to be held. Even as the thought flitted through her mind, she knew it was not just a need to be held that had her reacting thus. No, it was because Quincy was the one holding her. His arms stole around her, dragging her flush to the hard planes of his body. She arched up into him, the need in her so great she thought she’d weep from it. Gone was the fear and pain and heartache of the past decade and a half. She felt reborn, a phoenix rising from the destruction.
His tongue pressed against the barrier of her lips, a plea that was incredibly gentle for all the strength and barely leashed power apparent in every inch of his body. She opened to him readily, shuddering as his tongue touched her own. He growled into her mouth, the vibration of it rippling through every nerve in her body. Their tongues clashed, his hands splaying across her back, moving down to cup her bottom, pressing her up into his hardness.
“Oops! Someone has beaten us to this alcove, my sweet.”
The strange voice, jarring and much too close, was like a bucket of ice water, cooling Clara’s raging passions in a moment. She stilled, every muscle in her body going rigid as the sounds of giggling and footsteps receded.
Quincy, too, stilled beneath her hands. Yet neither of them pulled away. She wasn’t certain what kept Quincy’s arm tight about her. For Clara, it was mortification, plain and simple. She could not bear to look up into his face, to see the pity that surely must be filling it. What else would he be thinking, after her little performance? The passion-starved spinster, clinging to him like a limpet, so eager for any bit of physical affection that she had lost all control.
He was the first to move. No wonder; if she could have buried her face in his chest for the rest of eternity to keep him from seeing her embarrassment, she would have done so, and gladly. Clearing his throat, he said, “Well, that worked beautifully, didn’t it?”
She couldn’t even manage a nod in response, closing her eyes tight. How sad he must think her.
Again he cleared his throat. “I suppose we should get back to the ball.”
She latched onto his suggestion; that’s what she needed now, to surround herself with people, where it would be easier to don her calm mask again. Where she could pretend, at least for a few hours, that she hadn’t forgotten everything she had worked toward since that youthful indiscretion that had cost her everything. “Yes, let’s,” she said with a false brightness that sounded brittle even to her own ears. Wincing, she pushed past him and marched from the alcove, walking as quickly as she was able to back to the house.
A bit of normalcy was needed. He could not see how he had affected her. Which shouldn’t be difficult to accomplish, considering her particular talent for acting as if nothing was amiss. “Goodness, that was close,” she said in a cheerful tone, as if they had just experienced some small mishap.
His steps, which sounded behind her, faltered for a moment before starting up again. “Yes, it was.”
“I do hope my family hasn’t missed us. Of course, now that our engagement has been announced it will be expected that you dance with Phoebe. As a show of solidarity with the family. I do hope her dance card is not yet filled. She has always been popular, but tonight she is more so.” She gave a small laugh as she hurried up the steps to the balcony. “Though that should not be a surprise, seeing as it is her engagement ball.”
Quincy grabbed her hand, stopping her. “Clara,” he said, his voice achingly gentle.
She turned to face him, keeping her eyes on his cravat. The small emerald nestled in its snowy depths winked in the light from the chandeliers that spilled across the stone balcony, and she focused on it with all her remaining willpower.
His thumb, moving in comforting circles over her knuckles, firmly dismantled what little pride she had left. Exhaustion filled her. She had remained strong for so long, pretending everything was well. Strange, then, that this gentle, caring gesture should be the thing that finally tore free the mask of a decade and a half.
But no, it was more than just this tenderness that had done it. She had been destroyed the moment his lips had touched hers. Forgotten were those reasons she had denied her passionate heart in the first place—all the kisses she had welcomed, the caresses that had made her body come alive, only to leave betrayal and heartache and loss in their wake.
Had she been fooling herself all this time? She’d thought she’d become strong over the years, that she could withstand any temptation. But one kiss from Quincy and she was lost.
“Clara,” he said again, “I’m sorry—”
She closed her eyes. “Don’t,” she managed, all bravado gone. She had been a fool to think she could escape the embarrassment of such a scene. “Can we please not talk about it?”
A horrible silence. And then, “Very well.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“For now,” he said when she would have turned away, his hold tightening on her hand, keeping her in place.
She finally met his eyes, frustration at his stubbornness beginning to rear its head. “For now?” she repeated, incredulous.
He shrugged. “I won’t pretend it didn’t happen, Clara.”
“Why?” The word came out as an agonized cry that startled her for its intensity. Flushing, she looked around the balcony. It was not empty now, a few couples having abandoned the revelry within for a moment’s respite. Yet even across the stone flags Clara could see their surreptitious glances, their interest palpable.
She stepped closer to Quincy to better keep their conversation quiet. A mistake. His cologne washed over her once more, and she was overcome by memories of being in his arms, of his mouth on hers.
She shook her head, forcibly dispelling the potent reminder, and glared at him. “It was a mistake. Why can’t we just forget it?”
“Because I don’t wish to.”
Clara sucked in a breath at that simple, devastating statement. He met her gaze unflinchingly, his dark eyes glittering.
Before she could demand that he explain himself, he added, “We should get back to the ball. I had other plans for later this evening, but now…Anyway, we’d best see about securing your sister’s hand for a set.”
The change in subject was so swift it took Clara some seconds to understand that, at least for the moment, they were done discussing their kiss. She would have to be content with that.
Schooling her features into politeness, she meant to nod and head for the ballroom with all haste. Anything to escape from the disturbing intimacy of the balcony.
But her mouth had other ideas. “Where had you planned to go off to?”
The question hung in the air, stalling their reentrance into the crowded ballroom. Proof that, though she knew better, she was not quite ready to relinquish him to the mass of people within.
Thankfully he saw nothing odd in it. “There’s a memento of my father’s I had wanted—no, needed—to fetch from my mother’s house. Though now that I won’t require use of it, I suppose there’s little sense in it.” He let loose a bitter laugh.
Clara, disturbed by the sudden hopelessness that seemed to come over him, drew even closer to him despite knowing better. Much better. “What is it you wanted to retrieve?”
He shifted his gaze back to her. And she was struck mute by the quiet despair there.
“My father’s map book. I was forced to leave it behind when I left England as a boy. I’d hoped to retrieve it before beginning my travels. But as it seems I’ll be remaining in England for a good long while it’s silly to go hying off in the middle of what is essentially our engagement ball to get it.”
She recalled then the conversation they’d begun on the dance floor, his admission that the dukedom was bankrupt.
Which, if true, would make it doubly important that he lay claim to something so very dear to him. She laid a comforting hand on his sleeve. “You must get your father’s book.”
Someday My Duke Will Come Page 12