Someday My Duke Will Come
Page 13
“I will. Eventually.”
“No, now,” she pressed. “You cannot allow something so important to you to remain under your mother’s roof any longer. And besides,” she continued when he gave her a dubious look that nevertheless revealed the pain her statement caused, “you don’t know that you’ll never see those places. You mustn’t give up hope.”
He gave her a small smile full of longing that quickly disappeared as the sound of laughter from within the ballroom reached them. “No, I couldn’t. It would be unforgivably selfish of me to leave you to that crowd. Especially with the announcement of our engagement turning them positively manic.”
“I assure you,” she said with an arch look, “I can handle myself, sir.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt you can.”
The admiring glimmer in his eyes, the intimate murmur of his voice, turned her bones to liquid. And her brain as well, if the next words that came out of her mouth were any indication.
“Take me with you.”
His eyes flared wide. “What was that?”
It was the perfect opening to recall the words. It was a mad scheme; she knew it the moment the words left her mouth. To sneak off from the ball, to travel alone with him in a carriage after dark? Especially after the kiss they’d shared…
Absolute insanity.
And yet the very idea of him leaving without her had every fiber of her being crying out in protest.
Surely it was not the thought of being without his company that had her reacting so. It must be the realization that, after the announcement, she would quickly be set upon by everyone present. Those people would no doubt have questions regarding her speedy engagement, how it had come about, when they would marry. And in that moment she could not stomach it in the least.
Yes, that was most assuredly the reason.
Having convinced herself, she said, her voice firm, “Take me with you.”
For a split second his eyelids grew heavy, a spark of something lighting the depths of his gaze. All too soon, however, it was gone, and he shook his head, a denial forming on his lips.
Determined to head off his refusal, she added, “You would not want to leave me to deal with the fallout from our engagement alone, would you?”
It was manipulation at its very core. Instead of growing annoyed with her, however, he laughed. “Clara, I didn’t know you had it in you to be quite so openly devious.”
He was going to let her accompany him. He did not say it, of course, but it was there in every amused line of his face.
Relief washed over her. Which was silly, really; it was not as if she had anything riding on this trip to his mother’s home. Yet she couldn’t help the grin that spread over her face. Casting a glance around the balcony, finding that the other couples had left and they were blessedly alone, she grabbed Quincy’s hand. “Come along then,” she said, pulling him back down the stone steps and into the dark garden toward the mews. And as his quiet laughter trailed them like the wake behind a ship she tried—and failed—not to focus on how happy that sound made her.
Chapter 10
He shouldn’t have brought Clara with him, Quincy thought some time later as he stared up at the grand façade of his family’s Berkeley Square townhouse. He’d had the thought several times during the quick drive here. The carriage interior had been too dark, too close, the tension between them a palpable thing despite the laughter that had started them off on this adventure. Yet how could he leave her behind when she had turned those beautiful eyes on him and smiled?
Even now the remembrance of her lips lifted in that sly smile as she turned his decision on its head took his breath away. It will be easier to capitulate, he’d thought as they’d hurried to the mews, her fingers wrapped tight around his, no doubt to keep him from making a run for it. As if he would have been able to.
He knew deep down this was not easier, not one bit. Had he been alone he could have walked with greater speed than it had taken to secure a carriage, have the horses harnessed, and be driven through the congested streets around Dane House. No, the truth of the matter was, now that he’d held her in his arms, he was loath to let her out of his sight.
It was a mad notion. This was a fake engagement, not the beginning of a new life together. They would be parting soon enough.
Yet the thought of walking away from her had every inch of his body rebelling.
“Are you all right?”
Her soft voice echoed in the close confines of the carriage, bringing him back to the problem at hand. He would focus on this most pressing issue now and revisit his concerns over his feelings for his faux-fiancée later. When he was not in danger of dragging her back in his arms and finishing what he’d accidentally begun in the gardens.
“Never better,” he declared with much more confidence than he felt. “Let’s go.”
He threw open the carriage door, vaulting to the pavement before turning to hand Clara down. Soon they were before the grand doors.
Byerly answered their knock. His eyes widened as he bowed deeply. “Your Grace, we did not expect you.”
“Is my mother at home?” he asked as he strode into the front hall, fighting for a tone of confidence when in reality he wanted to vomit.
“No, Your Grace. She is out for the evening.”
The surge of relief he felt at that bit of news infuriated him. He should not still be so affected by her. But he would count his blessings where he could. Goodness knew there were too few of them.
“I would appreciate it if Lady Clara and myself could have access to the study,” he said.
The butler’s eyes widened. “But of course, Your Grace. It is your house, after all.”
His breath left him in a rush. Yes, it was. As he’d known from poring over the papers relating to every bit of property the Dukes of Reigate had bought and sold over the past several generations.
Yet it had not sunk in until now, standing in the front hall of this house he had grown up in. He had always seen the house as his father’s, but through a horrible quirk of fate it now belonged to him.
Clara touched him lightly on the arm. “Quincy?”
He blinked, looking down at her. Her face was drawn into tense lines, her gloved hand in a tight fist where it held the rough shawl she had borrowed from a groom close about her shoulders. “Sorry,” he muttered. With a curt nod for Byerly, he strode off in the direction of the study.
Their footsteps echoed back to them as they hurried through the house. It was only then he saw what he hadn’t during his last visit here: the house was too empty. It wasn’t the lack of people he found disconcerting, it was the lack of things. As if each room they passed contained great gaping voids. In one room, the thick wool rug that had graced the floor was conspicuously absent. In another, most of the heavily carved Tudor-era furniture that had held a place of pride was missing. There were pale spots on walls where landscapes had hung, empty stands where vases had been displayed.
Fury rose up, nearly choking him. Damn his brothers. Nothing had been sacred to them, it seemed. No doubt they would have sold the house from under their mother had it not been entailed.
A sudden realization hit him, making his steps falter on the bare wood floor: if all of this was gone, wasn’t it possible that his father’s heavy wooden desk, beautifully carved, a work of art, was gone, too?
He broke off at a run, his steps echoing through the hall, his pumps skidding on the floor as he reached the study door.
It was cold here, only pale moonlight reaching into the musty, unused space. Yet the great hulking desk was there, just as it had always been.
The relief in Quincy was so great he collapsed back against the wall. “Thank God,” he whispered.
Clara came hurrying up. “Quincy?” she asked breathlessly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he croaked. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Yes, I’m well. Sorry about that.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said, her voice soft. “
This cannot be easy.”
“No,” he agreed, looking down into her concerned eyes. Gratitude surged in him. “I’m glad you’re here.” It surprised him just how much he meant it.
A small smile lit her shadowed face. “As am I.”
Just as in the gardens when he’d made the colossal mistake of embracing her in order to protect her identity, he longed desperately to kiss her. Damnation, but she had felt like heaven. He wanted nothing more than to claim her lips again, to feel once more her surprisingly passionate response.
But now was not the time or place. Not that there would ever be a time or place for such a thing. Squaring his shoulders, he walked with purpose to the desk. Memories assailed him the closer he got, and he saw in a brilliant flash his father’s smiling face as he beckoned Quincy forward. Then he blinked and it was gone, replaced with the sad reality of this cold room devoid of all heart.
Tears burned the backs of his eyes. Rounding the desk, he quickly lit the lamp on the desk’s cluttered surface. The warm light illuminated what had only been hinted at in the shadows.
A thick coat of dust covered the once gleaming surface of the grand desk, all manner of papers strewn across its top. One glared up at him from the pile, the date scrawled across the foolscap proving it had been several years since this desk had been made use of. The globe that used to sit in the corner that Quincy and his father had pored over during many happy afternoons was gone, as were the majority of the books that had graced the shelves, ones that he and his father had made use of so frequently, they had kept them in the study for easy reach.
Bile rose up in him at this further proof of his brothers’ perfidy. But he would not mourn those losses; what was the point? They were just things, and their absence could not take away the memories.
The map book, on the other hand…
Grabbing the lamp, suddenly desperate to get his hands on the thing, he pushed the chair back and dropped to his knees. He paused only a moment, his hand on the handle of the deep bottom drawer, before yanking it open. A clutter of papers filled it to the brim. He dug them out and tossed them aside. Finally his fingers reached the bottom, found the small latch that released the hidden door.
It popped up with a faint creak. Holding his breath, Quincy lifted the lamp and peered inside.
The years fell away in an instant. Just as it had been that day fourteen years before, the small calf-bound map book was lying within, undisturbed in its nest of papers.
With shaking fingers he took it up. The surface was smooth and worn, the pages dog-eared, stained, and torn in places.
It was beautiful.
“Is that it?”
Clara had dropped down to the floor across from him, the delicate silk folds of her ball gown billowing about her like a cloud, the dark wool cloak a stark contrast where it lay against the finer fabric. But it was her face he could not tear his gaze from. Her eyes glowed in the candlelight and were glued to the book, as if there were something sacred about it.
His heart warmed that she could so fully understand the importance of such a simple, worn thing to him.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad.” She smiled, her relief for him palpable. It shone brighter than the candle’s flame, that smile, until he found an answering one spreading across his own face. It was something he never thought to do in this house again.
“We should go,” he murmured, rising to his feet, helping her up. “With luck we will not have been missed yet. And Peter won’t have cause to call me out on the morrow.”
Her laugh, light and low, trailed across his skin. As he bent to secure the door back in the bottom of the drawer, Clara took up the candle, and the flickering candlelight washed over the hidden space, bathing it in a golden glow.
Frowning, he froze. His father had always kept childhood drawings and small notes and mementos in the compartment—things the man had held precious. They were all still there, as they’d always been.
But an odd bundle lay within as well, snagging at his attention.
Without a word he reached inside, taking it up. Then, sweeping an arm out, he scattered the teetering piles of correspondence and merchant notes from the desk in a billow of dust and laid his father’s bundle on the dull surface. There was no doubt in Quincy’s mind that it had been put there by his father before his death; the secret chamber had appeared just as it had the day Quincy left for America, undisturbed and undiscovered all this time.
Why, then, could he not remember just what this packet was?
“Quincy, what is it?”
“I’m not certain,” he muttered. He worked the twine loose, unwrapped the brown paper packaging, and began rifling through the items within: a dance card, a lock of jet-black hair encased in a brooch, a small collection of letters tied up tight with string. And…
“A deed,” he breathed.
He raised the expensive vellum with shaking hands, bringing it closer to his face in an attempt to read the formal words. As if heeding his call Clara moved closer, positioning the flame so it illuminated the document. He could not even muster a smile for her in thanks, so desperate was he to read the contents.
Some minutes later, the air thick with tension and dawning excitement, he raised his head and looked to Clara. Her lovely face was drawn, worry in every line.
“What is it, Quincy?”
He grinned, his entire body thrumming with excitement. “This might be the thing I need to save the dukedom.”
Chapter 11
My dearest Clara (for that is how a man should address his fiancée),
I hope you’ve arrived safe on the Isle. London is frightfully dull without you lot here. How I managed the last year without Peter’s glowers and Lady Tesh’s haranguing I’ll never know. Speaking of Lady Tesh, has she forgiven me for remaining behind? I’ll make it up to her and am prepared to unleash my full arsenal of charm to do it. Anything to prevent that deadly cane of hers from finding my nose…or any other part of my person, for that matter.
Mr. Richmond is quite certain after a cursory examination of the deed that it is genuine. And I have learned something incredible about the property that will stun you speechless. But as I’m bursting to write it down, and have determined I would rather see your face when you learn of it, I had better sign off now.
Yrs,
Quincy
My dear husband-to-be (for two can play at that game),
Why you have insisted on keeping the identity of the property a secret I don’t understand. I, of course, was willing to overlook such a thing when you feared that the document might be false. But now I do think it prudent that you tell me everything you can. It’s what a proper fiancé would do, after all.
The trip to Synne was long and tedious but uneventful. I had thought to perhaps rest, seeing as the engagement ball was firmly behind us and I could not very well run to the milliner’s to discuss fabrics. Aunt Olivia, of course, had other plans. As I ruined my best traveling gown with ink while trying to copy down her lengthy lists in a moving carriage, I’m not inclined to look favorably on the experience.
I miss you. Lady Tesh misses you terribly; we’re not amusing enough for her, it seems. And so you have earned your forgiveness already.
Until later,
Clara
My heart’s desire (goodness, I should hire myself out for these things),
If you think to guilt me into revealing details of the property you are quite deluded; guilt washes off my back like the proverbial water off a duck. Ask Peter if you don’t believe me; goodness knows I let him take the blame for many a boyhood prank, and with absolute glee. You must wait along with everyone else.
With luck I won’t be long in London. I cannot wait to see you. I was of the opinion that Dane House was a monstrous place but did not fully realize it until you left. The remaining staff, I fear, grow tired of my constant need to drag them into conversation. I’ve even taken to talking to the statuary. And so I give you fair warning that your ears will all suf
fer once I reach Danesford and can talk to my heart’s content.
Faithfully Yrs (goodness, even my closing is a thing of beauty),
Quincy
“Oh, isn’t this lovely?” Phoebe lifted a hair comb from the interior of the delicate wood inlay box before her. “This color will complement the peach in my wedding gown beautifully.”
Clara lowered Quincy’s latest letter, received just that morning—and already dog-eared—and focused on her sister. It had been a week since they’d left London for Synne. A week filled to the brim with travel and wedding preparations.
A week since Clara had seen Quincy.
In an instant she was awash in memory: his strong arms about her, his mouth hot and open over hers, the sweet taste of champagne on his tongue, his hardness pressing into her belly…
She blinked. Such flashes had not abated over the past sennight. Though she was getting more adept at pushing them aside—at least during her waking hours.
This time apart was what had been needed, she told herself stoutly. Their physical distance from one another, alongside the playful banter of their letters, had surely succeeded in putting their indiscretion in the gardens behind them. She had every hope that, when they met again, they might do so with no more emotion than two good friends. After all, it had been just a kiss. A heated, passionate, all-consuming kiss…She cleared her throat, using the letter as a makeshift fan on her suddenly overheated face. It had been just a kiss all the same. A momentary lapse that would not be repeated.
“I remember Mother wearing this piece,” she said, running her fingers over the carved coral cabochons set in delicate gold. “Father gave it to her their very first Christmas. She used to bring it out every Christmas Eve to wear to church.”
Phoebe gave a sigh. “I wish I’d known her.”
The small hitch in her voice tugged at Clara’s heart. Though Clara had done her best to fill the void the loss of their mother had left, she had never been able to patch it completely.