Someday My Duke Will Come

by Christina Britton

  “I’m so sorry, Margery dear, I still have ever so much to do for the wedding,” she said, genuinely disappointed. The pools were quite possibly her favorite place on the Isle, and she hadn’t been in years. But she had set out to make this wedding something special for Phoebe to look back on with joy, and she wasn’t about to fail now that it was a mere week away.

  Aunt Olivia made a disgusted sound. “Quincy,” she said, her eyes fixed on Clara in an uncomfortably intense manner, “I do believe your intended has been working too hard these last weeks.”

  Clara rolled her eyes. “Quincy, please tell my aunt I cannot take the afternoon off.”

  She expected him to comply. He’d been amazingly supportive over the past sennight. So it was that much more of a surprise when he said, “I think Lady Tesh is right.”

  She gaped at him. “You must be joking.”

  He raised one inky brow at her. “Not in the least. You deserve to enjoy this time with your sister. In a week she shall be married and off on her new life.”

  She had been ignoring that fact as best she could. But coming from Quincy in such a simple way, it cut her to the quick. And the problem was, she could not even be angry that he had brought it up. He was right; after the wedding it would be some time before she saw Phoebe. It was devastating, when they had been inseparable since their mother’s death.

  All but for that year, when she had hidden away to birth a child that would not live to take its first breath.

  The memory crashed over her, taking her off guard. She quickly tucked it back into the darkest region of her heart, but the flavor of it stayed with her, making her stomach churn.

  She schooled her features into a mild outrage, praying Quincy’s sharp eyes didn’t catch the moment of shocked grief. “I cannot abandon the wedding plans. It’s in a week.”

  Lady Tesh eyed her with pursed lips before she turned to Margery. “Can Lenora and Mrs. Ingram take over the remainder of the planning?”

  Margery, eyes gleaming in understanding, nodded emphatically. “Oh, certainly. Why, Clara has done such a wonderful job that there’s hardly anything left to do at all.”

  Clara gaped at her. “You are against me, too?”

  “Not against you, dearest,” her cousin answered. “Merely wanting to make certain you don’t regret anything. In the coming years, when you look back at this time, I guarantee you it will not matter a whit that the flowers were just so, or that the dress was hemmed just right. The thing you’ll remember most, the thing that will live on in your heart, is the time spent with Phoebe.”

  There really was no fighting that. Clara slouched in her seat. “Very well,” she grumbled.

  Margery beamed, clapping her hands. “Oh, wonderful. Phoebe will be so happy.”

  “You won’t regret it, my girl,” Aunt Olivia said, giving Clara a small smile that was entirely too smug. Before Clara could make sense of it, Freya, seated in her mistress’s lap, gave a soft yip. Lady Tesh’s attention was immediately diverted. “Do you wish for a little something to eat, my darling?” she crooned.

  Margery moved forward. “Shall I take her to the kitchens?”

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Olivia snapped. She cradled Freya with one arm, holding her other hand out imperiously. “Help me up. I’ll find her a bit of something myself.”

  Margery, looking thoroughly confused—for when had Aunt Olivia ever turned down a chance to have someone else do her bidding?—nonetheless helped the viscountess up and, giving Clara and Quincy an apologetic look, guided her grandmother away.

  Quincy chuckled quietly. Clara shot him a dark look. “And just what is so humorous in this?”

  “You act as if you’re about to ascend the gallows.” He grabbed at her hand, giving it a squeeze. “It will be enjoyable. You’ll see. And the wedding won’t collapse without you. I promise.”

  If his words hadn’t been enough to soothe her, his touch certainly was. A delicious warmth crept through her, making her fairly melt in her seat. Without meaning to, her thumb drifted over his knuckles.

  Immediately his expression shifted. The smile fell from his lips, his lids lowering over eyes that burned with a mesmerizing fire. He leaned closer to her, and she found herself swaying, like a puppet on a string, toward him. The space between them on the settee disappeared in an instant. Her gaze pulled away from his, settling on his firm lips. She drew in a shaking breath, wanting more than anything to taste him again…

  A commotion sounded at the drawing room doors. And then the butler’s voice, ringing through the air.

  “Lord and Lady Crabtree, Lord Oswin. And the Duchess of Reigate.”

  * * *

  Quincy’s first thought upon hearing his mother announced was that the woman had the damnedest timing, for wasn’t this the second occasion she’d disrupted such a moment between him and Clara?

  The second thought was much more violent in nature. What in hell was his mother doing here?

  He released Clara’s hand, lurching to his feet. Surely this was some lurid nightmare. That was it, he was dreaming. Why else would he have come so damn close to kissing Clara again? He had spent the better part of the past week burning for her, made worse by the necessary subterfuge of him playing the part of besotted fiancé. The more time he spent in her presence, the more the line between fact and fiction was blurred. There were times, he found to his dismay, that it wasn’t so much an act as it was the deepest desire of his heart.

  Even so, he never allowed himself to forget that this was all for show, and would be over once Phoebe was safely wed. And he had never once attempted to kiss her again. Until now.

  Yes, this was surely a dream. With his mother’s presence quickly turning it into a nightmare.

  He surreptitiously took the skin of his wrist between two fingers and pinched, hard. But he did not wake tangled in sheets from a night of restless tossing as had become his custom. His heart dropped. No, this was most assuredly not a dream. Damn it.

  His mother stood with all the regality of a queen beside Lord and Lady Crabtree and their son. Her eyes landed on him, and her lips lifted in a cool smile. “Reigate.”

  He stiffened. “Mother.” He cast a glance around the room. Every eye was on him in varying degrees of dismay and confusion. He should smile and feign politeness, then guide her into the hall to rain fire and brimstone down upon her in private for daring to come here. She was up to something. He was sure of it. Her self-satisfied smirk was proof enough of that.

  But despite knowing better, he found he couldn’t move his feet. He swallowed down the angry words that fought to break free, the bitterness of them leaving him sick to his stomach. “What are you doing here?” he asked instead, the words forced out through gritted teeth.

  “Lady Crabtree and I have become quite close recently, as both our sons are to wed the daughters of the previous Duke of Dane. They’ve kindly invited me to attend their son’s wedding, to get to know my future daughter-in-law better.” Here she turned a syrupy sweet smile on Clara.

  A violent protectiveness surged through Quincy, and he nearly stepped in front of Clara to hide her from the cunning in his mother’s eyes.

  Instead he managed a smile that was so stiff and brittle he thought his lips would crack from it. “How serendipitous that you have become such good friends.”

  Her eyes narrowed in recognition of the subtle jab, but her smile only widened, as if it pleased her to see him squirm. And no doubt it did. The woman always did enjoy the discomfort of others.

  She turned to the room at large. “I do hope it’s not an imposition. My dear Lady Crabtree pressed me so, I could not possibly refuse. Especially as she has become so very dear to me.” Here she gave the woman in question a doting smile before turning an apologetic gaze to the rest of the inhabitants.

  “Oh! Of course.” Lenora jumped up, hurrying to them. “It’s our pleasure to have you here at Danesford, Your Grace. Isn’t it, my dear?”

  Peter glanced at Quincy, concern clouding the clear
blue of his eyes, before he stepped up beside his wife. “Certainly. Welcome to Danesford.”

  The palpable tension in the air eased as introductions were made. Phoebe, who had been watching the whole affair with wide eyes, jumped from her seat, hurrying to Oswin. They clasped hands, their eyes glowing, and quickly tucked themselves into a private corner. Once niceties were seen to, the small party broke up. Peter guided Lord Crabtree out, muttering something about guns, and Lenora quickly took Lady Crabtree and the duchess in hand, her bright voice regaling them on the details of their rooms as she led the way out into the hall.

  Leaving Quincy and Clara quite alone. Well, as alone as two people could be with a pair of whispering lovebirds hidden away in a corner.

  Still Quincy stood there, as if rooted to the spot. He’d hoped never to see his mother again. Yet here he was about to be stuck in the same house as her for the next week. Once again, he wondered what she hoped to accomplish by coming here. Dread settled heavy on him.

  Suddenly a small hand tucked itself into his. “Quincy, are you well?”

  Clara. He closed his eyes, dragging in a deep breath, letting her calmness wash over him. “No,” he answered with utter truthfulness, casting her a wry look. “But I think you’ve guessed that much.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes were sober as she peered up at him. “I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose I should have expected this. She always was one to throw a stick in the wheels whenever things were going too smoothly.” He gave her a stern look. “But don’t think this gives you leave to get out of your agreement to join us all tomorrow.”

  She frowned. “Surely plans have changed after this new development.”

  “Surely not,” he declared officiously, even as the idea of leaving her alone in his mother’s vicinity left him physically ill. “I find I need the distraction of a good, fun outing now more than ever.”

  She must have seen the desperation in his eyes, though he strove to hide it under his teasing. Concern shone tight on her face. But she was as adept as he at burying emotions, wasn’t she? “I suppose you do,” she murmured with a small smile. “Though I warn you, I don’t know the first thing about having fun.”

  He grinned, relief flooding him at this bit of normalcy. “You may not know, my dear Clara,” he said. “But I do. And the next week I will dedicate myself to teaching you.”

  Chapter 14

  The mood of the household had definitely shifted since the duchess’s arrival the day before. Phoebe had remained blessedly oblivious, wrapped up as she was in Oswin. Clara could only be grateful for that.

  But the rest of them were strung as tight as nocked bows.

  Clara had not thought she could possibly relax during the outing to the Elven Pools. There was too much to do for the wedding, no matter how Margery claimed the contrary. That, and she still hadn’t found where she would belong when the commotion of the wedding was over; it seemed everyone was excited for her to go off on a life of her own, and her absence would not make a whit of difference in anyone’s life. A lowering thought indeed.

  Yet the minute she’d stepped foot from the house she had felt a wonderful relief that she was leaving everything behind, no matter how briefly. Now, the delicious picnic lunch consumed, seated as she was on a blanket in the warm sunlight, the band that had constricted her chest since yesterday began to loosen. As the rest of the party, consisting of not only the younger people from Danesford but several of Phoebe’s closest friends as well, cavorted about the flat valley just beyond the pools, she raised her face to catch the warm sun and breathed in deeply. This trip, one based on pure pleasure, was something she had fought tooth and nail against. Now, though, she was grateful she had been coerced into joining. Not that she would ever let Quincy know that. She smiled to herself.

  As if he had heard her thoughts—something that made her mildly panicked after the improper daydreams she’d had of him recently—Quincy spoke in her ear. “Happy you came?”

  She cast him an arch look where he lounged beside her, trying and failing to rein in the shiver of desire that whispered over her nerves when her gaze met his heavy-lidded one. “You needn’t look so smug.”

  The grin he sent her had butterflies taking flight in her stomach. “Come on then, admit it. I was right.”

  “If you think to ever hear those words from me, you are delusional.”

  He chuckled. “You can be stubborn when you’ve a mind to be.”

  “As can you,” she quipped. “The only question is, who will win in the end?”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt you will,” he murmured. The heat in his eyes called to something in her that made her feel at once powerful and confused.

  Flustered, needing to redirect her quickly spiraling thoughts—in which she imagined what she could claim from him for being victor in this little battle of wills—she latched onto the first thing that came to mind. “I overheard you tell Peter this morning that you’ll be meeting with Lord Fletcher soon?”

  He started. “What? Oh! Er, yes, I will.” He cleared his throat, shifting on the blanket as if physically uncomfortable. “Lady Tesh, it seems, was right; the man is eager to talk over terms and Mr. Dennison is quite confident we can get the price we want, despite the house being in such poor shape.”

  At the mention of that place, her heart ached. But it was a good ache, that the house would finally return to what it had been.

  It was not the first time they’d talked of Swallowhill since their visit. Yet Quincy had been glaringly quiet regarding one very important part of it all: Miss Willa Brandon. She might have thought he’d forgotten all about her, if it weren’t for the melancholy in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. She knew what it was to carry a silent heartache around with you, like a manacle about your foot, never allowing you to escape from the oppression of it.

  Leaning toward him, she said in a low voice, “Did you think about my offer?”

  Instant understanding flashed in his eyes. “You are referring to finding out more about Miss Brandon?” At her nod he shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m no closer to a decision. I just—I don’t know—”

  She laid a hand over his. “I understand,” she said. “I’m in no way pressuring you. I can only imagine how hard this must be for you, loving your father as you did. Just know, whatever you may learn, should you choose to learn it, it will not change who he was to you.”

  “I know you’re right,” he murmured, giving her a sad smile. “That doesn’t make it any easier, though, does it?”

  “No,” she agreed softly.

  They shared a quiet moment, each lost in their thoughts. Suddenly a shout went up from the rest of the group. Mr. Ronald Tunley was on the ground, a shuttlecock at his feet, laughter shaking his body. The rest of them were equally overcome, their laughs mingling with his in a joyful cacophony.

  Clara smiled at the sight, her gaze lingering on Phoebe. She could not remember the last time she had seen her sister so utterly happy.

  “Do you want to join them?”

  She blinked and looked to Quincy beside her. Then lost her breath entirely. He had stretched out on the blanket, propped up on one elbow, his strong thighs outlined by his buff breeches, looking for all the world like a feast laid out for her to devour at her leisure.

  Taken aback by her suddenly lascivious thoughts, she cleared her throat and tried to hide her flaming face by busily smoothing her muslin skirts. “Join in their game? No, thank you.”

  “Don’t you enjoy battledore and shuttlecock?”

  “I’m not certain. Truthfully, I cannot remember when last I played.”

  “Certainly you indulged in sport as a child.”

  “Oh, I did. But—”

  He tilted his head when she abruptly broke off, a frown marring the strong line of his brow. “But?”

  She gave a small sigh. “But I put all that aside when my mother died.”

  “Ah,” he murmured. “And how old were you when she passed?”
>
  “Nine.” She went silent a moment, remembering. Needing to say something more on that devastating time in her life—the first of many to come—she added, “Phoebe was just an infant at the time. And my brother, Hillram, not much older than her. They needed someone to care for them, to watch over them.”

  “And so you gave up your childhood for theirs.”

  She shrugged. “They needed a mother.”

  “So did you.”

  “Yes, well.” She looked into his eyes. Eyes that were full of compassion. Suddenly it was imperative that he understand. “But I had been the lucky one,” she continued, leaning toward him. “I’d had her for nine entire years. She was kind, and thoughtful, and brave. And they never had a chance to know her. I wanted them to experience some of what she gave me.”

  He cocked his head, looking at her as if seeing her anew. A small smile lifted his chiseled lips. “You’re an amazing woman, Clara.”

  “Nonsense,” she said on a breath, face suddenly burning. She looked to her lap.

  He hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “You are,” he insisted quietly. “You decided at nine years old to be everything to everyone, to sacrifice your childhood for those you love. And it appears you have not stopped since. Even”—he grinned—“giving up playing battledore and shuttlecock.”

  She laughed. “You are ridiculous. It’s not anything anyone else wouldn’t have done.”

  “That’s not true in the least. You’re a rarity, Clara.”

  Again her face flushed hot. Needing to steer the conversation into safer waters—waters that did not have her aching to lean into his hand, to press her lips to his, to stretch her body alongside his until she didn’t know where she ended and he began—she pulled away from his touch and looked to the others. Phoebe, with a look of concentration, brought her battledore back and swung it up in an arc. It hit the shuttlecock with a whack, sending it back up into the blue sky as Oswin cheered her on.