Someday My Duke Will Come

by Christina Britton

  She laughed at something Miss Coralie said before turning to the girl’s older sister, Miss Felicity Gadfeld, to impart some amusing anecdote. Then she was thanking the young tearoom proprietress, Miss Peacham, for the additional pitcher of lemonade, and offering to fill her sister’s empty glass.

  He was exhausted just watching her. She always kept herself busy, making sure everyone was taken care of, gently guiding conversations, making certain no one felt left out. Yet there was something different in her today, an almost manic busyness. Her laugh was grating to his ears, the dark circles under her eyes confessing to a sleepless night. It was as if she were trying with all her might to keep something at bay.

  Immediately an image of his mother rose up, her eyes sharp and full of a smug glee as she’d talked to Clara the night before. Fast on the heels of that was Clara’s attempts to deflect his questions about their conversation. Whatever his mother had said, it had upset Clara immensely.

  And its effect on Clara had not disappeared. Just as it had last night, rage nearly blinded him. He would not allow his mother to give Clara even a moment more of pain.

  The rest of their party began to gather their things and stand, Clara with them. Without thinking he grabbed her wrist, stopping her. She cast a mildly curious look at him that did nothing to detract from the faint trembling he felt in her hand.

  “Stay a moment, my dear,” he murmured.

  Already the others were departing. She gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “But the rest of the party—”

  “Can go on ahead while you rest a moment.”

  Phoebe popped her head back in the door of the tearoom. “Are you coming, Clara? Quincy?”

  Clara searched his face for a moment before letting loose a small sigh. “We’ll meet up with you shortly, dear,” she said to her sister.

  Phoebe gave a happy nod and departed.

  “Now,” Quincy said, gently tugging on Clara’s hand, “why don’t we talk a bit?”

  The look she gave him was cautious, but she nevertheless sat as he bid her. “I don’t know what we have to talk about,” she said, not meeting his eyes, her tapered fingers taking an uneaten biscuit from the plate in the center of the table. She didn’t eat it, instead worrying it into a pile of crumbs on the pristine tablecloth.

  “Last night—”

  “We talked about everything worth mentioning.”

  The finality of her tone had his mouth closing with a snap. He studied her with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out how to get her to open up without putting her back up. She resembled nothing so much as a small cornered kitten, ready with sharp teeth and bared claws to fight back any threat.

  Not knowing what else to do, he leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “I won’t let her hurt you, Clara.”

  Her gaze swung up to meet his, and for a moment he could see straight to her soul. “You can’t promise that,” she whispered.

  His heart twisted. He had the mad urge to pull her into his arms and fend off every threat to her sanity and happiness, to keep her safe from all the world’s hurts and evils.

  But that was not something he could do. Not only were they not betrothed in truth, but even were they set to be married he could not protect her from everything.

  “I know she did something yesterday to upset you,” he said. When she opened her mouth to argue, he held up his free hand. “I’m not trying to coerce you to confide in me. But know, if you need an ear to bend, I’m more than willing.” He grinned, hoping to ease the look of pain in her eyes. “And I stay silent as a tomb when a confidence is given.”

  She attempted a smile back, though it was clear from the way her gaze suddenly shuttered that she was not the least bit convinced.

  “Now,” he said, reaching for the lemonade pitcher and refilling her glass, “I need your opinion on something of the utmost import.”

  She blinked several times, no doubt confused as to his lightning-fast change of subject. But she let out a relieved breath and tilted her head. “Of course.”

  “Now that I have the means to save the dukedom and I can plan my travels in earnest again,” he said, sitting back in his seat, “I find myself not at all content with starting in Spain, as I had originally intended. I’ve a mind to go a bit farther afield. If you were to sail the world, where would you start your journey?”

  “Goodness.” She gave a startled laugh. “I’m not sure I’ve ever considered it.”

  He raised a brow. “Surely you learned geography from your governess.”

  “Of course,” she scoffed.

  “Well then?” he prompted, clasping his hands on his stomach and waiting expectantly.

  She pursed her lips, taking a considering draught of her lemonade. “I suppose,” she ventured slowly, “that I would love to go to Italy. Though,” she finished hastily, her cheeks coloring, “you might think that too expected.”

  “Not at all,” he murmured. “I would love to see it as well. But why Italy?”

  She shrugged, picking up another biscuit on the table and crumbling it with her fingers. “My father often told us tales of his Grand Tour. My brother, Hillram, was fascinated by the idea, and begged Papa to tell him of his travels there so often we had them memorized. He dreamed of going one day. But of course, with the war raging, he was never able to.”

  “Hillram,” Quincy repeated quietly. “He was the one engaged to Lenora some years ago, was he not?”

  “Yes.” Her smile turned sad. “He was a good man. It was devastating when he died. He was too young.”

  He studied her a moment. The expression in her eyes was one he’d never seen in her before. Wanting to know more about this side of her, he said quietly, “Tell me about him.”

  She gave a small laugh. “You don’t wish to hear me wax poetic about my late brother.”

  “I assure you,” he said, “there is nothing I would like better than to hear about your brother.” And in the process, to learn of something that had made Clara Clara.

  The realization hit him hard. It was not only this part of her past he wished to know, but all of it. Every triumph, every heartache. To know what had shaped her into this amazing, giving, complex woman.

  This was so much more than the physical draw he had for her, and well past the close friendship they’d developed in recent weeks. Such a realization couldn’t fail to open a door he had not considered before: that he was growing to care for Clara much, much more than he had thought possible.

  “He was younger than you, was he not?” he prompted, as much to get her talking as it was to distract himself from his unexpected thoughts of her.

  “By five years,” she replied, the doubt leaving her, a fond remembrance taking its place. She smiled. “He was a vibrant thing from the start, always so happy, with a boundless energy and an optimism that could not be stifled, even when the odds were stacked against him.”

  The look in her eyes was so unguarded, his heart stalled in his chest. “You helped raise him?” he asked, his voice a touch hoarser than it had been. She nodded. “Tell me what he was like as a child.”

  And she did. Tales emerged from her, like a dam that had been breached, of Hillram’s childhood antics, the pranks he pulled on his tutors, the time he had been sent down from school for some infraction or other. She told it all with a pride in her eyes, and a fondness that was made bittersweet by the muted grief in it.

  He was struck that he had never met anyone so perfect for motherhood. And he wondered again why she had never married and set up a house of her own. She was beautiful, kind, loving. She came from a good family. What had happened that had kept her from having children of her own?

  His mother’s voice came back to him then from that fateful day in Dane House’s drawing room when Clara had jumped in to save him by claiming they were engaged.

  I do not think the late duke was ill these past fourteen years…One wonders why Lady Clara did not marry before his illness.

  He nearly recoiled at the invasive m
emory. But now that it had taken hold it would not let him go. From all accounts her father had doted on her. Why had he not given her a season? Why had he allowed her to remain a spinster, toiling away in his home, watching over his younger children? Quincy had learned through letters from Peter that the previous duke had made them promise to give Phoebe a season. Why, then, had Clara been allowed to languish?

  But what was this? Was he going to allow his mother to poison his thoughts, to pollute his opinion of Clara? He damn well wouldn’t.

  Blessedly she was so engrossed in memories of her brother, she didn’t notice his inattention. Nor would she have reason to, he vowed. For the next half hour he made sure his focus did not waver from her. Their table was cleared, their drinks refreshed, and all the while she talked of Hillram, and Phoebe, and her life on the Isle with gentle prodding from him. And the image he had of her became clearer, more in focus, the colors more vibrant than he’d thought possible.

  Eventually her attention was snagged by something out the tearoom window. She started, her cheeks turning red. “Goodness, how long have we been sitting here?” She gave a strained laugh, pushing her seat back, lurching to her feet. “What you must think of me, prattling on.”

  He rose beside her, grabbing her hand when she would have hurried away. “I’m glad you told me all of that,” he murmured. “I like knowing more about you.”

  Her gaze rose to his, the vulnerability and longing in her eyes touching something deep in him. He ached to lower his head, to take her lips in a kiss…

  Miss Peacham approached just then. “Lady Clara, if you have the time I have some questions about the cake for Lady Phoebe’s wedding?”

  Clara gasped, breaking their locked gazes. He felt the loss down to the very depths of his soul.

  “Of course,” she said to the young proprietress. “We can go to your office, can’t we?”

  Oh, no. She wouldn’t bury herself in work again, not if he could help it.

  “Actually,” Quincy said, smiling his most charming smile at Miss Peacham, “Lady Clara is taking time off from wedding preparations to spend these last days enjoying her sister’s company. Any questions can be relayed to the Duchess of Dane or Mrs. Kitteridge.”

  “Of course, Your Grace!” Miss Peacham exclaimed. “How wonderful to be able to enjoy time with your sister, Lady Clara. I’ll send a note to the other ladies posthaste.” She smiled brightly and hurried off.

  Clara gaped at Miss Peacham’s retreating back before turning to glare at him. “You had no right.”

  “It is my duty to make certain you enjoy yourself to the fullest,” he declared. “No work for you, not as long as I’m around. Now,” he added, holding out his arm, “shall we find your sister and the rest of the party? I do believe there was talk of ribbons and frippery.”

  She grumbled but nevertheless took his proffered arm. “You cannot force me to put aside all my duties.”

  “I can certainly try.”

  She gave him an exasperated look as he guided her from the tearoom. “You are a horrible influence,” she said, squinting as they stepped into the bright afternoon sun. “But despite your efforts, I will never be the laze-about you want me to be.”

  “Perhaps,” he acknowledged, then grinned wickedly. “But you have to admit, it will be fun trying.”

  She laughed, and the happiness lighting her face nearly had him stumbling on the walkway.

  He knew in that moment he would do everything in his power to keep that light in her eyes. And part of that, he acknowledged grimly, keeping his features pleasant though his insides churned, would be making certain his mother stayed as far from Clara as possible.

  * * *

  Later that evening, as the rest of Danesford dressed for dinner, Quincy strode to his mother’s room. Guests would begin arriving tomorrow from all over England; he’d best get this out of the way, and quickly. He didn’t think he would be able to stomach being in her presence for long.

  His sharp rap on her door was answered with alacrity by her maid. “Her Grace is not yet ready,” she said in reply to his query.

  “Is she decent, at least?”

  The maid blinked. “Yes—”

  “That’s all I need then,” he said, pushing into the room.

  “But, Your Grace—”

  “You may go,” he said over his shoulder, his gaze already on his mother.

  The duchess, seated at the dressing table, a box of jewels open before her, narrowed her eyes when she saw him. She studied him for a moment in the looking glass, as if weighing her chances of banishing him from her presence, before she said, “Leave us. I will ring for you when we’re done.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” the maid said, dipping into a deep curtsy and hurrying out.

  One side of the duchess’s mouth lifted in a condescending smile as she turned back to her jewels. “I suppose your future bride ran to you crying.”

  Fury sliced through him. She was as good as admitting she had attacked Clara. He was tempted to lash out, to put his mother in her place.

  At the last moment, however, he remembered Clara’s whispered Don’t let her win. Immediately he subdued the fire in his belly. The duchess would do everything in her power to bait him, as surely as the monsters who set rabid dogs on manacled bears did. He would have to work hard to keep the power in this confrontation.

  He moved forward, sinking into a chair close by the duchess, hooking one leg over the arm in a blatant show of disrespect. Her lips pressed together for a moment before her features smoothed into her typical disdain. He grinned. So it was to be a war of wills, was it? Well, she would soon learn he had no intention of losing this particular battle. His thoughts returned to Clara, her eyes haunted. He had too much riding on it.

  The seconds passed, the ticking of the clock on the mantel seeming to grow louder with each jerk of its hand. Quincy remained silent, waiting, knowing how it would unsettle his mother and taking a disturbing amount of pleasure at the thought. She ignored him and continued to dig through her box, the grating scrape of jewels and gold dragging against one another rending the air. Brilliant rubies and sapphires winked at him as she rummaged. He had seen enough of his brothers’ papers to know that they had replaced most of the family jewels with paste copies in their quest to bleed the dukedom dry. He wondered how many of his mother’s pieces had been sacrificed in their attempts. And if she even knew.

  His lips twisted. No doubt she did. The woman might be cold and cruel, but she was also frighteningly cunning, with a need to have her talons in every aspect of the dukedom. And after her elder sons’ stealth in selling out everything they could manage right from under her, there was no doubt in Quincy’s mind that the sting of nearly losing everything had transformed that need for control into an obsession.

  Nothing mattered to her more than appearing capable, in control. In power. She would hold her head high and pretend those jewels were the real thing with her dying breath if it meant she would not lose her status.

  Still he remained silent. Finally, when the air in the room was so thick he imagined he would be able to quite literally cut it, she snapped.

  “Not going to answer my question then?”

  “About Clara?” He shrugged, studying his nails insolently, even as he weighed his answer. He could admit the truth, that Clara had refused to reveal the subject of their troubling conversation. But would it be like offering up the tender underbelly, inviting attack?

  Or would pretending to know what had been said give him the greatest advantage? Mayhap showing a solid front with Clara would work in his favor.

  In the end he went for vagueness. His mother would latch onto the negative, he knew, and her defense would guide his offense.

  “I think you must know the answer to that,” he said. “Else why ask at all?”

  She let loose a sound of disgust. “The girl is weak.”

  Yet another attempt to bait him. It was with effort this time, however, that he kept his emotions in check. Breath
ing slowly and deeply, forcing a relaxed pose he didn’t feel in the least, he said, “Actually, she is the farthest thing from weak. But you would not know anything about that, would you?”

  “If you are implying I’m weak—”

  “Oh, now, don’t put words in my mouth, Mother,” he drawled.

  She closed the lid of the jewelry box with a snap that reverberated through the air and turned to face him. “Enough of this. I’m assuming you’ve come to warn me away from upsetting the girl. Well, you’ll be waiting a good long while before I do such a thing. If you think I’ll let her become the next Duchess of Reigate, you are very much mistaken.”

  “Worried you’ll no longer have a puppet in place?” She stilled, a small tell, and he grinned, more a baring of teeth than anything. “You don’t actually think I missed your little play with Lady Mary, do you? Come now, Mother, it’s not wise to underestimate an opponent.”

  That finally seemed to break her tightly held control. “You’d do best not to underestimate that fiancée of yours,” she snapped. “She’s hiding something; I know it in my bones.”

  “I don’t give a damn if she is,” he shot back, surprised to realize just how much he meant it. No matter his curiosity regarding what gave her such intense pain, it didn’t matter to him in the slightest what was in her past. He wanted, above all, to be her future.

  What was this? No, he had no intention of having a future with Clara. He had no intention of having a future with anyone; at least not yet, not until he was much older, with most of his life behind him. He had too many places he wanted to see, too many adventures he wanted to experience. With the sale of Swallowhill to Lord Fletcher, he had every intention of enjoying his life with no obligations except to himself and his own pleasure.

  But now that the idea of Clara as his wife had taken hold, it would not be easily shaken.