Someday My Duke Will Come

by Christina Britton

  Blessedly, his mother was wholly unaware of the chaos reigning in his mind. “I do,” she said, her voice dripping ice. “Do you think I want some strumpet as the next Duchess of Reigate, for some scandal in her past to one day come to light and tarnish our entire heritage?”

  “Enough!” Quincy roared, surging to his feet, forgetting his determination to keep his emotions in check in the face of her abuse of Clara. “You will listen to me, Your Grace,” he snarled. “I want you gone from here at dawn. I don’t want you speaking one word more to Clara, much less breathing in the same air as her.”

  She gaped at him, a stunned understanding shadowing her cold eyes until they appeared to be filled with the icy shards of a deep winter. “She has gotten her claws in you, hasn’t she?”

  He slashed a hand through the air. “Clara doesn’t have it in her to manipulate me in such a way. You, on the other hand,” he bit out, “have no other reason to oppose my marriage to her than your own need to have someone easily controlled at the helm.”

  Her expression didn’t change, but he saw the flicker of something in her eyes. Not guilt; she would never feel guilty for even something as heinous as this. No, it was more of a recognition, and a regret that he had seen so quickly to the heart of the matter.

  He drew himself up to his full height. “I want you gone at daybreak. You can stay at the London house for as long as you like. But beyond that I want no further contact with you. You can reach me through my solicitor.” He bowed, a shallow, mocking thing. “Good day, madam.”

  He turned to go, expecting to feel relief at finally cutting her from his life completely. Instead he was only aware of a hollowness deep in his chest, and a simmering anger that she had stolen his right to a loving mother.

  Her voice, however, stopped him when he would have opened the door.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about her,” she drawled.

  He gripped the knob, refusing to look at her again. Yet he couldn’t help asking, “Ask you about who?”

  “Why, Miss Willa Brandon, of course.”

  Chapter 16

  Quincy might have kept his countenance if his mother had spoken of anyone else. That name, however, spoken with such smug condescension, nearly floored him. He spun to face her, the demand that she explain herself sticking in his throat, choking him.

  Triumph lit her eyes. “Did you think I did not know of her? Of course I was aware of your father’s sidepiece. And that he hid her away on this godforsaken island.”

  He thought he might be sick. Yes, he knew men of his station took mistresses. Yes, he knew it was an accepted fact in society that a man would betray his marriage vows. That did not mean Quincy had ever seen it as anything other than reprehensible. Even for someone who had been in such an unhappy union as his father had been.

  And there was the true crux of the problem. He had looked up to his father as what all men should be: a good, kind, giving man who had been dealt a bad hand in life with his wife, but who nevertheless always did the right thing.

  Now, however, that exalted image was tumbling down about his head.

  As if she read his thoughts, her smile widened, transforming her beautiful face into a terrible mask. “How it must gall you, to know your father was not perfect.”

  Her words, said with such cruel glee, finally snapped him from his shocked silence. He glared at her. “This changes nothing,” he lied. “And if you think this little ploy of yours, baiting me with knowledge I’m fully aware of, will keep me from throwing you off the Isle, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “Mayhap not,” she conceded, though she didn’t look the least bit convinced. “But there is still the matter of Lady Phoebe and Lord Oswin’s marriage.”

  Damnation. And with her recent friendship with Lady Crabtree, the duchess’s influence over that woman would be that much stronger.

  “If you do anything to threaten their marriage—” he growled.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she drawled. Suddenly her gaze sharpened. “As long as you don’t cause any trouble.”

  Furious, impotent, he pulled open the door and stormed out into the hall. Damn cruel woman. She was Satan in a gown, the very devil in his midst. And she held all the cards.

  At least for the next few days, until Phoebe and Oswin were safely wed. After which there would be nothing holding him back from telling her exactly where she could go.

  And in the interim, he would not allow her to harm even a single hair on Clara’s head.

  * * *

  Clara adjusted her skirts over the rock she was perched on and breathed in deeply of the fresh sea air. Trying and failing to rein in her anxiety from doing absolutely nothing.

  Farther out on the beach Phoebe and her friends—the group swelled to double its previous number with the arrival of several wedding guests just that morning—packed away their picnic lunch. Their happy chattering carried on the breeze, laughter threaded through it, like busy seabirds making merry along the shore. And here she sat, watching as they cheerfully worked at clearing up, forbidden by Quincy to lift a finger. Clara let loose a frustrated sigh.

  “You make it seem as if sitting back and letting others take control is torture.”

  Quincy’s voice rumbled with suppressed laughter. She cast him a disgruntled glare where he perched beside her, looking more relaxed than she probably ever had in her entire life. “That’s because it is torture.”

  He chuckled, leaning back on his elbows, giving her a wicked grin. “I’m glad I’m here to guide you in the ways of the lazy, then.”

  Clara rolled her eyes, even as she longed to drink in the sight of him stretched out beside her in the cheerful afternoon sun. “I hardly think you’re lazy, Quincy,” she couldn’t help saying. Truly, the man was all long, lean muscles. Something she could attest to due to that kiss they’d shared in London. A form like that did not come without hard work and effort.

  She shivered despite the warmth of the day. And not because she was in any way chilled. Oh, no, quite the opposite.

  “I’ve been known to shirk my duties for a day of fun,” he quipped. When she did nothing more than blow out an irritated breath, he surged to his feet.

  Startled by the abrupt movement, she stared up at him. The suddenly intense look in his eyes didn’t bode well for her.

  “That’s it,” he declared, holding out his hand. “Allowing you to sit and watch the work being done is not helping you one bit. You need to be removed from the scene. Come along then.”

  “I don’t see how that will change anything,” she scoffed. Nevertheless, she placed her fingers in his and stood before him. “And where are you proposing to take me off to?”

  A hot look flashed in his dark eyes, his fingers tightening on hers. It was gone in an instant, the devil-may-care grin back in place. But that was all it took to send her thoughts spiraling to wholly improper places. Made so much worse by his murmured, “You’ll see.” When he tugged on her hand she followed readily, even eagerly, her heart pounding in anticipation as her steps shadowed his.

  Warning bells pealed in her head, a frantic indication that if he were to take her in his arms she would be utterly lost. But they were distant, muffled, and losing their power by the instant. She was hardly aware of the sand slowing her half boots, of the breeze tugging at her bonnet, or of the fading sounds of gaiety. Her entire focus was on the feel of his fingers gripping hers and the sight of his strong back as he guided her along the cliff face that butted up to the small beach.

  “I am going to assume,” he said, turning to help her over some rocks, “that you have not been exploring since you were a young girl.”

  She dropped her gaze to the ground beneath her feet, praying he would attribute it to her need for balance and not to a need to avoid his gaze. She was already aching for him; goodness knew what it would do to her if she looked into those mesmerizing obsidian eyes of his.

  “You have the right of it,” she said, lifting her skirts and placing her
foot down with care on a flat rock rubbed smooth by sand and wind and sea. “That’s not to say I didn’t visit the Isle’s beaches when my siblings were young. But I never joined in on the exploration portion of those trips.” No matter how much she might have wanted to.

  “What a veritable waste of a childhood,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t call it a waste,” she said, frowning at his back. He turned, flashing that maddening grin of his. “Ah, I see.” She gave him a wry smile. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Of course I am. Did you actually think I have anything but the utmost respect for what you’ve done for your family?”

  A warmth filled her that had nothing whatsoever to do with her desire for him. And she knew this newest predicament was the biggest danger to her by far, for it heralded something far more powerful.

  “But that does not mean it isn’t an absolute shame that you had to miss out on something so purely childlike, so free and innocent and fun.” He grinned at her over his shoulder. “How lucky that you should have me to teach you the lost art of foolery.”

  “Foolery?” she queried, praying he would not hear the sudden breathlessness in her voice that his wicked look prompted.

  “Absurdity?” he tried. “Hmm, yes. I quite like that word. Very well, we shall call this Reclaiming Your Absurdity. Or in your case, Claiming Your Absurdity, as you never utilized that talent to begin with. I may even write a book.”

  She laughed, his ridiculous little speech awakening a joy and freedom in her she had never thought to possess again. As well as a recklessness she suddenly had no wish to control.

  “I’m not completely without skills, you know,” she quipped. “Despite your low opinion of me.”

  The doubtful look he threw over his shoulder told her exactly what he thought of her assertion.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “No.”

  “Well,” she said, fighting a grin, “I’ll just have to prove you wrong.”

  With that she released his hand, picked up her skirts, and darted in front of him.

  “I was born on this Isle, Quincy,” she called over her shoulder as he stumbled to a stunned halt. “If you think you know it better than me, you’re quite mistaken.”

  He was silent as she raced ahead, his shock palpable. Then, letting loose a surprised laugh, he was off like a shot after her. She squealed, hurrying her steps over the uneven ground. Her heart pounded, a heady excitement racing through her veins as his steps, muffled by the sand, came closer. She kept her eyes on the cliff line. Just a few feet more.

  Just as he growled a low, “I’ve almost got you,” she saw the opening in the rock. With a triumphant cry she deftly stepped to the side. His fingers brushed her skirts as she ducked into the small cave hidden in the cliff wall.

  She turned just in time to see his stunned features as he barreled past the opening. The expression was so comical she doubled over laughing. Arms wrapped about her middle, she laughed as she hadn’t since she was a small child, letting it take over her until tears were running down her face, until she could hardly breathe.

  And then she couldn’t breathe at all. For she was suddenly in his arms, his laughter joining her own, his gaze warm with wonder as he looked down at her in the shadows of the cave.

  “You minx,” he murmured, his fingers stroking rebellious curls from her cheeks. “You knew this was here all along.”

  She grinned unrepentantly. “Surprised you, have I?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  His voice had dipped, turning husky. Molten heat filled her. Her hands, which had been braced on his arms, slid up to his broad shoulders.

  She swallowed hard, fighting for composure. “You shouldn’t underestimate me, you know,” she managed.

  “You’re right,” he whispered. His gaze fell to her mouth with a ragged exhale. “And yet I continue to do so.”

  His breath washed over her face, sweet with the berries he’d eaten at lunch. She waited, hardly breathing. The recklessness he’d reawakened in her was making her want things she’d denied herself for too long.

  But he held back, his mouth hovering a hairsbreadth from her own. She remembered vaguely his promise to her, that he would not kiss her again unless she asked.

  There was every reason to pull away from him, to walk away and not look back. There were good reasons. Strong reasons.

  But for the life of her, she couldn’t think of a single one.

  Her fingers threaded through the inky curls at his nape. He shuddered under her touch. And with that small tell, proof that he was as affected as she was, a daring swept through her, burning down the woman she had been into someone new, someone bold and assertive.

  Someone who was brave enough to grasp joy and hold on tight.

  She raised her chin, looking him full in the eye. “Kiss me.”

  His eyes flared wide, shock and desire and something deep and earth-shattering filling his features. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation in her answer; she had never been more sure of anything in her life.

  Still he waited, this honorable man who would protect her even from herself. So she did the only thing she could: she rose up on her toes, pulled his head down, and captured his lips with her own.

  An inferno. That was the only way to describe the sensations that incinerated her in their brilliance. Her heart pounded out a fierce beat, and she let her defenses topple. No hard thing; he’d been slowly eroding their foundation for weeks now. But running over the sand, the wind tugging strands of her hair free, her skirts snapping about her legs—and Quincy, close behind her, their laughter joining in the air—made her realize she didn’t want to go back to who she had been. She wanted this. She wanted him.

  He groaned, his hands crushing the delicate muslin of her gown, the muscles in his arm bunching as he pulled her flush to him. When his mouth opened, hot and urgent over her own, she was ready, welcoming his tongue as it twined with hers, reveling in the taste of him.

  Her hands moved frantically over him, each play of muscle under the soft wool of his jacket driving her nearly insensible. He pressed her against the smooth cave wall, his lean body hard against her soft curves, his arousal pressing into her belly. And still it wasn’t enough. She wanted more of this, more of him, until she didn’t know where one of them began and the other ended.

  As if she had spoken the need aloud, his hand slid to her leg, hiking it up over his hip as he pressed into the core of her. Bright lights burst behind her tightly closed lids. She tore her mouth free, her head falling back against the stone wall, a low moan escaping her lips.

  “My God, you’re glorious,” he rasped as his mouth moved to her jaw, down the length of her neck. His lips were firm yet achingly soft, the faint stubble of his beard a heady contrast. Nothing could feel better than this, surely.

  That foolish thought was decimated the moment he gently cupped her breast.

  She gasped, arching up, offering more. Begging for more. He growled, the sound vibrating across the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder. When his thumb dragged over her straining nipple, the layers of her clothing no barrier to the exquisite torture, she thought she might scream. He cradled her in his palm, the warmth and intimacy making her mindless with want.

  Suddenly his hand was gone. She nearly cried out her frustration, until he shifted her in his embrace, hiking her other leg over his hip, his arms strong under her as he held her away from the stone wall. For a single moment she was suspended in the air, unmoored, drifting. And then she settled against him, her port in the storm. “Quincy.”

  His name on her lips, hoarse and breathless, rebounded against the close walls of the cave, mingling with their ragged breaths, the gentle hush of the sea, the faint cry of seabirds. His kisses grew more frantic, teeth and tongue coming into play, trailing over her shoulder, her collarbone, brushing against the bodice of her gown.

  Tightening her legs around his hips, she rocked against him, the bulk o
f her skirts and chemise doing nothing to hide the power and strength of him straining against her. His groan mingled with her gasp, his fingers tightening on her bottom, pressing her more firmly against the hard length of him.

  “Please,” she whispered, every inch of her aching for more. “Please, Quincy. I want—” Her throat closed off, unable to give voice to the clamoring inside her.

  “What do you want, Clara,” he rasped, rocking against her, making her gasp. “Tell me.”

  She shuddered. “I—I want—”

  But her mind went blank. She struggled to give voice to the overwhelming chaos within her. What did she want, exactly? To feel his bare skin against hers, to have him inside her?

  Oh, yes. All that and more. But a small, quiet question infiltrated those passion-glazed fantasies: What then?

  She froze. What then, indeed. Hadn’t she already been down this road and suffered the consequences?

  But Quincy is not like him, her desperate heart tried to reason. Which only made her head, which had been in control for more than half her life, dig in its heels more. That’s what you thought before, it chided. And look where it got you.

  Ah, God, what had she done?

  Dragging in an unsteady breath, she managed in a small voice, “I’d like to be let down now, please.”

  A shock seemed to go through him, seizing his muscles. But he quickly recovered, lowering her with infinite care to the cave floor. He stayed close to her, his strong hands rubbing her arms. She kept her gaze on his rumpled cravat, unable to look him in the eye.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage as I did.”

  “There’s no reason to apologize,” she whispered. “I was the one who asked for the kiss.”

  “Yet it became so much more than a kiss.” He sighed, cupping her cheek, his thumb rubbing across her temple. She just kept herself from closing her eyes and leaning into his touch. If she did, she would be gone. There was nothing she wanted more than to lose herself in his arms again.

  His deep voice rumbled through her. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”