“Nor I,” she admitted before she could think better of it. Realizing how vulnerable such a statement made her appear, she gently extricated herself from his arms, righting her clothes with trembling fingers as she did so.
“But that’s only to be expected, I suppose,” she said, tucking a stray curl back into her chignon. She let loose a strained laugh, praying it didn’t betray just how hard it was to feign that nothing was amiss. “We’ve been playacting all this time, pretending to a stronger affection than is truly there. Perhaps we’ve begun to believe a bit of the lie ourselves. Now then,” she said brightly even as panic began to rear, her control, always so easy to call upon, stubbornly eluding her, “shall we join the others?”
And with that she marched out of the cave, trying and failing to leave her heart back in that dim place. For she knew, with devastating certainty, she had done the one thing she’d vowed never to do: she’d fallen in love with him.
* * *
Quincy watched her leave with equal parts frustration and dismay. Her mask was back, more firmly in place than it had ever been. Questions bounced about in his head, keeping him from stopping her: What would he say? Would he apologize? Perhaps he’d spout something trite and lighthearted to ease the strain that had cropped up between them? Or maybe he’d choose the most ridiculous option of all and suggest they make their fake engagement a real one?
He blanched and stumbled to a halt in the cave entrance. Marriage? No, he was most assuredly not ready to marry. And even if he was, which he was not—something that required repeating, apparently—she wasn’t, either. It was why they had entered this farce in the first place, a situation that benefited them both in that it kept them from marrying.
Yet the idea settled in his soul, burrowing deep just as Clara had. And to his shock, it felt right.
He shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge the thought by force. But it stayed where it was, nice and snug. Frowning, he watched Clara walk with purpose across the sand. What the hell had changed in him so suddenly, so completely?
But he knew in a flash it had not been sudden. Every day that he was in her company, witnessing firsthand her deep love and unselfish devotion to her family, she had settled deeper into his heart. Even more powerful, however, had been those glimpses of the woman she hid from the world. Her passion, her vulnerability, the deep joys and sorrows that she tried so valiantly to lock away. They made him want to know more about her, to discover every hidden cove of her heart. He wanted to give her a life where she could express those emotions freely, where she didn’t feel the need to be someone else. He wanted to be able to love her.
He started. Love? No, he didn’t love Clara. That was ridiculous.
As his gaze caressed the stiff line of her back, however, he felt the truth of it down to his bones: He loved her. He loved her and wanted to give the world to her.
No, he wanted more than that. He wanted to share the world with her. Every adventure, every new horizon, even the heartbreaks that were bound to come. He wanted her by his side—not just anyone, but her—to teach her to embrace a joy in life she was only beginning to uncover, and to learn from her that calm strength that had made her who she was. Suddenly he knew that marriage, which had seemed like something that would anchor him in place, would be what filled his sails and propelled him toward a brighter future.
The next moment found him sprinting across the sand after her. In seconds he reached her, planting himself in her path. She skidded to a stunned halt. “What if we marry in truth?” he blurted.
Not the most elegant proposal, he realized belatedly. Her eyes flared wide. Though it wasn’t only shock from his asinine question that clouded them; no, betrayal and disappointment were there in spades.
“You needn’t promise marriage to coerce me into your bed, Quincy.”
She may as well have slapped him. He gaped at her, hurt smothering the hope in an instant. “Do you truly think me capable of such a thing?” he managed. “Haven’t you come to know me at all in the last weeks?”
She hugged her arms about her middle, looking as brittle as anyone could. “I don’t know that anyone can truly know a person after so short a time.”
The stark vulnerability in her posture and voice finally broke through his wounded ego. Her reaction had been too violent to be anything but the effects of some past emotional injury.
He had a flash of her face after her conversation with his mother, an expression that was hauntingly like the one lurking in her eyes now. Added to that the duchess’s insistence that Clara had some great scandal in her past, and it didn’t take him long to conclude what was upsetting her.
Someone had hurt her, had destroyed her trust. He wanted nothing more than to find the bastard, whoever he might be, and make him pay.
But what was important wasn’t the past. It was their future, hopefully together.
But how to convince her? “I know you said you would never marry—” he started.
“Correct,” she said. “I daresay I would not make a good wife. I’m nearly one and thirty and quite set in my ways, not some young debutante easily molded at her husband’s whim. Besides,” she continued, her words tumbling from her as if she was afraid he would speak and break her resolve, “you said yourself you’ve no intention of marrying, either. With both of us so set against it, it would be foolish to discount our initial reservations because of a simple kiss.”
She smiled, so wide he feared her cheeks might crack, and turned to go. He caught her hand, holding her back. She drew in a sharp breath.
“Just consider it, Clara,” he said.
She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. Her fingers remained slack in his grip, but they trembled. “No, I don’t think—”
“I’m not asking you to answer me this moment. Just do me the honor of considering the possibility.” Then, when it seemed she would definitively refuse, “Please.”
He filled the one word with the emotions of his heart, waiting as she stood silent, her head bowed. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she nodded. It was sharp, and barely perceptible for the tension in her. But it was a nod nevertheless.
He let out a breath, cautious joy spreading through him. It was on the tip of his tongue to declare his love for her; he should have done it from the start, and in his excitement he had blundered and left that pertinent information out. He winced. It was beginning to dawn on him just how unromantic his blasted proposal had been.
But one look at her face and he sensed instinctively it wasn’t the time. No doubt whoever had hurt her before had declared the same. He would just have to show her how he felt. In the meantime, she needed normalcy.
“Wonderful. Now,” he said in a cheerful tone, releasing her hand, “I heard Oswin mentioning a plan to gather everyone for footraces after lunch was concluded, and I’ve a mind to show these young whelps how it’s done.”
She blinked in confusion but nodded, starting off again across the sand. As he fell into step beside her, he let his relaxed expression slip. Phoebe and Oswin’s wedding was less than a week away, after which they had agreed to part ways. How the hell would he get past the hurt in her to convince her to give them a chance?
For he could not contemplate sailing away from England without her by his side.
Chapter 17
What if we marry in truth?
Hours later, Quincy’s words were still swirling in Clara’s mind as she lay in her bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. Tempting her as nothing had in too many lonely years.
She flinched at the thought, guilt sitting heavy on her. No, not lonely. She’d been surrounded by loved ones, had never been without companionship.
Yet hadn’t she still been alone? Her father had been the only one who’d known of her past shame and heartache. And though she had fairly broken his heart with her reckless, thoughtless behavior, he had never wavered in his love and support of her. Something he had let her know day in and day out, through words and actions.
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��d made certain he never knew how deep her wounds cut, and that they would never heal. It was a promise she’d made to herself when she had finally emerged from the darkest days of her life, when she was able to comprehend what her mistake had cost, not only to herself, but to him as well.
With her father’s death she had not only a beloved parent, but her last connection to her child as well. The only proof that her son had even been here was a secret grave overlooking the sea and the small bundle hidden away in her room, containing a lock of palest blond hair and a threadbare blanket she had cried into for years after.
She had spent half her life keeping the memory of that child safe in her heart, at once her most treasured and her most agonizing secret. It was necessary, she’d told herself over and over. If the truth got out, she would be ruined, and by extension her entire family. Most especially Phoebe.
Now, however, as she thought of marrying Quincy, as she considered revealing everything to him, she realized that the fear of ruination, while always her greatest deterrent, was also accompanied by a need to keep the memory of her child protected. If she shared him with others, they would think him a curse, or something to be reviled. And she couldn’t stand his memory to be altered, not when he’d been so perfect in her eyes, that child she would always love and never forget.
Mayhap if Quincy were a mere mister she might have disappeared with him and had a happy life. But he was a duke. If she married him, she would be a duchess. She would be under constant scrutiny, her every move and action combed over. Her past looked at under a microscope. And eventually the truth would come out. Mayhap not that secret child. But the seduction, the ruination, would eventually come to light. She could not do that to Quincy, could not visit that upon him.
But how beautiful life would be if she could marry him and spend the rest of her days loving him.
She did not realize she was crying until her tears began to cool in the night air. She scrubbed at them, wishing she could as easily wipe away her heartache. She would have to watch him leave. With nothing to remember him by but the few kisses they’d shared, nothing to keep her warm as the years passed but a handful of passionate embraces.
Anger flared bright. Rolling on her side, she punched her pillow before pulling it tight against her chest, as if it could extinguish the fury building in her. She’d been foolish and naïve, allowing herself to be manipulated by that man when she’d been a girl. Her future had been stolen from her before she’d been able to claim it.
She shook her head sharply, her hair grating against her sheets. She wasn’t foolish or naïve now. And she decided, then and there, she did not want to spend the rest of her life with that long-ago act as her only remembrance of physical love. She would not take to her grave the hasty groping she’d endured with a man who had thought only of himself. No, she wanted something passionate and loving to remember as she grew old. With a man who had shown her nothing but respect from the first.
She was throwing off her covers before she knew what she was doing. She didn’t falter when she reached his room, raising her hand and knocking lightly at the door. In a moment it was thrown open.
Quincy’s chest was bare, his feet as well, his snug-fitting breeches leaving little to her imagination. His hair was damp from a recent bath and falling over his forehead in inky waves. His eyes flared wide when he saw her.
“Clara. What are you doing here?”
In answer she pushed into the room, closing the door firmly behind her, giving the key a twist in the lock for good measure. Then she turned to face him.
The cautious hope that flared in his eyes nearly undid her. She held up a hand to stop the words that were forming on his lips, knowing if he renewed his question to her, the one she had promised to think over in a moment of madness, she would not be able to do what she had come here for.
“I’m not here to accept your proposal,” she said, aware of a trembling in her voice but unable to control it. “I still have no plans to marry. I need you to understand that.”
She looked closely at him. His lips pressed tight, disappointment clear in his face. But he nodded.
She cleared her throat, suddenly unsure how to continue. How did one go about asking for a night of lovemaking? She suddenly had a new respect for the widows in society who had the confidence to carry on affairs. This was no easy feat.
Finally, deciding that transparency was the only way to broach this delicate situation, she straightened her shoulders and looked him square in the eye.
“I want you to take me to your bed.”
He drew in a sharp breath, longing and desire and shock and worry all coalescing in his face. “Clara—”
“I know this is highly unconventional,” she continued, cutting him off for fear he would refuse her outright. “And I know that unmarried women don’t often participate in…these things.” She cleared her throat, feeling the heat of a blush staining her cheeks but refusing to back down. “But I am not an innocent you need worry about marrying. I am a grown woman who has decided to take control of her desires. And the truth of the matter is, I want you.”
His dark eyes, glowing in the faint light from the fire in the hearth, flared with heat. She took it as encouragement to continue.
Nevertheless, it was no easy thing to get to the business side of such an arrangement. She cleared her throat and, laying her hands flat on the door behind her to keep from keeling over, said in a voice that shook only a small bit, “I want you, and I would very much like to spend a night with you. I, of course, have requirements.”
He blinked. “Requirements?”
“Yes. You need to understand that this is in no way a promise of a future relationship between us. It is merely physical, two people enjoying one another, one night of passion.” She took strength from his nod to soldier on. “I also need to know that there will be every effort made to prevent a child. You are a man of the world; I assume you know of such things.” Again a nod, this time hesitant but firm nonetheless. “Good,” she said on a relieved breath.
But with that all gone over, her bravado left her. She pushed away from the door, clasping her hands before her, her gaze falling to his bare feet on the polished wood floor. How did one move to the next step in these things? Did she simply kiss him? Did she wait for him to remove her clothes? Did she climb under the covers and wait for him to come to her?
The seconds ticked past. Still he remained silent. Her nerves began to fray. Perhaps she had misread him. It was possible; hadn’t her history proved she was not the best judge of character? She shifted, pressing her bare toes into the floor. Wishing she could sink into it and disappear.
Instead she said, her voice small, “Unless, that is, you have no wish to.”
Immediately he was there, pulling her into his arms. She went gladly, burying her face against his chest as he stroked strong hands over her back.
“Of course I want to, you silly woman,” he whispered into the crown of her hair. “I have wanted to from the moment I met you. You are beautiful, and desirable. But more than that, you are loving, and passionate, and strong. How could I fail to care for you? How could I help but—”
She tensed, her entire body going rigid in his arms. Surely he wouldn’t declare himself in love with her. It would be the cruelest joke life could play on her, to have this amazing man, who she had grown to love so very much, equally in love with her. One broken heart when this ended would be bad enough.
“How could I help but want you,” he finished. He kissed the top of her head before putting her away from him. “I want you so much I can hardly see straight when I’m with you. Even when we’re not together I think about you, dream about you…”
She laid a hand on his bare chest. His muscles bunched under her fingers, his ragged breath giving proof to his words. She ached to admit she felt the same. Instead she whispered, “I would have some beautiful memories to hold on to after you leave.”
“Clara,” he rasped, “you deserve more.”
/> She couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped her. “Mayhap long ago.”
Something intense lit his eyes. Not wanting to see what her small, unintentional confession might have stirred up in him—whether that be questions, or pity, or disgust—she dropped her gaze. A muscle ticced in his jaw, a day’s growth of beard shadowing it, the tight press of his lips proof of his disquiet. But at least it was not his eyes, so open and revealing, telling her things she didn’t want to know. She swallowed hard and continued.
“I want this, Quincy. I want you.” And then, “Please.”
The word had barely left her lips before she was once more in his arms. Her hands gripped tight to the smooth expanse of his shoulders, a tremor going through her as he pressed his lips to the side of her neck.
“You’re certain?” he rasped. “You’ll tell me if you want me to stop?”
She drew in a shuddering breath, his scent filling her, the clean smell of his sandalwood soap making her dizzy with longing. “I won’t want you to stop.”
“Promise me you’ll tell me if you wish for me to stop,” he pushed.
Her heart lurched, tears burning her eyes at his insistence that, no matter what, he would not allow her to regret this. Yes, she had given her heart to the right man. Though he could never know just how desperately she loved him.
“I promise,” she whispered.
Those two words unleashed a raw desperation she had not known he’d kept hidden. He pressed his mouth, open and hot, against the side of her neck. His teeth scraped the tender skin, his low groan vibrating through her until she thought she’d shatter. Suddenly his arms swept beneath her, lifting her, cradling her to his chest. He strode across the room and lowered her to the bed as if she were a priceless treasure.
“I’ll make certain you won’t regret a minute of this,” he vowed, his hot gaze finding hers in the dim light.
She reached for him, pulling his head down to hers, pressing her forehead to his. “I could never regret being with you, Quincy.”
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