In the end he nodded. “Nothing would please me better. But why don’t we head over now, and you can both share my breakfast with me?”
And perhaps, he thought as Lord Fletcher and Mr. Dennison took the rolls he offered with heartfelt thanks and they headed back up the street in search of their mounts, he might know how to persuade Clara by the time he returned to Danesford.
* * *
As Quincy had predicted, all the wedding preparations that Clara had agonized over had been taken care of beautifully by Lenora and Margery and Mrs. Ingram. Every hem was altered, every delicacy planned, every flower and ribbon and ingredient for the decadent food delivered. The house had been cleaned top-to-bottom, the guest rooms aired and readied for their myriad guests. There truly wasn’t much for Clara to do. She should have, perhaps, been concerned at this proof that she was superfluous. Wasn’t that her great fear, after all, that she had no place any longer? That her family didn’t need her?
But she was too busy trying to hide the turmoil inside her.
She had known, of course, that the aftermath of following her heart would be painful, that it would take an incredible amount of mental and emotional effort to fall back into her old ways.
She had not expected it to affect her physically, making her entire body ache and her head pound. How the faint soreness in her thighs would remind her of what she and Quincy had shared. Exhaustion pulled at her, and she wanted nothing more than to be left in peace, to climb back under her covers and hide away from the world.
To remember every beautiful moment with Quincy.
That was something, however, she could not indulge. She had known what she was about last night, and that today would be difficult. It was why she had stayed curled in his arms as long as possible, why she had feigned sleep when all along she had been memorizing the steady pounding of his heart against her ear, each beat one second closer to leaving him. Now, however, it was time she accepted that whatever they’d had was over.
But that didn’t make focusing on the necessary duties of the day any easier. Especially as the guests were now arriving in droves, carriages pulling up Danesford’s long drive by the hour. This was the more tedious portion of the wedding, that of helping Lenora play hostess. It should have been a blessing that she was able to make herself useful again. But there was nothing Clara wanted to do less than smile and see to everyone’s comfort.
She sighed, stretching her neck from side to side to relieve the stiffness in her muscles as she saw some distant relation of Lady Crabtree’s off with the butler. She looked out over the front hall, making certain there was no one left wanting attention. And perhaps, secretly looking for Quincy…
No. She shook her head sharply, forcing her focus on Lenora and Phoebe by the front door, greeting an ancient matron with a towering bright green turban. She had promised herself she would not look for him. Peter had informed her earlier after receiving a letter by messenger that Quincy had gone to Swallowhill with Mr. Dennison and Lord Fletcher. It was a relief he was gone, really. After last night she had no wish to see him, to look into his eyes and recognize the awareness that would no doubt light their depths.
Yet she could not seem to keep from searching for him. Even now, moments after berating herself for breaking her silent promise, she felt her gaze drifting, looking for his lean form, his piercing eyes, the soft waves of his inky hair. Hair she had run her fingers through just last night.
In a flash it washed over her, the remembrance of his body moving over and in hers. Of his soul-searing kisses, of his strong hands, equally eager and gentle on her heated skin.
Of his near declaration of love, something that should have brought her joy and instead had broken her heart.
Flooded with memories, she ducked out a side door and hurried into the garden. There, among her mother’s roses, a place she typically found peace and strength, she tried to corral her emotions back into submission. But now that they had broken free, they would not easily let her go.
For the past weeks, without her realizing it, Quincy had effectively demolished her defenses. No, not demolished. He’d peeled them back with aching gentleness, layer by layer, until, last night, in his arms, she’d found a part of herself she had thought lost forever. The joyful, impulsive girl that she had subdued for responsibility’s sake after the death of her mother, that had rebelled in a quest for a life of her own when she was nearing womanhood. And that had thrown her into the deepest despair because she had been fool enough to follow her heart.
She had thought that part of her was the enemy, and had viciously subdued it in the years that followed. But Quincy had awakened it in her again. And she saw now she wasn’t whole without it. She wasn’t confined to what others needed from her. She had her own desires and joys, things she wanted above all others.
And she wanted to explore that part of her with Quincy. Not as a caregiver, but as an equal partner in life, walking at his side and shouldering the worries of the world with him.
Quincy cared for her and wanted to marry her. The man she had come to love with her whole heart, who could make her happier than she had ever dreamed possible, wanted to make a life with her.
For a single moment of weakness she imagined that life: falling asleep in his arms as a ship rocked them to sleep, reveling in the tug of sea air in her hair as they stood side by side peering out at the horizon, stepping foot in countries she had not even dared to dream of seeing with her own eyes. They would have days full of adventure and excitement; nights brimming with endless passion.
And after that, when a quiet life called to them, they would grow old together. Looking back on the adventures they’d shared and finding comfort in one another in their old age.
Her heart ached with the need for that life. She closed her eyes against the pull of it. But it beckoned, a temptation that was quickly undermining every excuse she had for refusing Quincy.
“Clara.”
She sucked in a sharp breath at that familiar voice, so close to her. Surely her imaginings had created him out of the ether. She squeezed her eyes closed even more tightly, longing washing over her in a wave, not wanting to break the magic of that moment.
And then a hand, gentle on her cheek. Her eyes flew open to find Quincy’s face hovering over hers.
He smiled and lowered his head. And she forgot why she should refuse.
His lips touched hers, gentle, hesitant. He was giving her the choice on allowing it to continue. Tears sprang to her eyes, his deep respect for her decisions clear. She longed to throw caution to the wind and melt into his embrace.
Instead she drew in a shuddering breath and gently pulled away.
With a sad smile he clasped his hands behind his back. “I suppose you’ve been keeping yourself busy and at the center of the chaos,” he said, his tone light.
The utter normalcy in his voice took her aback until she realized what he was doing. He was giving her time and allowing her to breathe. To make her decision on their future without pressure.
And here she had not thought it possible to love him more.
“Er, yes,” she stuttered. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “That is, it’s been a constant stream of guests arriving. Lenora and Phoebe cannot be expected to handle it all on their own.”
He gave an easy chuckle as they started down the gravel path and came into view of the front drive. Guests were descending from carriages and bags were being unloaded in a controlled kind of chaos. “I’m thinking Danesford will be bursting at the seams by nightfall. Lady Tesh will be so pleased. Well, one can hope at least.”
She laughed along with him, though inside her heart ached. Their masks were firmly in place, the lie trotted out for all to see.
Yet she couldn’t help but be aware of the wish deep inside that it was real.
Chapter 19
Dinner that night and the gathering in the drawing room after were lively times, the myriad guests providing the last necessary ingredient for the festive spirit th
at a wedding often brought. Especially one where the couple were so very much in love.
Clara smiled fondly at Phoebe, who was sitting beside one of Oswin’s shy cousins, gently drawing her into a quiet discussion. It was clear that Oswin’s family adored her. Even the irascible Lady Crabtree seemed to have a soft spot for her. And no wonder, for Phoebe was a veritable fairy of light and laughter, flitting from person to person, her natural enthusiasm and sweetness putting everyone at ease. She would do well in her new life.
“She got that from you, you know.”
Clara looked up at Aunt Olivia. She had been so focused on her sister she hadn’t heard the woman approach.
“What was that?”
“That kindness, the ability to bring joy to people.” She pointed her cane in Phoebe’s direction before jabbing it toward Clara. “You gave her that gift.”
“Oh.” Clara blushed, rearing back from the cane as it nearly clipped her nose. “I’m sure that’s all Phoebe. No one can teach that.”
“Poppycock,” Aunt Olivia said before shooing Clara to the side.
Clara slid over on the settee so the viscountess could sit. “How are you enjoying the wedding festivities thus far, Aunt Olivia?” she asked. “You must be so pleased; I don’t believe anyone expected such a turnout.”
The older woman didn’t answer. Instead she peered closely at Clara as if searching for something. Finally, when Clara had begun to think she wouldn’t answer, she said, “I’m as pleased as you expect me to be. Which is not very, for there is still room for improvement. I shall not be satisfied until Lady Crabtree admits she was wrong. And I suspect that will only be gotten when hell turns to ice. But what’s different about you? Something has altered since yesterday that I can’t quite put my finger on.”
Clara, in the process of taking a sip from her wineglass, promptly choked. “I don’t know what you mean,” she croaked. “Mayhap Anne did my hair differently tonight. And this dress is new.”
“No,” Aunt Olivia said, her eyes narrowing. “It’s not something so simple and obvious.”
Flustered, desperate to distract the woman—for there was one thing, and one thing only, that Aunt Olivia could have sensed different in her—Clara said, “I’m sorry you were unable to bring Freya down. I know she would have been well behaved, though others feared otherwise.”
As expected, the change of subject worked beautifully. “Oh, that Lady Crabtree,” the viscountess grumbled, shooting the woman in question a dark look. “I know she was behind it. She’s as sour a woman as I’ve ever met. And she still isn’t over me bringing Freya to her house when we visited her in London. As if my darling pet acted as anything but the angel she is.” Aunt Olivia sniffed, her offense at such a snub palpable.
Clara’s relief that she had successfully redirected her great-aunt’s attentions was short-lived.
The viscountess swung back to pin Clara with a piercing look. “But don’t think you shall get out of answering me. I know there’s something different about you. And I’d be willing to bet you’re aware of it, too, or you wouldn’t have taken such pains to bring up something that infuriates me so.” Her look turned smug as Clara gaped at her. “I’m not as senile as you all think I am; I know when I’m being manipulated, young lady.”
“Oh, do you?” Quincy drawled, sauntering up to their corner of the drawing room.
Clara’s entire body responded to his approach, her heart picking up speed and heat blooming low in her belly. She had always wanted him, of course. But it was so much stronger now.
More than that, however, was the happiness that bloomed in her chest from his presence. Just being near him brought her joy that had nothing whatsoever to do with physical desire and everything to do with his effect on her heart.
“Don’t think to charm me, my boy,” Aunt Olivia said. “I’ve dealt with your kind before.”
“Now, that’s highly doubtful,” he said with a wink and a grin. “I’m certain there are no others quite like me.”
“Well, that’s true enough,” the viscountess grumbled. “But don’t just stand there. Sit; my neck aches from looking up at you.”
As he sat, Aunt Olivia speared him with a sharp glare. “I hear you spent much of the morning with Mr. Dennison and Lord Fletcher at Swallowhill.”
“You are, as always, impressively well informed. I met up with them quite by accident after an early ride into town, and Lord Fletcher was eager to see the place. Though the house is in bad repair, he was so taken with the view I don’t see a problem in getting the highest price possible.”
They droned on, discussing the merits of its position, the fertile soil, the bones of the house. But Clara couldn’t focus on any of it. She was too aware of Quincy’s nearness. His hand rested on the arm of his chair, mere inches from her own. She couldn’t help but remember those strong fingers on her skin, bringing her to such pleasure.
What would he do if she reached across that small space and laced her fingers with his?
She tightened her hand around her wineglass to keep it in place. Such an act would be as good as a declaration to Quincy, considering what was between them and what had yet to be resolved. He would see it as a sign that her decision had been made.
When in reality she was even more mired in doubt.
That morning she had been so certain she should refuse him. But now…
Now, after spending the evening in his company, pretending what they had was real, she couldn’t imagine ending it. What they had wasn’t just a physical connection, nor merely a shared association of secrecy. No, it was much deeper, built up over the past weeks into something abiding and true, bringing a light and joy to her life she never thought to have.
And she wanted a future with him so much she ached.
It was stupid to even consider it when just hours ago she had been so certain it could never be. It was the maddest of mads.
And yet nothing had ever made more sense.
“And there’s a small property with a tidy little cottage on it that butts up against Swallowhill. Lord Fletcher’s of a mind to purchase it as well.”
Quincy’s voice was like a bucket of cold water over her head. Her insides turned frigid with shock, her mind going numb. “A cottage?”
“Yes,” he said, blissfully unaware of her turmoil. “It sits right between Swallowhill and the path to the beach. It’s not part of my holdings. We’re determined to find out who owns it. Dennison believes he can secure a larger price if Fletcher can get his hands on both.”
Clara’s ears started to ring, and her vision blurred. She recalled with agonizing vividness a pain unlike any other, her body torn apart. And then a much worse pain as heartbreak quickly followed.
“Clara.”
Quincy’s voice came to her as if in a tunnel, far off and distant, growing closer as reality intruded. She blinked, looking in incomprehension at him. His face was close to hers, alarm clear in his eyes. His fingers were wrapped around her arm, as if holding her in place.
“Clara,” he said, his voice low, “are you well? You nearly fainted.”
It was then she realized where she was. Not back in that small cottage, hidden away from the world. No, she was in Danesford’s drawing room, preparing for her sister’s wedding. With Quincy at her side.
She thought she might be sick.
Drawing herself up—she had slouched down in her seat in an alarming way—she composed herself as best she could. “I’m fine,” she managed.
But Quincy didn’t look the least bit convinced by her efforts. If anything, he appeared even more worried. “I think it would be best if I see you to your room,” he said. “You’ve pushed yourself today.”
“No,” Clara said, embarrassment—and the far more troubling desire to have him comfort her—rushing through her. “I’d rather stay here. Truly, I’m fine now.”
“Nonsense,” Aunt Olivia declared, thumping her cane to draw Clara’s attention to her. As if her strident tone hadn’t been able to do that
just fine. “Pushing yourself will not help one bit. You wouldn’t wish to be ill for Phoebe’s wedding, would you?”
To Clara’s consternation there really was no arguing with that. Before she quite knew what was happening, Quincy had risen and was helping her up. “I don’t need assistance,” she protested. Unfortunately her body decided to betray her, her legs nearly giving out under her.
“No more arguing,” Quincy declared, slipping an arm about her waist to steady her. And then she was being whisked from the room.
“I’m merely tired,” she protested as he guided her up the stairs. The noise and chaos of the drawing room faded behind them, the quiet giving them a false sense of privacy. She ached to cry her heart out in his arms. But she could never allow herself to be that vulnerable again, not after the stark reminder of the cottage.
She had been ruined, had birthed a child out of wedlock. And that small cottage nestled on Synne’s farthest northern corner had been witness to it. All too soon it would come out that the property had been her father’s, that the deed had been transferred to her. And that she had sold it off when the pain of owning it finally grew too great. No one in her family knew of its existence. Once it was unearthed that it had been hers, questions would arise. And the truth would out.
Again she felt her stomach lurch. And she knew it was not so much that she feared tainting her family with a scandal. It had been them finding out at all.
There was a chance they might react with the same loving understanding her father had, of course. But even if they, by some miracle, did not despise her for her actions, they would view her differently, would pity her or see her as broken. After dedicating her life to them all these years, and loving them as she did, she couldn’t bear it.
“Quincy,” she tried again as they rounded the hallway to the family apartments. “Please leave me. I’m fine now, truly.”
Still he guided her on, his hand under her arm and his arm about her waist gentle, yet his profile stern and unyielding. Finally, they reached her room. She thought he might leave her then, and the idea filled her with equal parts relief and pain.
Someday My Duke Will Come Page 23