Someday My Duke Will Come

by Christina Britton

  “Yes, now, Mother,” he spat. His long legs had him quickly overtaking her. He spun to face her, halting her in her tracks. “I told you to leave her alone. Yet you could not, could you?”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “How could I? Does it surprise you that I would allow a woman such as that—”

  “I warned you, madam,” he snarled, “that I will not look kindly on any insult to Clara.”

  Her mouth closed with a snap. Though uncertainty flared in her eyes, she glared at him with a righteous fury. “I had a bride picked out for you. A young woman of good family who would provide us the means to recoup all we’ve lost.”

  “You mean you groomed a lonely girl, someone you knew would be easily manipulated. You tried to fob her off on my brother. And when I arrived, you saw a way to control me, the one son you had no hold over, by transferring her to me. Though I wonder,” he said with a curl of his lip, “that you had any control over your older sons. Didn’t they utterly destroy the dukedom, after all?”

  “I don’t have to listen to this,” she hissed.

  “No, you’re right in that,” he replied. Sudden exhaustion dragged at him. He’d known all along that this woman, who should have loved him as unconditionally as Clara’s family loved her, would never be capable of giving him what he’d needed from her. But as he was faced with the proof of her unswerving bitterness he realized that he didn’t despise her for it. Rather, there was a deep grief for what they might have had. He felt the loss of it, of that thing she had stolen from not just him, but herself as well, down to his soul.

  Had he returned to her house to truly say goodbye for good? Or had there been a part of himself that had hoped she might have changed? If that hope had ever been in him, however, it was dead now.

  “After today I will not want anything further to do with you. But,” he said when she made to go around him, “know one thing: you will not speak a word of Clara’s past to anyone. If word gets out, I will know who caused it. And you will regret it.”

  Her eyes shot outraged fire at him. “You think to frighten me?”

  “Yes,” he said, the word blunt and hard. “And don’t forget, I will not be alone in my revenge. The Duke of Dane will be behind me, as will Viscountess Tesh. I think it safe to say the punishment would be dire indeed.”

  Finally common sense seemed to make an appearance in the form of fear, quickly stifled under a blanket of pride. “Very well,” she bit out. “I vow I shall not say a word.”

  With that she went to go around him again. This time he let her, painfully aware of just what she had stolen from him: a happy childhood, with wonderful memories that he should have been able to look back on with fondness as he grew older.

  Impotent anger welled up in him, so unexpected he demanded, quite without thinking, “Why do you despise me? You’re my mother; you should have loved me and supported me.”

  She froze, then turned slowly to face him. And he was stunned mute at the hatred twisting her beautiful features.

  “If I act as if I despise you it is because I do. With everything in me I despise you.”

  He gaped at her. “You’re a cruel woman.”

  “Cruel? Your father was the cruel one, foisting his bastard on me to raise as my own.”

  “It’s a lie,” he managed, shaking his head in desperate denial, his mind racing. His father had known how miserable Quincy had been, how horrible the duchess had made his life. Surely he would have told him if it was true.

  “And what reason would I have to lie to you?” she demanded. “Revealing the truth now gives me no benefit. I cannot see you made illegitimate, for your father made sure everything was drawn up nice and tight. And I risk being kicked from my home and cut off.”

  Still he could not process what she had just revealed. Surely this was just some attempt to hurt him. The duchess had always gone out of her way to do that.

  Yet he could not deny that, beyond that, there was no benefit for her in this. And the woman never did anything without making certain she benefited from it.

  He felt sick down to his soul. As he stood staring at her in shock, she smirked and started off down the hall.

  But he could not leave it at this. “If you are not my mother,” he demanded of her retreating form, “then who is?”

  She didn’t bother to even look over her shoulder. “Who do you think? That dubious honor belongs to Miss Willa Brandon, of course. Your father’s whore.”

  Chapter 22

  Quincy dismounted his horse and looked up at Swallowhill’s weathered façade. Miss Willa Brandon. She had lived here, had died here. And all along she had been his mother?

  He’d felt from the moment the duchess had spoken the words that she had not been lying. There had been a certainty in her voice, a fury at what she had been forced to endure, that had given an unmistakable ring of truth to her words.

  How it must have pained her, to be confronted with proof of her husband’s infidelity each day. And while he could pity her for it, he could not forgive her for what she had done to him. He had been an innocent, a child thrust into this world without a say in any of it. No, the fault in all of this lay with his father, and his father alone.

  All this time, he’d thought his father above reproach. Which made the truth that much harder to stomach. The man he’d revered, the person he’d looked up to as what a good person should be, had been a mere figment of his imagination.

  An ache started up in his chest, and he pressed a fist to it as if he could ease it by sheer will. But he knew nothing would take away this pain, the last gasping breath of that young boy who’d so idolized his father.

  Had he visited that woman here, bedded down with her while his family remained in London? Or had he sent Miss Brandon here after getting her with child, to waste away her days in isolation from the world?

  He thought of Clara, how she had been seduced, then sent away to birth her child. Had it been the same for Miss Brandon, sent away from everything she had no doubt loved? And why had she given Quincy up to be raised by another woman? Surely he would have been a damn sight better off with her, no matter the scandal that would have come with it, than he had been with the duchess.

  He opened the door and stalked inside. The small hall was just as it had been on his last two visits. Yet he saw it with new eyes, knowing what that woman who’d lived here was to him. Taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly reached that same bedroom he’d found Clara in on their visit. The furniture was covered in their sheets, rising up like specters, his doubts and fears and regrets taking corporeal form around him. He passed them all by, instead striding to the out-of-place piece that had seemed to leave Clara so shaken, the one she had hastily covered up before exiting the room. With a flick of his wrist he pulled the fabric back to reveal a small cradle.

  He sucked in his breath. His eyes traveled over the finely carved rosewood. Had he been birthed here, in this very room? Had he been laid in that cradle, perhaps rocked, sung to sleep?

  The longing that flared up stunned him. For what? For a mother who might have loved him? No, he would not think of Miss Willa Brandon in such kind terms. She had never loved him. If she had, she would not have given him up.

  Even so, he could not help reaching out and tracing the delicate carvings on the headboard. Small flowers, vines intertwined—it was a thing of beauty. Care had been put into the creation of it.

  But why was it here? From all accounts she had stayed at Swallowhill several years after he was born. Why not throw it out, or relegate it to the attic, or any one of a number of different options? Why keep it close by, where she could see it day in and day out? Perhaps she’d only given him up because she’d felt she had no choice. Perhaps she’d grieved for him, as Clara had grieved for her lost son.

  He shook his head sharply, furious at himself for even considering such a charitable thought toward that woman. She was nothing like Clara.

  Clara. Damn, but he ached for her. He’d left before he could tell
her he still loved her, that he still wanted to marry her, no matter what was in her past. He gazed down at the cradle, weariness washing over him, his anger fading as quickly as it had come. There was no sense in wondering whether Miss Brandon had wanted to keep him or not; no matter how he tortured himself over it, he would never learn the truth.

  Throwing the cover over the cradle, he determinedly turned his back on it and strode from the room and from the house. He would not return here. In a few days’ time it would be Lord Fletcher’s, and then he might never think of it again.

  As if he had spirited him into being, he spied the man himself, pulling his horse up in the front drive. “Your Grace,” he called cheerfully, dismounting and striding toward Quincy. “I didn’t expect to see you here this afternoon, not with the festivities going on at Danesford.”

  Damnation, he’d had no idea the man was planning on visiting the place. Burying his anger and grief as best he could, he nodded. “I was just leaving, actually. Are you here to take stock of what needs to be done?”

  “That I am,” the man said. “Though it may be more extensive than I first surmised.”

  “Don’t think you shall get out of purchasing the place that easy,” Quincy quipped, forcing a grin that felt stiff on his cheeks.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m quite eager to see it through. And,” he said, with a wink, “I assume you’re more than ready to get rid of the place and be on your way. All those fabulous destinations to see and all.”

  “That I am,” Quincy agreed with feeling. In fact, his desire to see the place out of his hands had increased exponentially since learning of his true parentage.

  Had it been just over an hour ago that he had learned the truth? It seemed an eternity. He was ready to leave this place, to return to Danesford.

  To see Clara again and tell her, now that his mind was not reeling, how much he adored her.

  “Splendid,” Fletcher said. “And we are still set to meet the day after Lady Phoebe’s wedding to sign the agreement?”

  “That we are.” He touched the brim of his hat, eager to be off. “I’ll leave you to your survey, then.”

  “I thank you,” Fletcher said. The man’s chuckle followed Quincy as he turned away. “The sooner I can get to demolishing this place the happier I’ll be.”

  Quincy stopped cold, his boots kicking up dirt. With a quick pivot he was back before Fletcher. “What do you mean, demolishing?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I had originally planned on making it my home. But after seeing the state of it, and the beautiful vistas, I’ve decided it makes more sense to raze the place to the ground. The Isle has become more popular over the past year, since the new Duke of Dane and his bride took up residence. No doubt it will only grow in popularity. I plan to capitalize on that.”

  “Capitalize,” Quincy repeated blankly.

  “Indeed. Though,” the man said, chuckling, “I shouldn’t be telling you my plans, as you’ll no doubt increase the price. But I’ve a cunning idea for a small holiday village. This location is ideal, close to the beach, and yet far enough away from the center of town to be quite cozy and private. And there’s enough room for me to build a new manor house for myself besides. One,” he said with a grin, “that won’t be in danger of falling down about my ears.”

  Quincy gaped at him. “You want to destroy the house, the gardens? The greenhouse?”

  “Certainly. It would cost nearly as much to renovate it all, and this way I’ll be set to make a tidy sum off it as well.”

  “Indeed,” Quincy said, feeling nauseated. And not because of any fondness for the house. No, if it fell down in ruins this minute, he would not mind a bit. And he needed it sold, didn’t he?

  His disquiet, however, had everything to do with Clara. He had seen how much this place meant to her, the sorrow in her eyes when she had seen the ruin it was in, the love for what it had given her during that dark time in her life. He imagined her as she was then, her spirit broken, healing both physically and mentally from that devastating trauma, finding the peace within that greenhouse when she’d needed it most. If it was torn down, she would be destroyed.

  If he searched for another buyer willing to pay as generous a price as Fletcher was, it might take years to unload the place. And the dukedom did not have years left. It would drain his savings dry before he was able to secure another buyer, the tenants requiring immediate help. No, it was Fletcher or nothing. Breaking Clara’s heart or giving up his dreams.

  As he took his leave, he searched his mind for a way, any way, to win in this scenario. But to his consternation, he couldn’t think of a damn thing.

  * * *

  Clara had briefly considered retiring to her room for the remainder of the day. She was exhausted, after all, after the strain of the afternoon’s revelations.

  But she quickly discarded that idea. She was through with hiding away, through with shame and regret. The past was done; she would focus on the present and look toward the future. There was nothing she need worry about now that she knew she had her family’s unconditional support and love.

  Except for Quincy.

  Clara’s throat closed off as she thought of him. The young ladies surrounding her gave her curious looks. And no wonder, for hadn’t she been in the midst of recounting some ball she’d attended in London? At least, she thought she had been. She breathed deeply, corralling her dangerously veering thoughts, and tried to remember just where she had been in the conversation. But she knew almost immediately it would be a battle lost.

  With a forced smile she rose. “I am so sorry, but I just recalled something I need to see to. If you’ll excuse me?”

  The group smiled and nodded, but Clara was already hurrying across the crowded drawing room. The day had been filled with activities of every kind, from archery to croquet to footraces over the back lawn. Clara had kept herself at the busy center of it all, doing her best to lose herself in the festivities. Even so, she found herself looking for Quincy much more often than she liked.

  She had expected him to react negatively to her past, of course. How could he not. She was that creature that all of society looked down on and shunned: a ruined woman. And worse, one who had born a child out of wedlock. At least he could now understand why she could not marry him.

  But she had not expected him to run off without a word.

  A sudden slender arm about her waist stopped her blind flight from the room. She turned to look at Phoebe, who smiled widely at her.

  “Clara, dear, you look a bit tired. You should retire for the evening.”

  Clara blinked. Her sister looked positively mischievous, her eyes sparkling and an excited blush staining her cheeks. “I was just going to the ladies’ retiring room,” she said. “No need for concern; I’ll be back in a thrice, as good as new.”

  “But I insist,” Phoebe said, pushing Clara toward the door and out into the hall with surprising strength. “I’ll need you ever so much in the next few days, and if you exhaust yourself tonight and grow ill, I’ll be beside myself.”

  “Truly, Phoebe,” Clara tried again, trying and failing to break her sister’s hold on her waist, “I don’t need to rest just yet. I’ll be fine for another couple of hours until the rest of the party is ready to retire for the night.” The last thing she wanted was to be alone. At least here, buried in the bustle of the evening, she could pretend all was well.

  “Nonsense.” Phoebe pushed her down the hall to the foot of the stairs. “Now, off to bed with you!”

  Clara gaped at her. “Phoebe, what is wrong with you?”

  To her confusion, Phoebe grinned. “Nothing at all. Everything is absolutely beautiful.” With a little laugh, she hugged Clara. “You deserve every happiness in life, my dear sister,” she murmured in her ear. Then, bestowing a quick kiss on Clara’s cheek, she spun about and hurried back to the drawing room.

  Overcome, Clara stared after her sister’s retreating form and had the strangest desire to cry; she didn’t kno
w what had prompted those heartfelt words, but she felt them down to the depths of her soul.

  But now that she was away from the commotion of the drawing room a sudden exhaustion came over her. Mayhap her sister was right, and a rest would be wise. It had been an uncommonly emotional, draining day. With a small sigh she started up the stairs. She did not expect sleep to come easily, however, no matter how tired she was. The moment she was alone and there was no longer any danger of prying eyes, she knew she would quickly find herself drowning under her thoughts of Quincy.

  As she reached the privacy of the family quarters and the noise of the party faded behind her, she was proved right. Where had Quincy gone after her confession? One minute she had been enveloped in her family’s loving arms, and the next both Quincy and his mother were absent. The duchess had quickly departed Danesford, Peter being more than happy to see her gone from the house with all haste. But there was no sign of Quincy. Clara had not dared to ask, and not one of her family mentioned him. Though that had not stopped their concerned glances from finding her. So she had doubled her efforts to remain cheerful, though inside she grew increasingly despondent. She had known there would be a risk in revealing her past. Her family’s reaction had stunned her; she would always remain thankful for their unwavering love.

  But that did not take away the sting of Quincy’s abandonment.

  Heaving a sigh, she let herself into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. A fire glowed in the hearth and she went to it, peeling off her gloves and holding out hands that seemed strangely chilled for the warmth of the summer night. It was silly, truly, to mourn his desertion. She had wanted him to understand why she had refused him. He had a right to know why she could not have a life with him.

  Her heart broke at the thought that he could not even be in the same room—nay, the same house—with her.

  Just then a beloved, familiar voice broke into her morose thoughts.

  “I was beginning to think Phoebe wouldn’t be able to convince you to retire. I shouldn’t have doubted her.”