And all through the reading of that history Clara was beside him, reading over his shoulder, her presence like a balm to his soul. He didn’t know that he would have been able to get through it without her, for the emotions coursing through him, from anger to hope to frustration to grief, were enough to destroy him, especially as such heartfelt anguish saturated every word.
Finally, after what felt hours, they reached the last letter, written just a few short months before the duke died. But it was written to Quincy.
He stared at his name on the missive, shock overriding his weariness, hands shaking. He felt battered both inside and out, as if who he was had been torn to shreds.
Thankfully Clara was there, her hand on his. And they opened the letter together.
My dear Quincy,
There was so much I wish I could have told you, my boy. I pray you’ll forgive my cowardice. But my wife insisted on my silence on the matter in order for you to be claimed as my legitimate son. By the time you read this letter, and the other letters bundled with it, I will be dead and gone, and thus I consider our bargain at an end. So you see, I had always intended for you to know the truth one day. That I had to leave you so early, however, is one of my greatest heartaches.
I cannot begin to guess what might be going through your mind. To learn that one’s parentage was a lie cannot be an easy thing. But know that you were conceived in love. If you take nothing else away from this, I will be content. The truth of the matter is, I loved Miss Willa Brandon. I had loved her since we were children. When she agreed to marry me, I was the happiest man in existence.
I think you have read enough to know why we never married. Please don’t hate the duchess. I would not have that horrible emotion poisoning your heart. I have tried to teach you, as best I was able, to look for the good in life, to keep your gaze on the future, and leave behind the past. I pray you are happy, my boy. And know that your mother loved you.
Now I go to meet her in heaven, if God is forgiving. Enjoy your life, my son. And when you find love, don’t let it go.
Your loving father
Quincy stared at the letter, aware of the realigning of those torn pieces of his old self into a new man. So much he’d thought was true had been a lie. Yet the most important thing had remained true: his father had loved him. Even more important, his mother—his true mother—had loved him just as deeply. She had loved him so well she’d made certain he would have a secure life, had given him up so he might live without the label bastard.
His throat burned with tears, of both grief and happiness. There had been so much unnecessary suffering, so much stolen. And yet he’d just been given a wonderful gift.
Clara’s hand moved over his back again, returning him to the present. Speaking of gifts, he thought. His heart, already full, began to overflow with his happiness.
All it would take to make it complete was her accepting him.
Chapter 24
Clara stayed quiet as long as she was able, to give Quincy the time he needed to process what he’d just read. So much heartbreak, so many things conspiring against the duke and Willa. The tears that she’d fought during the reading of those letters threatened again, making her throat ache. And still he remained silent, merely staring at his father’s last letter to him.
Hoping to bring him a modicum of comfort, she rubbed her hand over his broad back, soothing the bands of tense muscle. She felt him shift and relax under her palm. She laid her cheek on his shoulder, wishing she could mend whatever hurt he was feeling.
Not just in that moment. She wished she could be there for every hurt in the future, to help him heal, to bring him happiness.
To love him.
Hope bloomed that perhaps things between them could work. The duke’s last sentence called to her: And when you find love, don’t let it go.
Quincy was willing to marry her even with the tragedy in her past, even though it could rear up and ruin them at any time. And she saw so clearly that the heartbreak of trying to remain safe and secure wasn’t worth losing his love.
As if she’d spoken aloud, he turned to her. And smiled.
The pain in his gaze was gone, and she could see clear to his soul. Her heart swelled at the sight.
“You’re all right,” she whispered.
“Yes.” He smiled. “He loved me. And so did my mother.”
She drank in the sight of his joy. “Of course they did. How could they not?”
He cupped her cheek, leaned in to kiss her.
There was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to melt in his arms, but there was still something that needed to be addressed. She planted her hands on his chest to keep him at bay.
He frowned, pulling back, hurt replacing his happiness. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. At least”—she smiled tenderly—“not until you’ve finished proposing to me.”
The joy that filled him transformed him, the hopeful light that filled his features erasing any lingering lines of grief. It was as if the last piece of a puzzle had been snapped in place.
He dropped to his knees, taking her hands in his. She gripped his fingers tight, memorizing this moment, with this powerful man before her about to declare himself.
“Clara,” he said, his voice thick, just as moved as she was if the shine in his dark eyes was proof, “will you marry me?”
“Yes.” The one word spilled from her lips without hesitation, joy laced through it.
He rose to his feet and took her face between his hands, his gaze suffused with wonder. “You’ll marry me?”
She grinned. “Yes, you wonderful man, I’ll marry you. I love you, Quincy, so very much.” She gave a small laugh. “I think I’ve loved you since that first time I saw you in Lady Tesh’s drawing room.”
“As have I,” he murmured. He stroked a stray curl from her cheek, his gaze achingly tender. “Clara, you’re my very heart and soul.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. And then he was kissing her. Or she was kissing him. It didn’t matter, really, she thought as she lost herself completely in his embrace. What mattered was they loved one another, and always would.
When last they’d come together her heart had been breaking, so certain had she been that they would soon part. She had made sure that every kiss, every caress, held an echo of her goodbye to him. To rise from his bed before dawn and leave him slumbering amid the rumpled sheets had nearly destroyed her.
This time, however, was a beginning. They went slowly, drawing their pleasure out, every kiss, every caress holding an echo of their declarations to one another, every sigh and whisper like a prayer in the dim room. He undressed her, worshipping each inch with infinite tenderness, hands and lips and tongue bringing her to heights she hadn’t imagined possible. She did the same for him, taking her time, marveling at each bunch of muscle, the dusting of hair across his chest and flat stomach, the incredible beauty of him. She trailed her lips across his skin and tasted warm nights and dark skies and fresh winds blowing off the churning sea.
When their need for one another became too great to delay, he slid inside her with a hiss of satisfaction and began to move.
The pleasure built slowly, until she didn’t know where one of them ended and the other began, until the frantic beat of his heart against her own could not be denied.
He paused, looking down on her. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, his eyes feverish with need. His manhood pulsed inside her, yet he held himself back.
She knew immediately why he did it, and her heart fairly burst with love for this man, who had shown her nothing but respect from the first and who would protect her even now if she needed it. Placing a hand on his cheek, she smiled into his eyes.
“You’re my future now, Quincy,” she whispered. “I want to feel you inside me.”
He let loose a shuddering breath. “I love you,” he rasped before taking her lips in a kiss. And then he was moving inside her again, and she moved
with him, each stroke bringing them higher and higher until they came in a burst of stars. Together.
* * *
Quincy woke when the sky was still dark, only the faintest lighting of the pitch black outside the window to the deepest indigo proving that dawn would soon be here.
The dawn of his and Clara’s future together.
She shifted in her sleep, her lithe body, warm and naked, settling more fully against his own. Joy filled him as he tightened his arm about her and kissed the mussed crown of her sable curls. His heart felt freer than it had ever been. There was no uncertainty, no fear, no anger. Only a deep, abiding conviction that he was where he was supposed to be.
He could feel the moment she woke; her body, which had been relaxed, stirred, her legs rubbing against his, her unbound hair rasping against his shoulder. She raised her head and smiled at him.
He pulled her down for a tender kiss. “Good morning,” he murmured.
“Is it morning then?” she asked, her fingers stroking his hair back from his forehead.
“Not quite.” He gathered her back into his arms.
She sighed, snuggling further into his embrace. “I wish I could stay here forever.”
He felt the exact same. He would never grow tired of this, waking with the woman he loved. The idea of her leaving his bed to return to her room, all for propriety’s sake, made him hold her all the tighter. He rather thought that a quick visit to London after Phoebe’s wedding might not be remiss; a special license sounded like a wise course of action. He smiled into her hair, reveling in the way the delicate strands tickled his lips. And from the way she was rubbing her leg against his and trailing her fingers over his stomach, he had a feeling she would not argue.
He was looking out the window at a sky just beginning to show the faintest blush of sunrise, contemplating if he had time to make love to her once more before she left, when she raised her head again to look at him. Her eyes were sober in the predawn light. “Are you well?”
He knew what she was asking: was he still all right after the revelations of the night before, after learning the truth of his parentage. And he hadn’t thought he could love her more. He smiled. “More than well, my love.”
Relief blossomed in her gaze. “You’re an amazing man.”
He chuckled. “Just as well, as I’m marrying an amazing woman,” he murmured, pulling her down for another kiss.
Some minutes later—happy, deliciously distracted minutes—she pulled back. “I’d best return to my room,” she murmured.
He groaned, his arms tightening about her. “No.”
“Yes,” she said with a small laugh. “Besides, Phoebe’s wedding is in just a few days. Once it’s done I’ve a mind to start planning our own. After all, the quicker we marry the quicker we can head off to those places you’ve dreamed of sailing to.”
He stilled, his stomach dropping. “But I thought you understood. Swallowhill will remain ours; we cannot sell it, doubly so now that I know what it was to my mother. I have enough funds to save the dukedom, but not enough to travel.”
He expected sadness. What he did not expect, however, was laughter. She grinned, her eyes dancing, and laid a hand on his cheek.
“Do you think I come to you without a dowry?”
“Dowry,” he repeated blankly.
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, dowry. My father was a generous man and made sure to provide for both my sister and me.” The smile she gave him was full of love. “And so, do you think you could be content traveling the world with me by your side?”
His heart nearly burst with love for her. And yet he knew this was just the beginning; his love would grow each day, stretching to the horizon and beyond into forever.
“With you, my love, I’ll go anywhere,” he murmured before taking her lips in a kiss.
Epilogue
Quincy raised his head from the map he had spread out on his father’s desk and looked out the window to the sea beyond. He took in the vast blue sky and the undulating waves with a happy sigh, contentment curling in his belly. They had been back for a month, but he was more than willing to stay just where he was for a good long while. There would be time to set sail again. After.
Just then a commotion could be heard from below. He smiled at the familiar, beloved sound, his gaze unerringly searching for and finding Clara. She was making her way back to the house through the lovingly restored gardens of Swallowhill, no doubt from an excursion to the greenhouse. She spent much of her time there, tending the plants they had brought back from their travels. It had been nearly a decade since they’d first set sail after their hasty wedding, and in that time she had accrued quite a collection. Most notably, the two imps at her side.
His gaze softened as he looked down on his children. Young Frederick, named for Clara’s father, was tall for eight, nearly reaching his mother’s shoulder. He walked at Lenora’s side, his gaze steady on her as she related something or other to him. In his arms was a small gray bundle, a young rabbit he had found and was mending back to health, the latest in his growing menagerie. And then there was Willa.
At six she fairly ruled them all, with her black hair and mischievous smile. Clara was known to moan that she was so like Quincy she feared for her sanity once the girl reached adulthood, accompanied by a fond look for them both. Right now, Willa was dancing among the flowers, singing and bending to pick up a rock, a leaf, and whatever else might strike her fancy.
Clara looked up and spied him. She grinned and spoke to the children, and soon they were all waving their arms, their bright smiles in the early-afternoon sunlight making his heart expand in his chest. He remembered that long-ago day when he and Clara had stood poised at the beginning of their life together—how it felt as if he could not hold a bit more love in him.
Yet that had been proven wrong, for day in and day out he loved her and their children more and more.
She spoke to them again, and was soon leaving them to play in the fresh air while she walked toward the house. He heard the door opening and closing, and her step on the stairs. Anticipation raced through his veins. And then she was in the doorway.
“Quincy,” she murmured.
In two long strides he reached her and she was in his arms. Her lips were sweet and eager, and he felt he could stand there forever kissing her and be utterly happy.
Until a nudge in his belly made him realize that was an impossibility.
He pulled back, grinning ruefully down at her stomach. “Madam, I do believe our daughter is going to be as precocious as her older sister when she arrives.”
“Lord save me,” Clara said with a happy laugh, her hands lovingly drifting over her swollen belly. “But it could be a son, you know.”
“Please, woman,” he scoffed with mock outrage. “Have I ever been wrong?”
“No,” she grumbled with obvious reluctance.
He laughed, and together they walked to the large window overlooking the garden. The children were on the ground, playing with the rabbit, Frederick as ever watchful over his sister. Clara smiled happily, then looked to the map on the desk. She ran her fingers over it, tracing the routes and notes they had made over the years, before giving his father’s worn book, lying close by, a loving pat.
“And have you decided where you would like to go on our next adventure? The children are eager to visit Greece, but I’ve a mind to stay closer to home.”
“I think closer to home is just the thing,” Quincy said, laying a gentle hand over the swell of his wife’s stomach. “What say you to an extended stay on the Isle?”
“I would like that very much,” she murmured, covering his hand with her own. “Though are you certain you’ll be happy staying still for so long? Life may get dull after a time.”
“Ah, my love,” he said, laughing, pulling her close, “our family is the best adventure I could have asked for.”
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About the Author
Christina Britton developed a passion for writing romance novels shortly after buying her first at the tender age of thirteen and spent much of her teenage years scribbling on whatever piece of paper she could find. Though for several years she put brush instead of pen to paper, she has returned to her first love and is now writing full-time. She spends her days dreaming of corsets and cravats and noblemen with tortured souls.
She lives with her husband and two children in the San Francisco Bay Area.
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