1818
Mr. Quincy Nesbitt had suspected his return to London would be painful—that riding down streets that were at once foreign and familiar would be like tearing open an old wound.
It brought him not an ounce of pleasure to know just how right he had been.
He took a deep breath as he headed down Brook Street from his hotel, trying to rein in the sensation of being suffocated under a wet blanket. But no matter his attempts, the feeling persisted, increasing with each clip of his horse’s hooves on the cobbles. Damnation, but this had been a mistake. He had thought it the ideal plan when setting sail from Boston: he could visit with his closest friend, Peter Ashford, now Duke of Dane, before setting off on the first leg of his world travels. And with Peter in London for the season, it gave Quincy the push he needed to finally confront the ghosts of his past. It was something he should have done long ago.
Now that he was here, however…
His mount tossed its head in protest. Quincy took a deep breath, relaxing his iron grip on the reins, silently reproaching himself for his distracted ham-handedness. There was no reason for his anxiety. Though his family’s townhome was two streets up in Berkeley Square, though he was closer to that place than he had been in fourteen years, he was not headed there just yet. He would see Peter first before bearding that particular lion.
The thought eased some of the tension from his shoulders. Over the past decade and a half, nearly from the moment Quincy had run from home and joined the crew of the American merchant ship The Persistence, he and Peter had been inseparable. And while he was thrilled for the new life his friend had made for himself since returning to England, the past year with the whole of the Atlantic Ocean between them had been a long one. With the last of their business in America sold off and his responsibilities firmly behind him, Quincy could visit with his friend and make up for lost time. He urged his mount on until, finally, he was before Peter’s London home in Grosvenor Square.
Though the townhouse blended in with its surroundings in an understated way, it was an impressive specimen. Quincy gazed up at it as he dismounted, a low whistle escaping his lips. The filthy orphan he’d found hiding away in the hull of The Persistence had certainly come up in the world. Back then Peter had been reeling from his mother’s untimely death and running from an uncertain and abhorrent future. Their fears had bound them, the friendship a lifeline for two young boys.
Now Peter was a duke. Quincy grinned, anticipation overriding his anxiety for the first time since he’d stepped foot off the ship and onto English soil. Damn, but he had missed his friend. Securing his horse, he strode up the front stairs to the imposing black door.
His knock was answered with alacrity by a stoic-faced butler. “May I help you, sir?”
“Is His Grace in?”
“Who may I ask is calling?”
Quincy grinned. “Oh, now, don’t spoil the fun.”
The man blinked. “Pardon me, sir?”
“I shall, and gladly,” Quincy said, pushing into the front hall, “if you play along and show me to the duke.”
The butler’s mouth fell open. “Sir, I must insist—”
“Have no fear,” he declared, holding up a hand. “His Grace will not bring down fire and brimstone on your head. Though he can be a grim fellow at times, I promise he will be happy to see me.” He smiled his most charming smile. “Now do a man a favor, for I’ve traveled long and hard to see my friend and I cannot wait a moment longer.”
The man, no doubt dazed by the barrage of charm Quincy was piling on his head, nodded and mumbled, “If you’ll follow me?”
Quincy’s grin of victory faded as he took in the interior of the cavernous house. Though the place had been impressive from the street, he hadn’t expected such a behemoth to be hiding behind the elegant façade. They’d lived a comfortable life in Boston, yes. And he had not been a stranger to these places of wealth and excess in the past. But this put that all in the dust. Soaring ceilings painted with heavenly landscapes of cavorting cherubim basking in their divinity, black-and-white marble tiles glistening at his feet, the walls a buttery yellow and covered with all manner of paintings. He just managed to swallow down a chortle. Best to save his mirth for Peter, when it would annoy the most.
The butler stopped before a closed door. Instead of opening it, however, he looked at Quincy with a healthy dose of uncertainty. “Sir, if you would only let me introduce you—”
In answer, Quincy clapped the man on the shoulder, winked, and threw open the door. It hit the wall with a resounding thud as he strode within. “His Grace, the Duke of Dane, I presume,” he bellowed into the silence.
Peter, seated behind the desk, jumped a foot, nearly falling out of his chair before catching himself on the edge of his desk. “What the ever-loving…Quincy?”
He grinned. “Surprised to see me, old man?”
When Peter only sat there, mouth hanging comically open, eyes like saucers, Quincy laughed. “Damn, but that expression is worth delaying my travels. Now come and give me a proper greeting. I’ve missed you like the devil.”
Peter, it seemed, needed no further encouragement. He surged from his chair, a grin breaking over his face. Quincy barely had time to brace for impact before his friend’s bulk hit him like a veritable wave. The breath was knocked from his body, meaty arms surrounding him in a crushing embrace.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Peter exclaimed.
“Air!” Quincy managed.
Peter merely chuckled, squeezing a bit tighter—how was that even possible?—before releasing him. “When last I heard from you, you had just sold off the remaining business and were setting sail. What are you doing in England, man?”
Quincy grinned, the restlessness of the past year—no, he had been restless for much longer than that, hadn’t he?—beginning to ease. “I thought I’d visit with my dearest friend before starting my travels in earnest.”
Though Peter rolled his eyes, Quincy couldn’t fail to see the smile tugging on his lips. “I’m sure my charms pale in comparison with the wonders you’ll see. You must be ecstatic to finally be setting off.”
“You’ve no idea. If only my father had been alive to join me.” A vision of his father’s face swam up in his mind, that long-ago grief tempered by the distance of time, and by the knowledge that he was finally realizing their shared dream. He had worked hard over the years, surviving, building an empire to be proud of with Peter. Now, however, it was time to return to that promise he had made so long ago when leaving his family’s house.
He gave Peter a considering look. “You made a pretty penny in the liquidation of our assets. I don’t suppose I could ever tempt you into joining me, even for a short while?”
Peter grinned. “Not on your life. But I do plan on enjoying your company while you’re in town. How long before you start off?”
Quincy smiled, satisfaction coiling within him. “I’ve booked passage for Spain a fortnight from now.”
“You will stay here at Dane House, of course.”
“Certainly not,” he said in mock horror before grinning. “I’m a bachelor in London. If you think I’m going to miss out on cavorting to my heart’s content, you’re sorely mistaken.” He laughed as Peter rolled his eyes heavenward. “But Mivart’s is just a street away, so you may see me much more often than you’d like. Though”—he cast a glance about him, taking in the richly carved bookcases, the deep-blue-silk-covered walls, the towering windows looking out onto a verdant garden—“I admit to feeling more than a bit of regret now that I’ve seen your London residence. The place is amazing, man. Is Danesford even half as incredible?”
“Even more so.” A quiet pride shone from Peter’s eyes. “I thought I would forever despise the place, that I would be glad to see it fall to ruins. Yet now my feelings could not be more different.”
“And I suppose having Lenora by your side has not aided in that about-face,” Quincy murmured with humor.
“Laugh all you want. I don’t mind telling you that she’s had everything to do with it.” Peter chuckled.
Quincy shook his head, grinning. “I cannot believe the change in you, man. When last I was here, you were in the throes of despair for love of Lenora. And now look at you, happily married, master of all this.” He swept his arm out. “And a damn duke. Don’t tell me I have to start calling you Your Grace now.”
“Arse,” Peter muttered. “If I hear those words from your lips, I’ll gladly trounce you. Sit, while I pour us something to celebrate this visit.”
As Quincy settled himself into an overstuffed chair, his friend went to the small cabinet in the corner. “Never tell me you’re drinking strong spirits now.”
Peter chuckled. “I’ve not changed that much. Though,” he added, his tone turning rueful as the sound of clinking glass echoed about the room, “there are times I wish for a small dose of something stronger than lemonade or wine.”
“Has it been much of an adjustment then, taking over the dukedom?” Quincy asked, stretching out his long legs.
Peter’s lips twisted as he turned and made his way to his friend, a glass of whiskey in one hand and something that looked suspiciously like ratafia in the other. “Transitioning from commoner and self-made man to a duke has been…difficult,” he said. “There are so many people’s well-beings and livelihoods I’m responsible for. It boggles my mind. Without Lenora by my side, I don’t know that I would have taken to the position with any grace.”
Quincy snorted as he accepted his glass and Peter settled across from him. “Grace. That is one word I would have never associated with you. But how is our dear Lenora? I look forward to seeing her again after so long.”
At the mention of his bride, Peter’s face lit up. That was the only phrase to describe it. It was an expression Quincy had never witnessed before in his normally stoic friend, a softening of features typically held tight against the rest of the world.
“Lenora is wonderful. She’s out with Clara and Phoebe just now.”
Ah, yes, the Ladies Clara and Phoebe, Peter’s cousins, daughters of the previous Duke of Dane and now under Peter’s protection. Lovely girls, both of them. Or rather, Lady Phoebe was a lovely girl. Lady Clara, on the other hand, was most definitely a woman, and a stunning one at that.
Most women were pretty in some way to him, of course. He found something to admire in every female he came in contact with. But Lady Clara had captured his interest much more than he’d expected.
Not that anything could come of it. She was under Peter’s protection, after all, and the man would have Quincy’s head if he so much as looked at the lady wrong. And so any attraction he might possess for Lady Clara would have to be kept under strict lock and key.
But Quincy’s imagination was a healthy thing, often manifesting at the most inopportune times. So it was a blessing when Peter spoke, breaking him from thoughts of a freckled, round face and dark blue eyes. Unfortunately, it was to ask about the very last thing Quincy wished to discuss.
“Doesn’t your family hail from London?”
Quincy pulled a face and took a healthy swallow of his drink, his mood souring in an instant. “Yes. Not that it brings me an ounce of pleasure to realize just how close I am to them. I hope you comprehend how much you mean to me,” he said with a severe look his friend’s way, “that I would willingly find myself in the same city as them.”
“I shall take the compliment, and gladly,” Peter regarded Quincy over the rim of his glass. “Do you plan to see them while you’re in town?”
“You truly know how to put a damper on a moment, did you know that?” When Peter merely arched a gold brow, Quincy let out a harsh breath and rolled his eyes. “For your information, yes, I am planning on seeing them and putting the past behind me once and for all. Are you happy now?”
“Oh, quite,” Peter said with a grin. “After all, you were more than willing to feed me to the wolves, so to speak, in forcing a reconciliation I had no intention of indulging.”
“I don’t see you complaining now that you’ve got the sweetest woman in all of Christendom as a bride,” Quincy drawled.
“That is true,” Peter said with a happy sigh. He gave Quincy a sly look. “But you never know, you might be just as fortunate.”
“If you think I’ll come away from this with anything other than a headache, you’re sorely mistaken. Besides, I’m not the least bit ready to settle down. A wife is not in the cards for me just yet.”
A commotion in the hall blessedly interrupted whatever sarcastic comment Peter had been about to make. In the next moment Lenora sailed through the study door.
“Peter, darling,” she said, tugging off her gloves, “your aunt has bid me to tell you—Oh! Mr. Nesbitt, what a wonderful surprise!”
Quincy surged to his feet and offered a deep bow that he quickly ruined with a wink. “Your Grace.”
Her laugh was like bells. “Oh, none of that. Lenora, please,” she said with a warm smile.
“Lenora,” he repeated with a grin. “I do hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced.”
She laughed again, accepting a kiss from her husband before taking Quincy’s hand. “Why, you make it sound as if you were merely in the neighborhood and did not have to sail for weeks across an ocean to get here. But we never received word that you intended to visit.”
“I admit, I had hoped to shock this fellow here.” He jerked a thumb in Peter’s direction.
“I do wish I had seen that. For though I try my hardest, not much surprises my husband.” She sighed happily. “But this is just splendid. I’ll have Mrs. Ingram prepare a room right away.”
Before he could lay waste to that generous offer, a sweet voice carried from the hall. “Prepare a room for whom, Lenora?” And then Lady Clara was there, filling the doorway and his vision.
The breath caught in Quincy’s chest. She was just as lovely as he remembered, if not more so. Rich brown hair in a riot of curls so soft his fingers itched to dive into their depths. Pale skin with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. A willowy figure, accentuated by the light blue of her dress.
And those eyes. Damnation, those beautiful clear blue eyes that widened when she saw him. Her full lips parted on a soft gasp of air.
He bowed a second later than was polite. What the devil was wrong with him? “Lady Clara, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
The delicate rose of a blush spread up her neck and settled, bright and warm, on her cheeks. She gave a quick, shallow curtsy. “Mr. Nesbitt. How lovely to have you back in England.”
Quincy, please. He just managed to hold the words back, knowing such familiarity would be ill advised. If there was anything he didn’t need right now, it was more to tempt him with this woman.
Her blush deepened as his silence crept on. She looked to Lenora. “Shall I have Mrs. Ingram make up that room then?”
Before Lenora could answer, Quincy stepped forward, his hand raised. “No need, my lady. I’m staying at Mivart’s.”
Was that relief in Lady Clara’s eyes? Or disappointment? Before he could wonder at it, her expression shifted, taking on a pleasant if blank expression.
“Oh, but we have more than enough room,” Lenora said. “And Lady Tesh will be ever so disappointed. She always speaks fondly of you.”
Quite an accomplishment, that. Peter’s irascible aunt, the Dowager Viscountess Tesh, was as plain-spoken and opinionated a woman as he’d ever had the pleasure to know. And he adored her.
“That is because she has wonderful taste,” he teased. “But I shall be about so much, you’ll no doubt grow sick of me.”
“Very well, you stubborn man,” Lenora grumbled. “But you shall be the one to tell Lady Tesh.” Suddenly her expression changed, her mouth falling open in dismay. “Oh! But I have quite forgotten. We’re expected for tea at Lord and Lady Crabtree’s and are already running behind schedule. Phoebe is recently engaged to their son, and this shall be our first informal meeting with them. They are quite the sticklers for propriety,” she added ruefully.
Peter groaned. “I had forgotten.” He gave his wife a pleading look. “I don’t suppose I can stay behind?”
Quincy couldn’t help but grin at his great beast of a friend, who looked more the part of Viking than duke, begging his wife for a respite from tea. In the next moment he was hard-pressed to keep from laughing out loud as the small and delicate—and utterly unterrifying—Lenora leveled a stern look on her husband. Especially as she had to crane her neck to do so.
“Peter, you know you must attend. This meeting is important.” She turned to Quincy. “You are, of course, welcome to join us. You’re family, after all.”
Warmth filled Quincy at that, and he nearly relented. Especially when Peter gave him a look that fairly begged for his company.
But he knew, deep inside, that accompanying them on their outing would only be a way of delaying the inevitable. As much as he wished he could postpone forever, it was time to visit his family.
Now that the moment was at hand, he felt the beginnings of panic settling in his gut. Still, underlying the anxiety was a sense of relief. In short order it would be over and done with. And he could move forward.
Filled with a new determination, he smiled at Lenora. “Alas, I have an errand to attend to.”
“You will return this evening?” Lady Clara asked. Her cheeks bloomed with bright color. “To make certain we have enough places set for dinner,” she explained. “And to mollify Lady Tesh. She’ll be livid she missed you.”
The anticipation Quincy had begun to feel at the thought of returning to this house suddenly increased. “Yes,” he replied, unable to look away from the deep blue of her eyes, “I’ll be back.”