My dearest Clara (for that is how a man should address his fiancée),
I hope you’ve arrived safe on the Isle. London is frightfully dull without you lot here. How I managed the last year without Peter’s glowers and Lady Tesh’s haranguing I’ll never know. Speaking of Lady Tesh, has she forgiven me for remaining behind? I’ll make it up to her and am prepared to unleash my full arsenal of charm to do it. Anything to prevent that deadly cane of hers from finding my nose…or any other part of my person, for that matter.
Mr. Richmond is quite certain after a cursory examination of the deed that it is genuine. And I have learned something incredible about the property that will stun you speechless. But as I’m bursting to write it down, and have determined I would rather see your face when you learn of it, I had better sign off now.
Yrs,
Quincy
My dear husband-to-be (for two can play at that game),
Why you have insisted on keeping the identity of the property a secret I don’t understand. I, of course, was willing to overlook such a thing when you feared that the document might be false. But now I do think it prudent that you tell me everything you can. It’s what a proper fiancé would do, after all.
The trip to Synne was long and tedious but uneventful. I had thought to perhaps rest, seeing as the engagement ball was firmly behind us and I could not very well run to the milliner’s to discuss fabrics. Aunt Olivia, of course, had other plans. As I ruined my best traveling gown with ink while trying to copy down her lengthy lists in a moving carriage, I’m not inclined to look favorably on the experience.
I miss you. Lady Tesh misses you terribly; we’re not amusing enough for her, it seems. And so you have earned your forgiveness already.
Until later,
Clara
My heart’s desire (goodness, I should hire myself out for these things),
If you think to guilt me into revealing details of the property you are quite deluded; guilt washes off my back like the proverbial water off a duck. Ask Peter if you don’t believe me; goodness knows I let him take the blame for many a boyhood prank, and with absolute glee. You must wait along with everyone else.
With luck I won’t be long in London. I cannot wait to see you. I was of the opinion that Dane House was a monstrous place but did not fully realize it until you left. The remaining staff, I fear, grow tired of my constant need to drag them into conversation. I’ve even taken to talking to the statuary. And so I give you fair warning that your ears will all suffer once I reach Danesford and can talk to my heart’s content.
Faithfully Yrs (goodness, even my closing is a thing of beauty),
Quincy
“Oh, isn’t this lovely?” Phoebe lifted a hair comb from the interior of the delicate wood inlay box before her. “This color will complement the peach in my wedding gown beautifully.”
Clara lowered Quincy’s latest letter, received just that morning—and already dog-eared—and focused on her sister. It had been a week since they’d left London for Synne. A week filled to the brim with travel and wedding preparations.
A week since Clara had seen Quincy.
In an instant she was awash in memory: his strong arms about her, his mouth hot and open over hers, the sweet taste of champagne on his tongue, his hardness pressing into her belly…
She blinked. Such flashes had not abated over the past sennight. Though she was getting more adept at pushing them aside—at least during her waking hours.
This time apart was what had been needed, she told herself stoutly. Their physical distance from one another, alongside the playful banter of their letters, had surely succeeded in putting their indiscretion in the gardens behind them. She had every hope that, when they met again, they might do so with no more emotion than two good friends. After all, it had been just a kiss. A heated, passionate, all-consuming kiss…She cleared her throat, using the letter as a makeshift fan on her suddenly overheated face. It had been just a kiss all the same. A momentary lapse that would not be repeated.
“I remember Mother wearing this piece,” she said, running her fingers over the carved coral cabochons set in delicate gold. “Father gave it to her their very first Christmas. She used to bring it out every Christmas Eve to wear to church.”
Phoebe gave a sigh. “I wish I’d known her.”
The small hitch in her voice tugged at Clara’s heart. Though Clara had done her best to fill the void the loss of their mother had left, she had never been able to patch it completely.
Not that Phoebe was one to complain. Still, during moments like these that emptiness was brought into harsh focus.
Clara placed an arm about her sister’s shoulders. “She would have been very proud of you.”
Phoebe’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “Do you think so?”
“I know so,” Clara replied firmly. “And I think you’re quite right on this hair comb. It will go beautifully with your gown.” She lowered the lid on their mother’s box.
“Which do you think you’ll wear for your wedding?”
Clara’s breath hitched in her chest. “Oh, I hardly know,” she said brightly. “Quincy and I won’t marry for some time. He has so much to settle with the dukedom.” She paused, tension threading through her though she tried to keep her tone flippant. “As a matter of fact, I thought I might join you after your wedding trip. You’ll be in a new place, surrounded by strangers. It might prove helpful to have an ally against Lord and Lady Crabtree.”
Phoebe laughed. “Oh, I’m not worried a bit about them. Besides, you’ll be preparing for your own life. You won’t have time for such things.”
“But mayhap—”
“Clara,” Phoebe cut in softly, placing a gentle hand on her arm, “I know you still worry about me. But I’m looking forward to the challenge of it, truly. And I could not be happier that you’ll be able to finally focus on yourself. Now then,” she continued, the subject obviously at an end, “I insist you pick a piece. I’ll be with Oswin at Hedley by the time you begin planning and will miss much of it.”
Stifling a sigh, Clara smiled as if she could think of nothing she would like more and reopened the box.
Thus far every one of her attempts to discover where she might be needed after Phoebe’s wedding had been firmly rebuffed. And no wonder, seeing as everyone believed she would be happily married soon. Though her fake engagement was proving to be a stumbling block in this particular venture, she could only be happy it had proven successful in other matters, namely in keeping Aunt Olivia content enough to leave her be…for the most part. She would take her great-aunt’s grumbling about double weddings over men being thrown at her head any day.
She moved aside a brooch and froze. Nestled in the velvet interior was a ring painfully beloved to her. The turquoise forget-me-not was as vibrant as ever, the small diamond at its center sparkling brilliantly, the two gold hands lovingly holding the gem flower rubbed to a sheen for all her mother had worn the piece. Until the swelling in her hands from her last illness had forced her to remove it forever.
She had slipped it on Clara’s finger once, her eyes shining bright with happiness. “I wore this the night of my come out, the night your father fell in love with me,” she’d said with a soft smile. “My dream, my darling Clara, is for you to wear this to your own debut, and to find a love as wonderful as the one I’ve been blessed to share with your father.”
Blinking back tears—that dream had never come to pass, and never would—she pulled the ring from its bed.
“Oh, Clara, how lovely. Try it on.”
Before Clara could react, her sister plucked the ring from her palm and slipped it on her finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been patiently waiting for her to grow into it all these years. Tears burned her eyes, though happy memories had supplanted much of the sadness she expected to feel.
“Oh, Clara, it’s like it was made for you.” Phoebe sighed, resting her head on Clara’s shoulder as she admired the ring. “It’s hard to believe we’ll soon both leave this place. I’ll miss Danesford.”
“As will I,” Clara murmured, trying and failing to banish the feeling of hopelessness that coursed through her as she removed the ring and placed it back in the box. She loved Danesford so very much. Yet she also knew she would never leave this house. She would grow old here while Peter and Lenora raised their family. And later, when their children were grown, she would watch them go off to live their own lives.
She started at the unexpected grief. Wasn’t that exactly what she had wished for, to stay here with her family, to remain useful to them?
Why, then, did that dream suddenly sit heavy on her?
Blessedly Lenora arrived, breaking her from her melancholy. “Clara dear,” she said with a smile, “this came for you from London.”
Her heart leapt in her chest as she spied the now-familiar handwriting. In an instant everything else was forgotten as, a smile breaking over her face, she rushed to take the letter from Lenora.
“Thank you so much.” She turned to Phoebe to excuse herself, but already her sister was laughing and shooing her out.
“I’ll put Mother’s box away,” she said with a grin. “Go and enjoy your letter.”
A quick glance at Lenora’s face, still smiling but strained with underlying worry, nearly had Clara halting her exit. But the call of the letter in her hands was too great. She didn’t stop until she was safely ensconced in her room. Leaning back against the closed door, she eagerly cracked the seal.
Quincy’s handwriting, as bold and exuberant as the man himself, jumped out at her from the page.
My sweet turtledove (and once again my brilliance shows),
Mr. Richmond must be tired of my company, the poor chap, for he has suggested I travel to Synne posthaste, as there’s nothing further to be done here in London. In fact, I’m so anxious to get to the Isle that I won’t be long past the arrival of this letter. Though this correspondence is scandalously short, and in order to hasten my departure, I wish you a temporary adieu…
Your besotted beau,
Quincy
Her heart pounded in excitement that, by tomorrow, he should be at Danesford. The very thought left her dizzy.
Suddenly she froze, crushing the letter in her grip. What was wrong with her? This was no mere excitement for an acquaintance’s arrival. This anticipation was much more potent, affecting her entire being. Especially those secret parts of her that had reawakened with their kiss.
She had been fooling herself in believing she and Quincy could ever be mere friends. Though she had been certain they could put their kiss behind them and act as if it had never occurred, it had, in fact, changed everything.
Was this the reason, then, that the idea of staying on at Danesford felt so wrong now? She knew it was the only path available to her, but the drive to make the best of it was gone. And as anticipation, not concern, continued to sizzle along her veins, she knew: she was in trouble.
* * *
He was in trouble.
Quincy urged on his mount as he left the ferry dock. His heart beat in rhythm to the horse’s hooves on the road, excitement building in him. It wasn’t due to the promise of sleeping in a soft bed or seeing his closest friend, though. No, it was the thought of seeing Clara again.
It surprised and troubled him how much he had missed her. How had she gotten under his skin with one kiss? Even as he wondered it, however, he knew it had started before then, with every dinner spent beside her, each walk with her on his arm. She was kind and humorous, smart and quick-witted. There was a depth and passion to her that fascinated him, making him want to uncover what she was hiding from the world. Their kiss had only brought into sharper focus how affected he was. And it hadn’t waned in her absence. When he wasn’t at his solicitor’s office, his days had been spent searching the townhouse for things she might have left behind and waiting impatiently for her letters to arrive.
He wouldn’t even think about his nights…
He frowned, shaking his head sharply to dislodge the thought. Was there something more at work here than desire? Was it possible he was beginning to fall for her?
He blanched. He was about to see everything he’d ever wanted realized. The devastating mountain of inheriting a bankrupt dukedom was about to be scaled; with a bit of effort he would see the deeded property quickly sold off, the money used to patch up the dukedom and help the tenants, and he could be on his merry way again. He had no time for falling in love.
Which he most certainly wasn’t. He was a passionate fellow, after all. And flighty, and a hopeless romantic as well. He’d been infatuated over the years more times than he could count. And perhaps, in feigning love for Clara, he’d begun to fool himself as well. Were his acting abilities that impressive? Had their playacting gone to his head?
He let loose a strained chuckle, though only the horse was there to hear it. Of course that was it. There was nothing in his relationship with Clara to endanger his plans. No matter that he was attracted to her, that he had kissed her—that he would gladly kiss her again—he was certainly not falling in love with her. He breathed in deep of the warm sea air, welcoming the promise of summer into his lungs, relief filling him—until another equally disturbing question took shape in his mind: while he was certain his heart was safe, had she formed a tendre for him?
No, surely not, he told himself fiercely. Clara was much too smart to fall for a frivolous fellow like him. Yet there was still a hint of unease in his chest when he topped the rise and spied the great manor house down below.
Danesford was like a slumbering giant cradled in the rolling hills of Synne, all red brick and gables and mullioned windows glistening in the sun. He pulled his mount up, taking it in. Peter had told him of the place in his letters, Lenora adding small, fanciful sketches to go along with her husband’s sparse prose. Yet nothing had prepared him for the majesty of it all. It was not an ostentatious beast, taking over the countryside. Rather, it had been built with the landscape of the Isle in mind, using the grandeur of the surrounding vistas to enhance its already impressive beauty.
For a blissful moment excitement overrode his worries. Just a few minutes more.
His horse seemed to sense his mood. It tossed its head in impatience, pawing at the ground. Quincy chuckled, patting its neck. “Looking forward to a stall and a great quantity of oats, are you? Very well, have your head then.” And with that he kicked the horse on.
It responded with eagerness, bolting forward, tearing down the grassy hill. They careened down the front drive, stopping before the great double doors. At once a footman rushed out, taking the horse’s reins as Quincy dismounted.
“Make sure he’s spoiled rotten,” he said with a grin. “Goodness knows he deserves it for getting me here so speedily.”
As the man led the gelding away, Quincy turned to bound up the front steps—
—and stopped short. Clara stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, her cheeks stained a becoming rose.
“Quincy,” she said.
Her soft voice caressing his name sent fire to every inch of his body. “Clara,” he said.
And that was all he seemed capable of saying. For a long moment they stood staring at one another. He felt as if he were parched, and the sweetest, most delectable wine was before him.
An imperceptible male voice sounded behind her. She started, her flush deepening and spreading down her neck to the high cobalt bodice of her gown. “Yes, Yargood,” she said over her shoulder, “please make certain His Grace’s room is ready. And please inform my family that we’ll be joining them shortly.”
And then her eyes were back on him, sending his thoughts spinning off again. She smiled. “Quincy, please come in.”
He took the wide stone stairs two at a time, not bothering to hide his eagerness. They had parts to play, he told himself. Time to act the besotted fiancé.
He would not worry himself by looking into why it was so damn easy to do.
“Hello, my dear,” he said with a grin. “You’re looking lovely this afternoon.”
And she did, all fresh and blushing, the dark blue of her gown enhancing the rich sable of her hair.
“It’s the sea air,” she replied with a smile.
“It does do wonders.”
“That it does. Why anyone would prefer London is beyond me. But tell me about your journey,” she continued as she divested him of his outerwear, placing it on a table by the front door. “You made good time.”
It was innocuous conversation, friendly and easy, with no hint of nervousness or shyness. It seemed his concerns were unfounded. Thank goodness. Her reaction to his kiss had been one thing; physical passion did not necessarily indicate a strong regard. But he would not want her hurt by this for anything.
He breathed a silent sigh of relief, purposely ignoring the twinge of regret in his chest.
“I’m sure tomorrow I’ll be feeling the effects of being so long in the saddle,” he replied with a grin. “But pushing through was worth it. I had forgotten how much I love the Isle. Oh, and to see all of you, of course.”
She laughed, leading him through the front hall. “The Isle holds a unique power over the people who visit her. But we were excited yesterday to learn of your arrival. Peter was certain you would wish to visit your property before coming here and would be another fortnight at least. Which, I must say, we’re all waiting anxiously to learn of. I’m not the only one who’s perturbed by your need for secrecy.”
“All in good time,” he said with impressive gravity. Inside, however, he was rubbing his hands with glee. He could not wait to see their reaction when he told them.
“Hello, Ashford clan,” he announced when they reached the drawing room, speaking over the hum of conversation. The response was immediate and satisfying, the air filled with exclamations and greetings and the thump of Lady Tesh’s ever-present—and often dangerous—cane as she demanded his attention.
“I must say, it took you long enough,” she bit out as he bent to kiss her cheek. “I’m still put out with you for staying behind in the first place.”
“No you’re not,” he said with a wink and a grin before taking a seat close to Clara. “So tell me, how have the preparations been going for our dear Phoebe’s nuptials?”
“Oh, no you don’t,” the woman in question declared. “You won’t distract us so easily.”
Margery leaned forward in her seat. “Tell us about the property,” she demanded with uncharacteristic forcefulness.
Quincy gave a startled laugh and looked to Peter, who raised a golden eyebrow. “Don’t look to me for help. I’m just as curious as they are.”
Quincy schooled his features into an innocent expression. “But wouldn’t you rather—”
“No!”
He didn’t know who had spoken, for their voices all rose up in outrage, blending together in an impatient cacophony. Chuckling, he held his hands up in defense. “Very well. Quiet down and I’ll tell you.”
At once they fell silent, like obedient schoolchildren. He grinned, his anticipation rising. “Would it surprise you,” he asked his captive audience, “to learn that the property in question is…on Synne?”
There was a moment of stunned silence. And then Lady Tesh, the aggravation in her voice plain to hear, said, “Don’t fun with us, my boy.”
“I swear I’m not. The property my father left for me is on Synne.”
“Goodness, what are the chances?” Lenora exclaimed.
“What property?”
Clara’s voice held a strange undertone of tension to it. When he looked at her, however, her expression was only mildly curious.
He frowned. Something was off in her eyes. Before he could question her on it, however, Lady Tesh spoke up. “Well, my boy, answer your fiancée. What property?”
Excitement threaded through him once more. “Brace yourselves, for you are looking at the owner of Swallowhill.”