He should be focusing on the outer condition of the house, he thought as he and Clara tramped through the overgrown garden. The price he managed to get from it would be determined in no small part by the state of the building, after all. And the more funds that were brought in from the sale, the more it would benefit him.
But all he could seem to think about was how relieved he was to be out of it. There was something unnerving about the house that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It wasn’t an unease so much as a…recognition?
It was ridiculous that there could be a familiarity about the place. He hadn’t even known about it, much less ever stepped foot in it. But there was the constant feeling in his belly that there was something missing, a kind of ache.
He breathed deep, hoping to clear his head. No doubt it was merely his disquiet over Miss Willa Brandon. What had she been to his father, that he had bought a house on the Isle and allowed her to live out her days? Had she truly been his mistress as Lady Tesh had implied? Why did that idea hurt so much?
And how would it change his memories of his father when he finally learned the truth?
To him his father had always been all that was good, never capable of hurting a soul. And the thought of him hiding a woman away to use at his pleasure, no matter how ill suited he’d been with the duchess, sat wrong on him. Surely it couldn’t be true.
“Quincy, are you well?”
Clara. He let the calming effect of her quiet voice wash over him. Time enough to think of Miss Brandon later. Or perhaps not at all. Mayhap it was best if he never learned who she had been to his father.
He smiled. “I’m well. Sorry, my mind must have wandered.”
She nodded, turning her attention back to the blanket of leaves under their feet. Yet he didn’t miss the tense lines at the corners of her eyes, proof that she was not as tranquil as she’d have him believe.
That faint air of sadness had hung about her all morning. He frowned. No, it had started last night, when he’d first mentioned Swallowhill. Was it the house then? What upset her about it? She’d mentioned coming here with her mother; could that be what pained her?
Would that she would confide in him. He would give her a shoulder to cry on, if she would allow it. But he had a feeling that she did not confide in anyone, even those closest to her. No one else, even her sister, seemed aware of her troubled mind.
He helped her over a low branch, stomping down a patch of thigh-high grass as they trudged through the shadowed confines of the garden. She moved through the tangle, certainty guiding her feet. Yet still there was no sign of her greenhouse. “Mayhap it’s fallen down,” he ventured.
“No,” she replied, her gaze focused ahead. “It will be there. I’m sure of it.”
The words had barely left her lips before a glint in the trees caught his eye. And then it was there, an oasis in a jungle.
The wrought iron was rusted, the glass grimy. Yet it was beautiful for all that. The fanciful metalwork, as delicate as it was, stood strong in the afternoon sun, the great glass dome with all its panes of glass seeming intact.
She exhaled beside him, her grip on his arm tightening. When she looked up at him, her eyes were glowing.
“I told you it would still be here.”
He grinned. “Yes, you did. I’ll never doubt you again.”
She smiled. It was a small thing, but it made his heart soar that he could bring it about.
“Let’s go in, shall we?” he asked.
In answer, she moved forward, tugging on his arm. He went willingly, aware of a desire to go wherever she might lead him.
Where the air within the house was stale with disuse, the air within the greenhouse teemed with life. It was rich and warm, filling his lungs with a humid heat. He breathed in deeply, stopping just inside the doors to stare.
Whatever had been planted within had thrived. It had grown wild, yes, but in a glorious kind of way, a celebration of life instead of a slave to its destruction. Twining vines had attached themselves to the iron, creating a glorious living dome, letting filtered sun in. Small trees spread their branches like yawning children just waking. Flowers bloomed in a riot of vibrant color amid the greenery. The ground beneath their feet was thick with years of dead leaves, covering whatever path might have been laid, creating a rich base for it all to spring from.
Clara dropped his arm, moving forward as if in a trance. She peeled off a glove, letting her slender fingers trail over the glossy dark leaves of the closest plant. He watched her, unable to look away from the straight line of her back, the ungiving angle of her chin. He thought he saw a muscle tic in her jaw, and that small tell made his heart ache. He should leave and give her some privacy.
Yet he couldn’t. He wanted to be here should she need him. Not that Clara appeared to have ever needed anyone before. But he couldn’t shake the thought that she was close to breaking.
Just then her hand came up to her cheek, wiping hastily.
Damn her pride. He couldn’t stand there and not at least try to help her.
In several long strides he was at her side, his hand on her arm, pulling her about until she was in his arms.
“Quincy—” she tried, planting her hands on his chest. He didn’t fail to notice that she didn’t push him away.
He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, her soft curls tickling his nose. “For once, just let someone give you comfort.”
She gave a startled laugh, which transformed into a sob. It was quickly stifled, and she pressed her face into his chest, her shoulders tight beneath his hands.
“Clara,” he whispered, “you can let go, you know.”
She shook her head, her hair rasping against his cravat. “I can’t.”
The words were broken, as if dredged up from some deep place within her. “You can,” he replied, his hands rubbing over her back. “Clara, you don’t have to be strong all the time.”
She shuddered beneath his touch, and he sensed the urge in her to let go. But stubborn thing that she was, she held on tight to her control. He imagined her face was scrunched up in determined concentration.
He sighed into her hair. “Though I can’t understand why, this place seems to bring you pain. I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”
She stayed quiet. Then, her voice so small he hardly heard it, “Some of the sweetest memories of my mother are here, and it’s dear to me because of it. And when I was at a very low point in my life I rediscovered this place and—”
Her hastily cut-off confession only brought about more questions: She’d returned later in life? What low point? But he sensed that she would retreat for good should he press her. Instead he stayed quiet, his hands moving in gentle circles over her back.
The shaking in her grew. Was his touch bringing her distress? He was about to step back when her shoulders dropped, a long sigh escaping her. And he felt her tears soaking his shirt.
She cried as if years of pent-up grief were being released, an undulating wave that appeared to have no end. He remained silent, giving what comfort he could. Finally, after what seemed an age, the faint shaking stilled. She sniffled loudly.
Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he extracted a fine linen handkerchief and handed it to her.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered into his chest as she took it, her voice hoarse. “I never cry.”
“I daresay that’s because you’re much too busy doing the consoling, and not allowing others to do the same for you,” he said.
She gave a small, watery laugh. “You’re more stubborn than I am, that’s certain.”
He grinned. “Quite certain. And you’d best remember that.”
In answer she hiccuped. Then, with a sigh, she relaxed further into his embrace. Her arms stole about his middle, holding on tight. As if he were her port in the storm.
They stood that way for a time, quiet, merely holding one another. Finally she stirred and raised her head.
His breath caught in his chest. Her lashes were darkened from her tears, and incredibly long, framing the brilliant sapphire of her eyes. Eyes that seemed clear now, and miraculously free of the tight control she’d kept over herself. Then she smiled.
It was as natural as breathing to lower his head to hers. Her lips gave beneath his, soft and welcoming. This was no frantic kiss, made desperate with hot want. Though desire for her stirred in his blood, just as before when they’d kissed in London, it was the spreading warmth in his chest that overwhelmed his senses this time. It made his hands gentle where they splayed across her back, holding her close as if she were a treasure beyond worth.
And she was, so much more than he’d first assumed. There was heartache in her, and passion, the part of her that she kept hidden from the world as vast and unfathomable as the sea itself.
He cupped her cheek, deepening the kiss. As before, in the garden at Dane House, she responded with an enthusiasm that stunned him. Desire pounded swift through him. He wanted more, so much more from her.
But he couldn’t take it. Not only did he refuse to disrespect her by starting something physical with her that they could never finish, but she was emotionally vulnerable. To take advantage of that would be the grossest betrayal.
He pulled back, nearly regretting his chivalry when he caught sight of her sweetly flushed face, her kiss-bruised lips.
Her eyelids fluttered open. “We shouldn’t have done that, I’m thinking,” she whispered.
“No,” he replied softly, his thumb caressing her cheek, “we shouldn’t have.”
She smiled, then with a sigh she stepped back, untangling herself from his arms. He felt the loss down to his bones.
“I’m sorry for that,” she murmured, her eyes falling to the ground. “I truly don’t know what came over me.”
“Please don’t apologize. I don’t regret it.” He paused. “Do you?”
Her gaze met his again. “No,” she said on a breath, as if she could not quite understand it. “At least”—her lips quirked—“not yet.”
He offered his arm, and as one they left the greenhouse. “Have no fear,” he quipped. “I shan’t kiss you again. Unless you ask prettily.”
His attempt at humor was meant to lighten the mood, and he was rewarded with her small smile. “You shall have a long wait, then. For I’m not planning on asking, ever.”
I’m counting on that, he thought grimly. For if it was up to him, he would take her in his arms again. And this time he would never let her go.
* * *
“Can I refresh your drink, Clara?”
Clara smiled, passing her glass to Quincy. “Thank you.”
He gave her a wink, walking off across Danesford’s drawing room with a fluid grace that she was hard-pressed to look away from.
Aunt Olivia leaned in close, a sly look in her eyes. “That boy is utterly smitten, it seems.”
“Yes,” Clara murmured with a blush that was not feigned in the least.
It had been a week since the trip to Swallowhill. A week since their second kiss, one that had been tender and beautiful and had effectively undermined whatever defenses she’d managed to hold on to after that first devastating kiss in London. A week since she’d cried herself out in his arms…
Of the two, the latter had been the more intimate. She had held so tightly to her emotions for so long it had been the sweetest release, made all the more beautiful because she had been comforted by Quincy. If she had acted in such a way with anyone else, they would have pressured her to reveal what had upset her. Quincy, however, had merely held her, letting her cry without judgment or questions.
Since then he had been all that was proper, of course—at least as proper as a besotted fiancé was supposed to act. Just as he’d promised, he had not kissed her again; nor had he so much as touched her in a scandalous manner.
That didn’t seem to matter. After the intimacy of their time in the greenhouse, blurring the line between friendship and something more, each day Clara found herself more in danger of falling completely and irrevocably in love with him.
Which made her need to find a new and useful place in her family more important than ever. Up until now her attempts had been blocked from every direction—really no surprise, as everyone believed she would soon be happily married. More troubling, however, had been the lack of drive in her. The prospect of living out her days in such a way didn’t hold the same draw it had when she’d first realized it needed to be done.
But ignoring it was not an option, so she turned to the viscountess. “Once Phoebe’s wedding is behind us, I’m afraid things will become quiet around here. I worry about you being alone at Seacliff. Would that someone could stay on with you.”
It was meant to plant a seed, making Aunt Olivia realize she would need a companion when all was said and done. Unfortunately, it backfired spectacularly.
“Oh, you’ve no need to worry about that,” the viscountess said. “I’ve a girl in mind to take on as a companion. As a matter of fact, it’s already been decided, and Miss Katrina Denby shall be here just after the new year.” She speared Clara with a stern look. “But if you don’t pin down when your own wedding will be, you’ll be able to meet her yourself. Goodness, child, but I cannot believe you’ve yet to set a date. Truly, you must be mad. Why, if it was me, I would be angling for a special license. One can’t feign an early delivery if the infant is born mere weeks after the wedding.”
“Aunt Olivia!”
The viscountess shrugged, sitting back with a knowing air. “There’s a reason my eldest was born in November, when I was married in May.”
Quincy chose that moment to return. Clara snatched her glass from him, draining the wine in a long swallow, praying the alcohol would dull her senses after that mortifying exchange.
He eyed her askance a moment before turning a melting grin on Aunt Olivia. “And what were my two favorite ladies talking of so intently while I was away?”
Aunt Olivia opened her mouth, no doubt to regale him with the exact truth of the matter. Desperate to stop her, Clara blurted, “I do hope Lord and Lady Crabtree arrive soon. I don’t think Phoebe can take the suspense much longer. She’s grown increasingly impatient waiting for Oswin’s arrival.”
Quincy gave her a sly look that said he knew she was lying and was only letting it pass due to his generosity. “It isn’t any wonder, I suppose,” he said. “Goodness knows the week I spent away from you had me going mad.” He took up her hand, bestowing a kiss on her knuckles.
There was simultaneously a dreamy sigh from Aunt Olivia and a low growl from Peter half the room away. Clara hardly heard either. Her entire attention was focused on the feel of Quincy’s lips on her skin. A flush of molten desire traveled from her fingers, up her arm, across her breasts, and down to the very depths of her belly. She squirmed in her seat, swallowing hard.
“But what of the meeting with your house agent?” Aunt Olivia asked, apparently done with romantic musings. “He sent you a note this afternoon requesting an audience, did he not?”
“He did, indeed,” Quincy replied, as ever unperturbed by her brusqueness. “It seems Mr. Dennison has a possible buyer for Swallowhill, a Lord Fletcher. I’m told he’s a longtime resident of the Isle and has been leasing a place in Knighthead Crescent. Perhaps you know him, Lady Tesh?”
“Lord Fletcher, yes,” Aunt Olivia murmured, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Jovial fellow. A bit soft about the middle, and balding. But then we can’t all be Adonises like you.”
Quincy grinned. “Why, Lady Tesh, you shall turn my head.”
“Scamp,” she scoffed. “Though you’re probably wanting to know if he’s solvent. Well, I can assure you, he’s got enough money to buy Swallowhill several times over. And he’s generous to a fault. You’ll get no argument from him on price, as long as it’s fair. He’s wanted to purchase a sizable property on the Isle for some time. If Dennison says he’s interested, then you’ve got this sale made.”
Lord Fletcher. Clara looked down to her empty glass. She’d crossed paths with him on several occasions. He was just as Aunt Olivia said, jovial and generous. A widower, his sons were all grown now, one daughter left at home to keep house for him. An ideal buyer.
Why, then, did it feel like a pebble had lodged in her throat?
“Clara, what do you think of Lord Fletcher purchasing the property?”
She started, smiling brightly to cover up her momentary melancholy, and answered with utter honesty, “I think Lord Fletcher is the perfect person to purchase Swallowhill.”
“If you’re certain. I know the house means much to you.”
There was a hint of worry in his eyes. She forced her smile even brighter. “Of course. It will be wonderful to see Swallowhill brought back to its former splendor.”
Margery approached then, blessedly preventing him from asking her anything more on the subject. “Clara, dear, we’ve all decided to visit the Elven Pools tomorrow. Oswin has never been to Synne, and Phoebe is excited to show him the sights. Do say you and Quincy will join us.”
“I’m so sorry, Margery dear, I still have ever so much to do for the wedding,” she said, genuinely disappointed. The pools were quite possibly her favorite place on the Isle, and she hadn’t been in years. But she had set out to make this wedding something special for Phoebe to look back on with joy, and she wasn’t about to fail now that it was a mere week away.
Aunt Olivia made a disgusted sound. “Quincy,” she said, her eyes fixed on Clara in an uncomfortably intense manner, “I do believe your intended has been working too hard these last weeks.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Quincy, please tell my aunt I cannot take the afternoon off.”
She expected him to comply. He’d been amazingly supportive over the past sennight. So it was that much more of a surprise when he said, “I think Lady Tesh is right.”
She gaped at him. “You must be joking.”
He raised one inky brow at her. “Not in the least. You deserve to enjoy this time with your sister. In a week she shall be married and off on her new life.”
She had been ignoring that fact as best she could. But coming from Quincy in such a simple way, it cut her to the quick. And the problem was, she could not even be angry that he had brought it up. He was right; after the wedding it would be some time before she saw Phoebe. It was devastating, when they had been inseparable since their mother’s death.
All but for that year, when she had hidden away to birth a child that would not live to take its first breath.
The memory crashed over her, taking her off guard. She quickly tucked it back into the darkest region of her heart, but the flavor of it stayed with her, making her stomach churn.
She schooled her features into a mild outrage, praying Quincy’s sharp eyes didn’t catch the moment of shocked grief. “I cannot abandon the wedding plans. It’s in a week.”
Lady Tesh eyed her with pursed lips before she turned to Margery. “Can Lenora and Mrs. Ingram take over the remainder of the planning?”
Margery, eyes gleaming in understanding, nodded emphatically. “Oh, certainly. Why, Clara has done such a wonderful job that there’s hardly anything left to do at all.”
Clara gaped at her. “You are against me, too?”
“Not against you, dearest,” her cousin answered. “Merely wanting to make certain you don’t regret anything. In the coming years, when you look back at this time, I guarantee you it will not matter a whit that the flowers were just so, or that the dress was hemmed just right. The thing you’ll remember most, the thing that will live on in your heart, is the time spent with Phoebe.”
There really was no fighting that. Clara slouched in her seat. “Very well,” she grumbled.
Margery beamed, clapping her hands. “Oh, wonderful. Phoebe will be so happy.”
“You won’t regret it, my girl,” Aunt Olivia said, giving Clara a small smile that was entirely too smug. Before Clara could make sense of it, Freya, seated in her mistress’s lap, gave a soft yip. Lady Tesh’s attention was immediately diverted. “Do you wish for a little something to eat, my darling?” she crooned.
Margery moved forward. “Shall I take her to the kitchens?”
“Nonsense,” Aunt Olivia snapped. She cradled Freya with one arm, holding her other hand out imperiously. “Help me up. I’ll find her a bit of something myself.”
Margery, looking thoroughly confused—for when had Aunt Olivia ever turned down a chance to have someone else do her bidding?—nonetheless helped the viscountess up and, giving Clara and Quincy an apologetic look, guided her grandmother away.
Quincy chuckled quietly. Clara shot him a dark look. “And just what is so humorous in this?”
“You act as if you’re about to ascend the gallows.” He grabbed at her hand, giving it a squeeze. “It will be enjoyable. You’ll see. And the wedding won’t collapse without you. I promise.”
If his words hadn’t been enough to soothe her, his touch certainly was. A delicious warmth crept through her, making her fairly melt in her seat. Without meaning to, her thumb drifted over his knuckles.
Immediately his expression shifted. The smile fell from his lips, his lids lowering over eyes that burned with a mesmerizing fire. He leaned closer to her, and she found herself swaying, like a puppet on a string, toward him. The space between them on the settee disappeared in an instant. Her gaze pulled away from his, settling on his firm lips. She drew in a shaking breath, wanting more than anything to taste him again…
A commotion sounded at the drawing room doors. And then the butler’s voice, ringing through the air.
“Lord and Lady Crabtree, Lord Oswin. And the Duchess of Reigate.”
* * *
Quincy’s first thought upon hearing his mother announced was that the woman had the damnedest timing, for wasn’t this the second occasion she’d disrupted such a moment between him and Clara?
The second thought was much more violent in nature. What in hell was his mother doing here?
He released Clara’s hand, lurching to his feet. Surely this was some lurid nightmare. That was it, he was dreaming. Why else would he have come so damn close to kissing Clara again? He had spent the better part of the past week burning for her, made worse by the necessary subterfuge of him playing the part of besotted fiancé. The more time he spent in her presence, the more the line between fact and fiction was blurred. There were times, he found to his dismay, that it wasn’t so much an act as it was the deepest desire of his heart.
Even so, he never allowed himself to forget that this was all for show, and would be over once Phoebe was safely wed. And he had never once attempted to kiss her again. Until now.
Yes, this was surely a dream. With his mother’s presence quickly turning it into a nightmare.
He surreptitiously took the skin of his wrist between two fingers and pinched, hard. But he did not wake tangled in sheets from a night of restless tossing as had become his custom. His heart dropped. No, this was most assuredly not a dream. Damn it.
His mother stood with all the regality of a queen beside Lord and Lady Crabtree and their son. Her eyes landed on him, and her lips lifted in a cool smile. “Reigate.”
He stiffened. “Mother.” He cast a glance around the room. Every eye was on him in varying degrees of dismay and confusion. He should smile and feign politeness, then guide her into the hall to rain fire and brimstone down upon her in private for daring to come here. She was up to something. He was sure of it. Her self-satisfied smirk was proof enough of that.
But despite knowing better, he found he couldn’t move his feet. He swallowed down the angry words that fought to break free, the bitterness of them leaving him sick to his stomach. “What are you doing here?” he asked instead, the words forced out through gritted teeth.
“Lady Crabtree and I have become quite close recently, as both our sons are to wed the daughters of the previous Duke of Dane. They’ve kindly invited me to attend their son’s wedding, to get to know my future daughter-in-law better.” Here she turned a syrupy sweet smile on Clara.
A violent protectiveness surged through Quincy, and he nearly stepped in front of Clara to hide her from the cunning in his mother’s eyes.
Instead he managed a smile that was so stiff and brittle he thought his lips would crack from it. “How serendipitous that you have become such good friends.”
Her eyes narrowed in recognition of the subtle jab, but her smile only widened, as if it pleased her to see him squirm. And no doubt it did. The woman always did enjoy the discomfort of others.
She turned to the room at large. “I do hope it’s not an imposition. My dear Lady Crabtree pressed me so, I could not possibly refuse. Especially as she has become so very dear to me.” Here she gave the woman in question a doting smile before turning an apologetic gaze to the rest of the inhabitants.
“Oh! Of course.” Lenora jumped up, hurrying to them. “It’s our pleasure to have you here at Danesford, Your Grace. Isn’t it, my dear?”
Peter glanced at Quincy, concern clouding the clear blue of his eyes, before he stepped up beside his wife. “Certainly. Welcome to Danesford.”
The palpable tension in the air eased as introductions were made. Phoebe, who had been watching the whole affair with wide eyes, jumped from her seat, hurrying to Oswin. They clasped hands, their eyes glowing, and quickly tucked themselves into a private corner. Once niceties were seen to, the small party broke up. Peter guided Lord Crabtree out, muttering something about guns, and Lenora quickly took Lady Crabtree and the duchess in hand, her bright voice regaling them on the details of their rooms as she led the way out into the hall.
Leaving Quincy and Clara quite alone. Well, as alone as two people could be with a pair of whispering lovebirds hidden away in a corner.
Still Quincy stood there, as if rooted to the spot. He’d hoped never to see his mother again. Yet here he was about to be stuck in the same house as her for the next week. Once again, he wondered what she hoped to accomplish by coming here. Dread settled heavy on him.
Suddenly a small hand tucked itself into his. “Quincy, are you well?”
Clara. He closed his eyes, dragging in a deep breath, letting her calmness wash over him. “No,” he answered with utter truthfulness, casting her a wry look. “But I think you’ve guessed that much.”
“Yes.” Her eyes were sober as she peered up at him. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “I suppose I should have expected this. She always was one to throw a stick in the wheels whenever things were going too smoothly.” He gave her a stern look. “But don’t think this gives you leave to get out of your agreement to join us all tomorrow.”
She frowned. “Surely plans have changed after this new development.”
“Surely not,” he declared officiously, even as the idea of leaving her alone in his mother’s vicinity left him physically ill. “I find I need the distraction of a good, fun outing now more than ever.”
She must have seen the desperation in his eyes, though he strove to hide it under his teasing. Concern shone tight on her face. But she was as adept as he at burying emotions, wasn’t she? “I suppose you do,” she murmured with a small smile. “Though I warn you, I don’t know the first thing about having fun.”
He grinned, relief flooding him at this bit of normalcy. “You may not know, my dear Clara,” he said. “But I do. And the next week I will dedicate myself to teaching you.”