The mood of the household had definitely shifted since the duchess’s arrival the day before. Phoebe had remained blessedly oblivious, wrapped up as she was in Oswin. Clara could only be grateful for that.
But the rest of them were strung as tight as nocked bows.
Clara had not thought she could possibly relax during the outing to the Elven Pools. There was too much to do for the wedding, no matter how Margery claimed the contrary. That, and she still hadn’t found where she would belong when the commotion of the wedding was over; it seemed everyone was excited for her to go off on a life of her own, and her absence would not make a whit of difference in anyone’s life. A lowering thought indeed.
Yet the minute she’d stepped foot from the house she had felt a wonderful relief that she was leaving everything behind, no matter how briefly. Now, the delicious picnic lunch consumed, seated as she was on a blanket in the warm sunlight, the band that had constricted her chest since yesterday began to loosen. As the rest of the party, consisting of not only the younger people from Danesford but several of Phoebe’s closest friends as well, cavorted about the flat valley just beyond the pools, she raised her face to catch the warm sun and breathed in deeply. This trip, one based on pure pleasure, was something she had fought tooth and nail against. Now, though, she was grateful she had been coerced into joining. Not that she would ever let Quincy know that. She smiled to herself.
As if he had heard her thoughts—something that made her mildly panicked after the improper daydreams she’d had of him recently—Quincy spoke in her ear. “Happy you came?”
She cast him an arch look where he lounged beside her, trying and failing to rein in the shiver of desire that whispered over her nerves when her gaze met his heavy-lidded one. “You needn’t look so smug.”
The grin he sent her had butterflies taking flight in her stomach. “Come on then, admit it. I was right.”
“If you think to ever hear those words from me, you are delusional.”
He chuckled. “You can be stubborn when you’ve a mind to be.”
“As can you,” she quipped. “The only question is, who will win in the end?”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt you will,” he murmured. The heat in his eyes called to something in her that made her feel at once powerful and confused.
Flustered, needing to redirect her quickly spiraling thoughts—in which she imagined what she could claim from him for being victor in this little battle of wills—she latched onto the first thing that came to mind. “I overheard you tell Peter this morning that you’ll be meeting with Lord Fletcher soon?”
He started. “What? Oh! Er, yes, I will.” He cleared his throat, shifting on the blanket as if physically uncomfortable. “Lady Tesh, it seems, was right; the man is eager to talk over terms and Mr. Dennison is quite confident we can get the price we want, despite the house being in such poor shape.”
At the mention of that place, her heart ached. But it was a good ache, that the house would finally return to what it had been.
It was not the first time they’d talked of Swallowhill since their visit. Yet Quincy had been glaringly quiet regarding one very important part of it all: Miss Willa Brandon. She might have thought he’d forgotten all about her, if it weren’t for the melancholy in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. She knew what it was to carry a silent heartache around with you, like a manacle about your foot, never allowing you to escape from the oppression of it.
Leaning toward him, she said in a low voice, “Did you think about my offer?”
Instant understanding flashed in his eyes. “You are referring to finding out more about Miss Brandon?” At her nod he shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m no closer to a decision. I just—I don’t know—”
She laid a hand over his. “I understand,” she said. “I’m in no way pressuring you. I can only imagine how hard this must be for you, loving your father as you did. Just know, whatever you may learn, should you choose to learn it, it will not change who he was to you.”
“I know you’re right,” he murmured, giving her a sad smile. “That doesn’t make it any easier, though, does it?”
“No,” she agreed softly.
They shared a quiet moment, each lost in their thoughts. Suddenly a shout went up from the rest of the group. Mr. Ronald Tunley was on the ground, a shuttlecock at his feet, laughter shaking his body. The rest of them were equally overcome, their laughs mingling with his in a joyful cacophony.
Clara smiled at the sight, her gaze lingering on Phoebe. She could not remember the last time she had seen her sister so utterly happy.
“Do you want to join them?”
She blinked and looked to Quincy beside her. Then lost her breath entirely. He had stretched out on the blanket, propped up on one elbow, his strong thighs outlined by his buff breeches, looking for all the world like a feast laid out for her to devour at her leisure.
Taken aback by her suddenly lascivious thoughts, she cleared her throat and tried to hide her flaming face by busily smoothing her muslin skirts. “Join in their game? No, thank you.”
“Don’t you enjoy battledore and shuttlecock?”
“I’m not certain. Truthfully, I cannot remember when last I played.”
“Certainly you indulged in sport as a child.”
“Oh, I did. But—”
He tilted his head when she abruptly broke off, a frown marring the strong line of his brow. “But?”
She gave a small sigh. “But I put all that aside when my mother died.”
“Ah,” he murmured. “And how old were you when she passed?”
“Nine.” She went silent a moment, remembering. Needing to say something more on that devastating time in her life—the first of many to come—she added, “Phoebe was just an infant at the time. And my brother, Hillram, not much older than her. They needed someone to care for them, to watch over them.”
“And so you gave up your childhood for theirs.”
She shrugged. “They needed a mother.”
“So did you.”
“Yes, well.” She looked into his eyes. Eyes that were full of compassion. Suddenly it was imperative that he understand. “But I had been the lucky one,” she continued, leaning toward him. “I’d had her for nine entire years. She was kind, and thoughtful, and brave. And they never had a chance to know her. I wanted them to experience some of what she gave me.”
He cocked his head, looking at her as if seeing her anew. A small smile lifted his chiseled lips. “You’re an amazing woman, Clara.”
“Nonsense,” she said on a breath, face suddenly burning. She looked to her lap.
He hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “You are,” he insisted quietly. “You decided at nine years old to be everything to everyone, to sacrifice your childhood for those you love. And it appears you have not stopped since. Even”—he grinned—“giving up playing battledore and shuttlecock.”
She laughed. “You are ridiculous. It’s not anything anyone else wouldn’t have done.”
“That’s not true in the least. You’re a rarity, Clara.”
Again her face flushed hot. Needing to steer the conversation into safer waters—waters that did not have her aching to lean into his hand, to press her lips to his, to stretch her body alongside his until she didn’t know where she ended and he began—she pulled away from his touch and looked to the others. Phoebe, with a look of concentration, brought her battledore back and swung it up in an arc. It hit the shuttlecock with a whack, sending it back up into the blue sky as Oswin cheered her on.
“I expect shuttlecock is not typically something played much past childhood, anyway,” she said bracingly. “Current company excluded, of course. But then, one can expect playfulness during such a joyous occasion.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But surely there are other things you’ve had cause to join in on. Maybe croquet? Archery? Tennis?” At her blank look he rolled his eyes. “Very well, you’re not an outdoor person. Perhaps something indoors, such as theatrics, or billiards? Fencing?”
She was tempted to wave him off. He was being ridiculous.
But the realization that she had not indulged in most, if not all, of those things became mortifyingly clear. She was much more likely to take on the role of chaperone, looking on from the side, taking her joy in watching.
But had it truly been a joy? As a young girl she’d been high-spirited. But she’d conformed herself into what she thought others needed from her after her mother died. Mayhap that was why she had rebelled as a young woman. Not even sixteen, and so desperate to find her place in the world she had blindly believed the false words of a young man who had wanted nothing more from her than a distraction while his family vacationed on the Isle.
But she would not let him in. He had no place in her thoughts.
As her silence stretched on, Quincy sat up. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, slowly and distinctly, disbelief ripe in his voice, “that you have not tried a single one of those things?” At her nod he let loose a startled laugh. “Well, what do you do for fun?”
She rolled her eyes at that, grateful that he had turned the conversation back to innocuous things. “I’ve no room for fun.”
He reared back as if poked with a sharp stick. “No room for—what?—” He looked at her as if she had committed a mortal sin. “You cannot be serious.”
“When do I have time for fun?” she countered.
His expression altered so quickly she didn’t have time to process it. “You do now.” In one smooth move he stood and tugged her to her feet.
She was so startled she lost her balance, falling into his chest. “Oh,” she managed.
His eyes flared with heat, zeroing in on her mouth for a tense moment. But once again his features transformed. A wicked grin spread over his face as he started off toward the others, her hand still grasped tight in his.
It took her some seconds to realize what he was up to. When she finally did, she gaped at his back. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” he said over his shoulder. “You are not some elderly matron who must watch life go by, Clara. You are young, and vibrant, and deserve to have a bit of fun.”
They reached the flat meadow. “Ho, there. Do you have a couple extra racquets? Lady Clara and I have a mind to join you.”
A cheer went up from the assembled before Clara had time to refuse. In a moment the wooden handle of a battledore was being pressed into her hands and Phoebe was pulling her into the fray.
“Oh, this is brilliant,” she exclaimed, her face glowing. “I cannot recall you ever joining in, no matter how I begged.”
That took Clara aback. Phoebe had begged her to play with her? Just as she was about to laughingly denounce such a thing, however, she suddenly remembered her sister, small and delicate with braids flying behind her, running up to Clara, asking her to join in fishing, or races, or any number of activities she was currently interested in.
Each time Clara had refused. Before she could ask herself why, however, she knew with distressing certainty: she had believed her worth had lain in what she could do for her sister. And all along she had missed out on what she could have done with her.
But she could not think of that devastating fact just now, not in front of so many others.
“Just keep the shuttlecocks from hitting the ground, Lady Clara,” Miss Coralie Gadfeld, the vicar’s niece, called out, her dark skin flushed from her efforts, onyx eyes sparkling. “It’s not difficult.”
“Not a bit,” Mr. Ronald Tunley, the sheepherder’s son, said with a grin. “And besides, no one can possibly be worse than Horace here.” He punched the arm of the man in question good-naturedly.
Mr. Horace Juniper, son of the local innkeeper, flushed a mottled red and sent a horrified glance Miss Coralie’s way, longing and embarrassment clear in his eyes. “At least I didn’t fall on my…behind,” he shot back, to which Mr. Tunley guffawed.
“Shall we start then?” Oswin called out cheerfully, the shuttlecock held aloft.
An enthusiastic chorus started up, and the feathered cork was dropped to connect with Oswin’s racquet. And chaos ensued.
Clara held back, watching the rest of them lunge and swing with abandon. She held the battledore before her chest like a shield, at once excited and nervous for the shuttlecock to come sailing her way. She searched for Quincy. He was in the midst of them all, laughing and calling encouragement. He’d laid his jacket aside, rolling up his sleeves, and the sight of his strong forearms made her knees weak.
Suddenly he caught her eye. Then, with a devilish twinkle, he caught the shuttlecock with his racquet and sent it flying purposely her way.
Time seemed to freeze. She stared at the oncoming cork-and-feather creation as if it were a rabid animal about to attack and tear out her throat. What if she missed? What if she fell? Every horrifying possibility flashed through her mind in the split second it took for the shuttlecock to reach her. Closing her eyes tight, she pulled the battledore back with both hands and let it swing.
A resounding thwack sounded, the feel of the cork hitting the strings reverberating up her arms. A cheer went up. She opened her eyes to see the shuttlecock sail in an impressive arc before it fell at the feet of a gaping Mr. Tunley.
“Well done, Lady Clara,” he called out.
And then Quincy was there, his face beaming with pride. And she was caught up in his arms in a celebratory embrace. And she wished the moment might never end.
* * *
Later that evening Clara was still basking in the happy glow the afternoon had given her. Truly, she could not remember a time she had so enjoyed herself.
She smiled, taking a sip of her wine, letting her gaze linger on Quincy where he stood across Danesford’s vast drawing room. And he had been the center of it all. She felt as if she were a different person when she was with him, someone who was more than just a caretaker or a spinster. Not that her family had ever indicated they ever saw her that way. No, she had been the one to don those cloaks.
Now, however…Quincy looked at her then, and a shiver ran through her body. No, not however, she told herself sternly as her thoughts veered to a possibility of something more with him. No matter what her heart might want, this was temporary. Her future did not include Quincy. Nor any man.
He murmured something to Peter, then made his way toward her. She smiled as he approached, her determination to remember that this was not permanent flying right out of her head.
“I do hate to say I told you so,” he quipped as he sank down onto the settee beside her. “But not so much that I won’t.”
She quirked one eyebrow at him, trying and failing to rein in the happiness that surged at his nearness. “You really needn’t look so smug,” she said. “It isn’t becoming at all.”
“Oh, I sincerely doubt that,” he said with a grin. “I think it looks quite well on me.”
“No one ever accused you of modesty, I’m guessing,” she drawled.
He let loose a laugh. “But you have to admit, I was right when I told you that things would not fall apart if you were to take an afternoon off.”
“Very well,” she conceded, rolling her eyes. “I’ll admit that one afternoon did no harm in the wedding preparations.”
“And you enjoyed yourself,” he pushed, a teasing gleam in his dark eyes.
She could continue to tease him, she supposed. But her heart was so full of happiness, she could say nothing but the truth. “I did.” She smiled. “Thank you, Quincy.”
Something infinitely tender passed through his eyes. “It was my pleasure,” he murmured.
Her cheeks heated under the regard in his gaze, unable to remember a time when she had been so happy.
“You seem inordinately pleased with yourself, Lady Clara.”
The Duchess of Reigate’s voice, sharp and accusatory, was like a bucket of ice water dumped over her head. Clara’s spine snapped straight, her smile falling away, the spark lit from that afternoon blowing out as quickly as a candle in a hurricane.
Quincy, too, seemed deeply affected by his mother’s presence. Gone was the easy, happy gentleman, and in his place was a stern, forbidding man.
“Mother,” he said. “You’ve decided to finally join the rest of us, have you?”
She shrugged, somehow making the common action elegant, and sank down into the seat facing them. “No one can blame me for resting, surely.”
“No doubt. Especially after such a lengthy journey. And at your advanced age.”
Her eyes narrowed. Clara, watching the exchange with wide eyes, decided it was time to step in.
“I do hope you like your rooms, Your Grace. Lenora wanted you to have the very best accommodations. The gold bedroom has the most striking views of any room at Danesford.”
“They are adequate,” was all she said.
While Clara was still reeling from her rudeness, the duchess spoke again.
“Reigate,” she said, keeping her eyes on Clara in a disconcerting manner that had her feeling disturbingly exposed, “why don’t you leave Lady Clara and I to chat? I would get to know my future daughter-in-law better.”
Quincy let loose a rude noise. “I think,” he said, his tone clipped and tense, “that you must be mad to think I’ll leave you alone with her.”
“Now, now, Reigate,” the duchess cooed. “You really must learn to be more civil. It would be a shame if Lord and Lady Crabtree overheard. I’ve gotten to know them quite well in the past week. And I can say with certainty that they will not be happy should even a whiff of unpleasantness or scandal touch their precious son and his upcoming nuptials.”
Clara felt all the blood leave her face. A horrible ringing started up in her ears, for it was a threat, plain and simple.
As she and Quincy stared at her in stunned silence, the woman’s smile widened, a cruel kind of victory lighting her cold eyes. “Now, be a good son and leave us to a cozy chat.”
Quincy fairly trembled with outrage beside her, heralding an explosion of volcanic proportions. Needing to keep the peace between them, she placed a hand on his arm. “It’s fine, Quincy,” she murmured low. “I can handle her.”
The duchess laughed. “You hear that, Reigate? She can handle me,” she said in a mocking voice.
Clara shot her a warning look before, fighting to hide the dread that was quickly rising up like a floodwater, she rearranged her stiff features into a bright smile and turned back to Quincy. “Truly, I’ll be fine,” she said. Then, in a whisper, “Don’t let her win.”
Her words seemed to penetrate his mounting fury. Dragging in a deep breath, he smiled at her. “Of course, my dear,” he said. “I shall be close by if you need me.” Taking up her hand, he kissed her knuckles before rising and striding off, not once looking at his mother.
“Well done, Lady Clara,” the duchess drawled. “I thank you for your handling of Reigate. Goodness knows he won’t listen to me.”
“It was not done for your benefit, I assure you,” Clara managed.
“Ah, of course not. You would do anything to save your sister heartache, wouldn’t you?”
Clara just managed to hide her shudder as the slimy slink of revulsion worked its way over her skin. “Let’s make this quick, shall we?” she said. “Dinner will be called soon, and I’d rather not have my appetite threatened with thoughts of having to continue this conversation.”
A grudging respect flared in the older woman’s eyes. “You’ve got spirit, haven’t you?” she murmured. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed.”
Clara ignored the attempt to bait her, keeping her eyes steady, her head high.
The duchess inclined her head. “Very well. I shall not take up too much of your precious time. I only wished to get to know you better. Surely you cannot fault me for that, Reigate being my last remaining son.”
“What would you know?”
“You have lived on the Isle of Synne all your life, have you not?”
“I have,” she answered, mind spinning as to where this could be going. She wasn’t fooled one bit that this line of questioning was pursued out of mere curiosity.
The duchess raised a hand imperiously. At once a footman approached with a tray. She took a glass of wine from it, keeping her eyes fixed on Clara as she took a sip. The considering gleam in that hard gaze had the hairs on the back of Clara’s neck standing on end.
“You and your sister seem to love it here,” the older woman mused. “Else why would Lady Phoebe be so insistent that everyone trek to this far-flung part of the country for her wedding?”
Once again the woman fell silent. She was trying to unnerve her. But Clara refused to let that happen. She inclined her head, drawing upon years of practice to keep her expression bland.
“And you’ve never had a London season?” the woman continued, seemingly undaunted by Clara’s silence. “Never had a lengthy holiday anywhere?”
“No, Your Grace,” Clara said.
“Really?” the duchess purred, her smile widening in a feral manner. For a moment Clara thought she saw the flash of knife-sharp teeth.
Shaking off the vision, she was about to state emphatically that, no, she had never stepped foot from Synne’s shores.
Until she recalled the one time she was thought to have taken a trip, to visit her old nurse. When in reality she had been hidden away on the remote northern tip of Synne.
Her fingers tightened about the glass in her hands, and she felt she might cast up her accounts all over the duchess’s skirts.
The expression of satisfaction on the woman’s face gave her the appearance of a predatory snake about to strike.
Too late, Clara realized she had shown her hand. She quickly rearranged her features into unconcerned boredom. But her stomach sank, knowing the duchess’s sharp eyes had missed nothing.
“Pardon me,” she managed, “I had quite forgotten a trip I took to visit my old nurse some fifteen or so years back. You can understand, surely, it being so long ago.”
“Oh, certainly. And where was it you went?”
She froze. There was too much knowledge in the woman’s gaze for Clara to ignore. In desperation, she searched her mind for something, anything to say. But in her horror she came up blank.
The duchess’s smile widened further.
Blessedly Yargood announced dinner, interrupting their standoff. Her salvation.
Quincy was at her side in an instant. “Clara,” he murmured, holding out a hand for her, “are you ready?”
“Yes,” she managed. Taking his hand, she allowed him to pull her to her feet, thankful for his arm to lean on when her legs trembled.
“We can finish this conversation later, Lady Clara,” the duchess murmured.
“Your Grace,” Clara said, dipping into a shaky curtsy, not meeting the woman’s eyes.
Quincy led her out the drawing room door, leaning toward her when they were out of earshot of the rest of the party.
“What did she say to you, Clara?”
His voice was vibrating with tension. “Nothing,” she said, trying for a calm she didn’t feel.
“Clara.”
“Truly, it was nothing at all.”
Without warning, he ducked into a small room off the side of the hall, pulling Clara with him. Darkness shrouded them, the sounds of the rest of the party fading.
“Quincy,” she gasped, “someone will notice.”
“I don’t give a damn,” he shot back.
She gaped at him. Even the deep shadows weren’t enough to hide the frustration on his face.
Her heart twisted, that he worried so for her. She stepped close, laying a hand on his cheek. “I’m well. Please don’t give it another thought.”
“She upset you, Clara. I can’t let that go.”
“You have to.”
He growled low. “No.”
She smiled. “Stubborn man.”
His lips twitched, his voice turning gruff when he spoke again. “Stubborn woman.” Then his expression resumed its serious mien. “Tell me, Clara. What did she say that upset you?”
In that moment, in the dark, with this man she was growing to love, she wanted to. With everything in her she wanted to tell him of that great tragedy, and the weight on her soul that would never leave her in peace. How easy it would be to speak the words, to transfer some of that burden, to have someone she could lean on and share it with.
But she couldn’t. He would look at her differently, and she couldn’t bear the thought of that. He would pity her, or think her ruined, or a hundred other horrible possibilities.
She put her mask firmly back in place, though it was more difficult to do now than it had ever been.
“Truly it was nothing,” she said with a smile though she wanted to cry. “She merely asked if I’ve lived on Synne all my life.”
“Clara—”
“Truly.”
He looked as if he didn’t believe her one bit. She concentrated with all her might to keep her smile in place.
Finally he nodded, though he didn’t look the least bit happy.
“Very well,” he said. “If you’re certain.”
“I am.”
He studied her for a moment more before, with a sigh, he nodded and led her from the room. “But you will be joining the rest of the party on outings for the remainder of the week,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I won’t allow her to get you off alone if I can help it.”
And for once, Clara didn’t fight it.