He knew before opening his eyes that she was gone.
There was an absence in the air around him. The great gaping loss hit him like a blow. Glancing at the pillow beside him, he could just make out the impression her head had left on it. Proof she had been here, and not just a figment of his imagination.
Taking the pillow, he pressed it to his chest and rolled to his side. Her scent was still there, something akin to sun-warmed linens and fragrant meadows and fresh breezes, filling him with longing. In a rush the memories of the night before came flooding in, every kiss and sigh, every embrace. She had curled against him when he’d begged her to stay, her head resting on his chest, her arm tight around his waist, holding on as if she would never let go. And simultaneously as if she were memorizing him, for there had been a goodbye in it that was unmistakable.
He’d wanted to howl and curse into the cool night air. This miracle that had fallen into his lap, the possibility of a life with this woman he loved, was slipping through his fingers, and he felt there was nothing he could do to stop it. Every instinct in him screamed to bombard her with affection and charm and persuasive words until she couldn’t help but accept him.
Instead he’d held her tighter, and prayed as he hadn’t since he was a child.
Now he stared at the strengthening light streaming in through his window, feeling the fracture in his heart grow. Whatever horrible thing had happened in her past, she would not easily let it go. It had rotted her self-worth for so very long, he feared she would never be able to break free of it. He suspected what that tragedy might be; she had not been an innocent. And his heart broke, thinking of what she might have suffered, and was still suffering. He had been tempted to tell her, in no uncertain words, that he knew and didn’t care, that he loved her regardless. But that was her secret to tell, and forcing it from her would only cause her to withdraw further.
He let loose a frustrated breath, hopelessness washing over him. Phoebe’s wedding was less than a week away. Scaling the years of hurt and pain and grief that rose up about Clara would take time. And time was one thing he didn’t have.
But lying here thinking of her would not help one bit. Rolling from the bed, he strode to the adjoining dressing room. He longed to bare his heart to her as she hadn’t allowed him to last night, but he knew in his state of mind he would only muck things up further. And so he dressed quickly, hurried out to the stables, and was soon on his way.
The fresh air was a balm to his soul as he let his horse have its head. The faint scent of salt and sea filled his lungs, the coolness of it on his face and the tug of it in his hair helping to clear some of the turmoil in his breast. He would take the morning to think. And, with luck, he would return to Danesford knowing just what to do in regard to Clara. Though he doubted it would be so easy.
The small town that butted up against the beach, the center of all social activities for residents and visitors alike, was just waking as he rode down the main thoroughfare. The grocers were opening their shutters, the baker already hard at work, the scent of it making Quincy’s mouth water. On impulse he stopped, dismounting and tying up his horse before heading inside.
His purchase was quickly made, and soon he was stepping back out into the bright early-morning sunlight. Removing a warm bun from its wrapper, he bit into the soft, fragrant bread before starting off down Admiralty Row. Synne’s main avenue, leading down to the beach and the endless sea beyond, was wide and clean, and already beginning to bustle. The Isle was at its height of popularity in the summer months, and its season was just beginning. No doubt in a week or so these streets would be teeming with humanity. It was just the type of location he gravitated toward, a bustling town that never seemed to sleep. It was why he’d been more than happy to settle in Boston all those years.
But for the first time in perhaps his entire life Quincy didn’t want company. Which might be a dangerous thing, for it gave him too much time to think. The more he pondered what to do about Clara, the more mired in doubts and frustrations and fears he became. He knew she cared for him. She would not have lain with him last night if she didn’t. But she was so adamant that there could be nothing more between them. Even the idea that he might declare himself to her had sent her into a panic. As it stood, he could not see a way past that, did not know how to breech the walls she had put up about her.
So caught up in his tumultuous thoughts, he didn’t immediately hear his name being called. It was only when the person doing the calling stepped in his path that he was aware of anyone around him at all.
“Your Grace,” the man said. “I say, you’re in your own world, aren’t you?”
Quincy blinked, looking into not one but two familiar faces. “Mr. Dennison, Lord Fletcher. My apologies. I’m afraid you’ve caught me eating my breakfast. I was quite entranced by the deliciousness of these rolls.”
“I don’t blame you one bit,” the house agent replied. “Mrs. Lambe is a wizard with flour and yeast. As I can attest to.” He chuckled, patting his generous girth.
Quincy forced a smile, wanting nothing less than to be pulled into small talk. But he couldn’t very well snub the men. “What were you gentlemen doing up and about at such an early hour?”
Lord Fletcher, exuding his typical energetic air, spoke up. “We were discussing when we might visit Swallowhill. I’m quite anxious to finalize the sale.” He chuckled. “Although this proof of my eagerness can only work to my detriment. There’s no way I shall haggle a good price now.” He faltered, a concerned look passing over his face. “Are you well, Your Grace?”
“What? Oh! Yes, I’m quite well.” Quincy forced a smile. “I didn’t sleep last night, I’m afraid.”
“Strange, that, with such healthful sea air to lull you to sleep,” the man quipped. “But were you off to anywhere in particular this fine morning?”
“Not at all.”
“Splendid. I don’t suppose you have time for us after your meal? I’d love to see Swallowhill as soon as possible.”
It was on the tip of Quincy’s tongue to refuse. He had no wish to accompany these men today to visit the property. He hadn’t set foot there since his mother’s cruel confirmation of what Miss Willa Brandon had been to his father. The idea of going there now, when his heart was so troubled over Clara, and knowing he would see the place with new eyes, made his skin crawl.
But mayhap it was for the best. After last night, and the decision he was waiting for Clara to make regarding their future, he was more determined than ever to move forward with the sale. If she accepted him, he was eager to whisk her off and show her the world. And if she refused, he wanted to leave England as quickly as possible.
In the end he nodded. “Nothing would please me better. But why don’t we head over now, and you can both share my breakfast with me?”
And perhaps, he thought as Lord Fletcher and Mr. Dennison took the rolls he offered with heartfelt thanks and they headed back up the street in search of their mounts, he might know how to persuade Clara by the time he returned to Danesford.
* * *
As Quincy had predicted, all the wedding preparations that Clara had agonized over had been taken care of beautifully by Lenora and Margery and Mrs. Ingram. Every hem was altered, every delicacy planned, every flower and ribbon and ingredient for the decadent food delivered. The house had been cleaned top-to-bottom, the guest rooms aired and readied for their myriad guests. There truly wasn’t much for Clara to do. She should have, perhaps, been concerned at this proof that she was superfluous. Wasn’t that her great fear, after all, that she had no place any longer? That her family didn’t need her?
But she was too busy trying to hide the turmoil inside her.
She had known, of course, that the aftermath of following her heart would be painful, that it would take an incredible amount of mental and emotional effort to fall back into her old ways.
She had not expected it to affect her physically, making her entire body ache and her head pound. How the faint soreness in her thighs would remind her of what she and Quincy had shared. Exhaustion pulled at her, and she wanted nothing more than to be left in peace, to climb back under her covers and hide away from the world.
To remember every beautiful moment with Quincy.
That was something, however, she could not indulge. She had known what she was about last night, and that today would be difficult. It was why she had stayed curled in his arms as long as possible, why she had feigned sleep when all along she had been memorizing the steady pounding of his heart against her ear, each beat one second closer to leaving him. Now, however, it was time she accepted that whatever they’d had was over.
But that didn’t make focusing on the necessary duties of the day any easier. Especially as the guests were now arriving in droves, carriages pulling up Danesford’s long drive by the hour. This was the more tedious portion of the wedding, that of helping Lenora play hostess. It should have been a blessing that she was able to make herself useful again. But there was nothing Clara wanted to do less than smile and see to everyone’s comfort.
She sighed, stretching her neck from side to side to relieve the stiffness in her muscles as she saw some distant relation of Lady Crabtree’s off with the butler. She looked out over the front hall, making certain there was no one left wanting attention. And perhaps, secretly looking for Quincy…
No. She shook her head sharply, forcing her focus on Lenora and Phoebe by the front door, greeting an ancient matron with a towering bright green turban. She had promised herself she would not look for him. Peter had informed her earlier after receiving a letter by messenger that Quincy had gone to Swallowhill with Mr. Dennison and Lord Fletcher. It was a relief he was gone, really. After last night she had no wish to see him, to look into his eyes and recognize the awareness that would no doubt light their depths.
Yet she could not seem to keep from searching for him. Even now, moments after berating herself for breaking her silent promise, she felt her gaze drifting, looking for his lean form, his piercing eyes, the soft waves of his inky hair. Hair she had run her fingers through just last night.
In a flash it washed over her, the remembrance of his body moving over and in hers. Of his soul-searing kisses, of his strong hands, equally eager and gentle on her heated skin.
Of his near declaration of love, something that should have brought her joy and instead had broken her heart.
Flooded with memories, she ducked out a side door and hurried into the garden. There, among her mother’s roses, a place she typically found peace and strength, she tried to corral her emotions back into submission. But now that they had broken free, they would not easily let her go.
For the past weeks, without her realizing it, Quincy had effectively demolished her defenses. No, not demolished. He’d peeled them back with aching gentleness, layer by layer, until, last night, in his arms, she’d found a part of herself she had thought lost forever. The joyful, impulsive girl that she had subdued for responsibility’s sake after the death of her mother, that had rebelled in a quest for a life of her own when she was nearing womanhood. And that had thrown her into the deepest despair because she had been fool enough to follow her heart.
She had thought that part of her was the enemy, and had viciously subdued it in the years that followed. But Quincy had awakened it in her again. And she saw now she wasn’t whole without it. She wasn’t confined to what others needed from her. She had her own desires and joys, things she wanted above all others.
And she wanted to explore that part of her with Quincy. Not as a caregiver, but as an equal partner in life, walking at his side and shouldering the worries of the world with him.
Quincy cared for her and wanted to marry her. The man she had come to love with her whole heart, who could make her happier than she had ever dreamed possible, wanted to make a life with her.
For a single moment of weakness she imagined that life: falling asleep in his arms as a ship rocked them to sleep, reveling in the tug of sea air in her hair as they stood side by side peering out at the horizon, stepping foot in countries she had not even dared to dream of seeing with her own eyes. They would have days full of adventure and excitement; nights brimming with endless passion.
And after that, when a quiet life called to them, they would grow old together. Looking back on the adventures they’d shared and finding comfort in one another in their old age.
Her heart ached with the need for that life. She closed her eyes against the pull of it. But it beckoned, a temptation that was quickly undermining every excuse she had for refusing Quincy.
“Clara.”
She sucked in a sharp breath at that familiar voice, so close to her. Surely her imaginings had created him out of the ether. She squeezed her eyes closed even more tightly, longing washing over her in a wave, not wanting to break the magic of that moment.
And then a hand, gentle on her cheek. Her eyes flew open to find Quincy’s face hovering over hers.
He smiled and lowered his head. And she forgot why she should refuse.
His lips touched hers, gentle, hesitant. He was giving her the choice on allowing it to continue. Tears sprang to her eyes, his deep respect for her decisions clear. She longed to throw caution to the wind and melt into his embrace.
Instead she drew in a shuddering breath and gently pulled away.
With a sad smile he clasped his hands behind his back. “I suppose you’ve been keeping yourself busy and at the center of the chaos,” he said, his tone light.
The utter normalcy in his voice took her aback until she realized what he was doing. He was giving her time and allowing her to breathe. To make her decision on their future without pressure.
And here she had not thought it possible to love him more.
“Er, yes,” she stuttered. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “That is, it’s been a constant stream of guests arriving. Lenora and Phoebe cannot be expected to handle it all on their own.”
He gave an easy chuckle as they started down the gravel path and came into view of the front drive. Guests were descending from carriages and bags were being unloaded in a controlled kind of chaos. “I’m thinking Danesford will be bursting at the seams by nightfall. Lady Tesh will be so pleased. Well, one can hope at least.”
She laughed along with him, though inside her heart ached. Their masks were firmly in place, the lie trotted out for all to see.
Yet she couldn’t help but be aware of the wish deep inside that it was real.