Dinner that night and the gathering in the drawing room after were lively times, the myriad guests providing the last necessary ingredient for the festive spirit that a wedding often brought. Especially one where the couple were so very much in love.
Clara smiled fondly at Phoebe, who was sitting beside one of Oswin’s shy cousins, gently drawing her into a quiet discussion. It was clear that Oswin’s family adored her. Even the irascible Lady Crabtree seemed to have a soft spot for her. And no wonder, for Phoebe was a veritable fairy of light and laughter, flitting from person to person, her natural enthusiasm and sweetness putting everyone at ease. She would do well in her new life.
“She got that from you, you know.”
Clara looked up at Aunt Olivia. She had been so focused on her sister she hadn’t heard the woman approach.
“What was that?”
“That kindness, the ability to bring joy to people.” She pointed her cane in Phoebe’s direction before jabbing it toward Clara. “You gave her that gift.”
“Oh.” Clara blushed, rearing back from the cane as it nearly clipped her nose. “I’m sure that’s all Phoebe. No one can teach that.”
“Poppycock,” Aunt Olivia said before shooing Clara to the side.
Clara slid over on the settee so the viscountess could sit. “How are you enjoying the wedding festivities thus far, Aunt Olivia?” she asked. “You must be so pleased; I don’t believe anyone expected such a turnout.”
The older woman didn’t answer. Instead she peered closely at Clara as if searching for something. Finally, when Clara had begun to think she wouldn’t answer, she said, “I’m as pleased as you expect me to be. Which is not very, for there is still room for improvement. I shall not be satisfied until Lady Crabtree admits she was wrong. And I suspect that will only be gotten when hell turns to ice. But what’s different about you? Something has altered since yesterday that I can’t quite put my finger on.”
Clara, in the process of taking a sip from her wineglass, promptly choked. “I don’t know what you mean,” she croaked. “Mayhap Anne did my hair differently tonight. And this dress is new.”
“No,” Aunt Olivia said, her eyes narrowing. “It’s not something so simple and obvious.”
Flustered, desperate to distract the woman—for there was one thing, and one thing only, that Aunt Olivia could have sensed different in her—Clara said, “I’m sorry you were unable to bring Freya down. I know she would have been well behaved, though others feared otherwise.”
As expected, the change of subject worked beautifully. “Oh, that Lady Crabtree,” the viscountess grumbled, shooting the woman in question a dark look. “I know she was behind it. She’s as sour a woman as I’ve ever met. And she still isn’t over me bringing Freya to her house when we visited her in London. As if my darling pet acted as anything but the angel she is.” Aunt Olivia sniffed, her offense at such a snub palpable.
Clara’s relief that she had successfully redirected her great-aunt’s attentions was short-lived.
The viscountess swung back to pin Clara with a piercing look. “But don’t think you shall get out of answering me. I know there’s something different about you. And I’d be willing to bet you’re aware of it, too, or you wouldn’t have taken such pains to bring up something that infuriates me so.” Her look turned smug as Clara gaped at her. “I’m not as senile as you all think I am; I know when I’m being manipulated, young lady.”
“Oh, do you?” Quincy drawled, sauntering up to their corner of the drawing room.
Clara’s entire body responded to his approach, her heart picking up speed and heat blooming low in her belly. She had always wanted him, of course. But it was so much stronger now.
More than that, however, was the happiness that bloomed in her chest from his presence. Just being near him brought her joy that had nothing whatsoever to do with physical desire and everything to do with his effect on her heart.
“Don’t think to charm me, my boy,” Aunt Olivia said. “I’ve dealt with your kind before.”
“Now, that’s highly doubtful,” he said with a wink and a grin. “I’m certain there are no others quite like me.”
“Well, that’s true enough,” the viscountess grumbled. “But don’t just stand there. Sit; my neck aches from looking up at you.”
As he sat, Aunt Olivia speared him with a sharp glare. “I hear you spent much of the morning with Mr. Dennison and Lord Fletcher at Swallowhill.”
“You are, as always, impressively well informed. I met up with them quite by accident after an early ride into town, and Lord Fletcher was eager to see the place. Though the house is in bad repair, he was so taken with the view I don’t see a problem in getting the highest price possible.”
They droned on, discussing the merits of its position, the fertile soil, the bones of the house. But Clara couldn’t focus on any of it. She was too aware of Quincy’s nearness. His hand rested on the arm of his chair, mere inches from her own. She couldn’t help but remember those strong fingers on her skin, bringing her to such pleasure.
What would he do if she reached across that small space and laced her fingers with his?
She tightened her hand around her wineglass to keep it in place. Such an act would be as good as a declaration to Quincy, considering what was between them and what had yet to be resolved. He would see it as a sign that her decision had been made.
When in reality she was even more mired in doubt.
That morning she had been so certain she should refuse him. But now…
Now, after spending the evening in his company, pretending what they had was real, she couldn’t imagine ending it. What they had wasn’t just a physical connection, nor merely a shared association of secrecy. No, it was much deeper, built up over the past weeks into something abiding and true, bringing a light and joy to her life she never thought to have.
And she wanted a future with him so much she ached.
It was stupid to even consider it when just hours ago she had been so certain it could never be. It was the maddest of mads.
And yet nothing had ever made more sense.
“And there’s a small property with a tidy little cottage on it that butts up against Swallowhill. Lord Fletcher’s of a mind to purchase it as well.”
Quincy’s voice was like a bucket of cold water over her head. Her insides turned frigid with shock, her mind going numb. “A cottage?”
“Yes,” he said, blissfully unaware of her turmoil. “It sits right between Swallowhill and the path to the beach. It’s not part of my holdings. We’re determined to find out who owns it. Dennison believes he can secure a larger price if Fletcher can get his hands on both.”
Clara’s ears started to ring, and her vision blurred. She recalled with agonizing vividness a pain unlike any other, her body torn apart. And then a much worse pain as heartbreak quickly followed.
“Clara.”
Quincy’s voice came to her as if in a tunnel, far off and distant, growing closer as reality intruded. She blinked, looking in incomprehension at him. His face was close to hers, alarm clear in his eyes. His fingers were wrapped around her arm, as if holding her in place.
“Clara,” he said, his voice low, “are you well? You nearly fainted.”
It was then she realized where she was. Not back in that small cottage, hidden away from the world. No, she was in Danesford’s drawing room, preparing for her sister’s wedding. With Quincy at her side.
She thought she might be sick.
Drawing herself up—she had slouched down in her seat in an alarming way—she composed herself as best she could. “I’m fine,” she managed.
But Quincy didn’t look the least bit convinced by her efforts. If anything, he appeared even more worried. “I think it would be best if I see you to your room,” he said. “You’ve pushed yourself today.”
“No,” Clara said, embarrassment—and the far more troubling desire to have him comfort her—rushing through her. “I’d rather stay here. Truly, I’m fine now.”
“Nonsense,” Aunt Olivia declared, thumping her cane to draw Clara’s attention to her. As if her strident tone hadn’t been able to do that just fine. “Pushing yourself will not help one bit. You wouldn’t wish to be ill for Phoebe’s wedding, would you?”
To Clara’s consternation there really was no arguing with that. Before she quite knew what was happening, Quincy had risen and was helping her up. “I don’t need assistance,” she protested. Unfortunately her body decided to betray her, her legs nearly giving out under her.
“No more arguing,” Quincy declared, slipping an arm about her waist to steady her. And then she was being whisked from the room.
“I’m merely tired,” she protested as he guided her up the stairs. The noise and chaos of the drawing room faded behind them, the quiet giving them a false sense of privacy. She ached to cry her heart out in his arms. But she could never allow herself to be that vulnerable again, not after the stark reminder of the cottage.
She had been ruined, had birthed a child out of wedlock. And that small cottage nestled on Synne’s farthest northern corner had been witness to it. All too soon it would come out that the property had been her father’s, that the deed had been transferred to her. And that she had sold it off when the pain of owning it finally grew too great. No one in her family knew of its existence. Once it was unearthed that it had been hers, questions would arise. And the truth would out.
Again she felt her stomach lurch. And she knew it was not so much that she feared tainting her family with a scandal. It had been them finding out at all.
There was a chance they might react with the same loving understanding her father had, of course. But even if they, by some miracle, did not despise her for her actions, they would view her differently, would pity her or see her as broken. After dedicating her life to them all these years, and loving them as she did, she couldn’t bear it.
“Quincy,” she tried again as they rounded the hallway to the family apartments. “Please leave me. I’m fine now, truly.”
Still he guided her on, his hand under her arm and his arm about her waist gentle, yet his profile stern and unyielding. Finally, they reached her room. She thought he might leave her then, and the idea filled her with equal parts relief and pain.
Instead he pushed her through the door, following her before closing it firmly behind him. Before she could protest he spun to face her. The wild worry in his eyes stole her breath.
“What happened?”
Her gaze fell from his, her arms wrapping about her waist as she stepped back from him. “Nothing.”
He let loose a frustrated breath, his hand combing through his hair. Tension rolled off him in waves. “Clara, please don’t lie to me. I saw the change that came over you when the cottage was mentioned. You appeared utterly devastated.”
“Don’t mention it to me,” she choked, trying and failing to forget her son’s tiny, pale face. Her heart shuddered, all the unhealed cracks she’d tried so hard to hold together coming undone.
“Clara—”
She reared back as he reached for her. “Don’t!”
He froze, his shock a palpable thing. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice slow and careful as he backed away.
She stared at him, impotent grief filling her. Tears burned her eyes. She’d been a fool to think she could escape her past, or that she would eventually forget her heartache and all she’d lost.
“I need you to leave,” she mumbled.
“Damn it, Clara—”
“Leave.”
The single word was quiet and stark, as broken as she felt. And more powerful than any shout could have been if his reaction was anything to go by. He sucked in a sharp breath, dropping his hands to his sides, his strong shoulders drooping as if all the fight had drained out of him.
“I told you I had no intention of marrying,” she continued, purposely slicing through her pain, needing the wound to stay open and bleeding in order to find the strength to break from him. He was stubborn, perhaps even more stubborn than she. It would be no easy thing to convince him that what they’d had was over.
She rearranged her features into cool disdain and forced herself to lie.
“Mayhap you thought my coming to you last night was a confession of deeper feelings than are truly there. But it was just physical, Quincy. If you believed that our proximity today was an indication that I had changed my mind about marrying you, you’re wrong. How else were we to continue making the others believe our engagement was real if not to continue pretending we were in love? I intend to see this agreement of ours through, and then we may both go our separate ways after Phoebe’s wedding without any expectations. Just as we determined we would from the start.”
He stared at her a long moment, the only sound their harsh breathing mingling in the gaping abyss between them. Then, with a silent nod, he turned and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Leaving her alone with her heartbreak.
* * *
Quincy didn’t know how long he sat on the stairs with his head in his hands. The sounds of merriment drifted down the hall to him, the muted laughter and conversation making him feel more alone than he ever had in his life. Even after his father died, when he had huddled under his desk crying, he’d not felt such desolation. Then, he’d used that grief to fuel his anger enough to leave that place and forge a new life. Now, however, there seemed no option where he would win. A life without Clara was no life at all; no matter that he’d told himself he would leave if she refused him, he saw now he’d been fooling himself. And he could not see a way past whatever was holding her back.
After what seemed an eternity, he felt a hand on his shoulder. But though the weight of it was too heavy to be Clara’s, it was still one he knew well.
“Peter,” he said without looking up. “Shouldn’t you be helping your wife?”
His friend grunted then sank, with a sigh, to the step beside Quincy. “I do believe this is a more pressing problem.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Quincy muttered. Even so, he could not dredge the strength to raise his head.
There was a beat of silence. And then his friend’s gruff voice softer than Quincy had ever heard it: “You’ve fallen in love with Clara, haven’t you?”
That finally was the prodding Quincy needed to rally some energy. He straightened, casting a disgruntled look at Peter. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Right now, there is no place more important. And I’ve two good ears to hear whatever you might need to get off your chest.”
Just then a burst of laughter rose up from the drawing room. “But not here,” Peter muttered, casting a glare in the general direction of the sound. He rose, nudging Quincy’s shoulder. “Come along then. We’ll hide away in my study and you can tell me everything.”
“And if I don’t wish to tell you everything?” Quincy grumbled as he rose and fell into step beside Peter, torn between frustration that his feelings had been seen so clearly and relief that his friend wanted to help him.
“Then you can stay sullen and silent and listen to me prattle on about what a horse’s arse you are.”
The normalcy of the insult drew a reluctant laugh from Quincy. Soon they entered the study and Peter closed the door firmly behind them.
“I swear,” Peter muttered as he strode to the sideboard, “I was a damn fool for agreeing to this mad scheme of Phoebe’s. Whole house overrun with spoiled aristocrats. This is my worst nightmare come to life.”
“Except you are now one of those despised aristocrats,” Quincy said with as much levity as he could muster. Which was not very much. With a groan he lowered himself into a chair before the hearth. The fire blazing merrily away could not warm the chill that had taken root inside him.
“Don’t remind me.” There was the faint clink of glass. And then Peter was at his side, pressing a drink into his hand. “Besides, you’re one of those aristocrats, too,” he said as he lowered himself into a chair. “Though after getting to know your mother’s character these past days, I understand why you wanted to leave it all behind. Just let me know if you want me to throw the woman out on her ear. I shall do it, and gladly.”
Quincy snorted. “Do you truly want the wrath of the Duchess of Reigate on your head, man?”
“She may be a duchess,” Peter said with a wicked smile, “but I’m a bloody duke now. And if I can’t utilize it for something good, what the hell is the purpose of it?”
The laugh that burst from Quincy’s lips was freeing. “Damn, but I’ve missed your company.”
Peter grinned. “And I you. Though,” he continued with a stern look, “don’t think this gets you out of discussing Clara.”
In a moment Quincy’s mood, which had begun to lighten, fell back into its hopeless gloom again. “What is there to talk about?” he muttered, taking a drink of his whiskey. “She won’t have me, and I see no way to get past the defenses she’s put up around her.”
“You’ve proposed then?”
“I did ask her if she would marry me in truth, yes.”
“And you told her your feelings?”
“I tried.”
Peter snorted. “Tried? There is no trying, man. Only doing.”
Quincy gave a humorless laugh. “She wouldn’t let me.”
There was a beat of silence. Peter stared at him, uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand.”
Quincy exhaled in frustration. “I started to say the words. I love you was literally coming out of my mouth. She stopped me; refused to hear it.”
“Refused?” Peter’s jaw dropped. “How the hell does a person refuse to hear a declaration?”
“I don’t know,” Quincy replied with a grim smile. “But she did it, I assure you. Said she didn’t want to hear it. Claimed it would make things worse.” He drained his glass, needing the burn of the whiskey in his gut to drown out the desolation that was beginning to take over him again. “I know something happened to her, something that damaged her ability to trust. But she won’t tell me.” He slammed the empty glass down on the small table beside him, the agitated action doing nothing to ease his frustration.
Peter remained quiet. Too quiet. Quincy looked at him and was shocked at the guilt that filled his features. His senses sharpened, and he sat forward. “What is it, man?”
Peter studied him for a long moment, his clear blue eyes clouded with whatever troubled thoughts were swirling about in his head. Finally, he spoke.
“You’re right that there’s something in her past that nearly destroyed her.”
The breath left Quincy in a rush. Before he could ask what that thing was, however, Peter held up a meaty hand.
“But I cannot tell you the particulars. She told me in confidence last year when I reconciled with her father. It took an incredible amount of strength to reveal it to me; I cannot break her trust. Not even for you.”
Whatever excitement and hope had been building in Quincy was doused in a heartbeat. “You’re right,” he said, slumping back against his seat. “And I wouldn’t want you to tell me. I need her to trust me, or this won’t work between us.”
Peter nodded morosely. “I wish with all my heart I could tell you, to help you in any way I can. Though—”
“Though?”
Peter frowned. “I do get the feeling she didn’t tell me the whole of it.” He shook his head, as if clearing a troubling image from his brain with force. “Truthfully, I’m not certain she’s ever told anyone the whole of it. Though everyone around her adores her, I don’t think I have ever seen anyone so lonely.”
The words chilled Quincy. It was too true; he’d sensed it himself. Whatever happened to Clara, she’d made a life out of distancing herself from everyone around her. And it seemed years in the making.
“I’ve seen a change in her since you arrived,” Peter added quietly, his gaze considering as he regarded Quincy. “There’s something different about her, a joy in life that wasn’t present before.” When Quincy could only stare at him, Peter leaned forward, clapping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I pray she confides in you, my friend. For both your sakes.”
“I do, as well,” Quincy said quietly.