Catherine half expected Quin to visit the day after the party at the Duchess of Wesley’s. She hadn’t had much conversation with him since he’d returned from Cambridge and she missed that aspect of their friendship.
The Duchess of Wesley called on her a few days later and they made further plans for the upcoming parties, with special attention to ones that would start leading into the London season just around the corner. Catherine was tempted to ask after Quin but hesitated, not wanting her query to be mistaken as interest.
It was the beginning of a new week when she received an invitation to the Wesley house for tea. She accepted readily and at the appointed time arrived for a visit with the Duchess of Wesley. It had been nearly a week since she’d been at the dinner party where she’d met all the gentlemen the Duchess of Wesley had invited. The parlor where they had all adjourned after dinner was the same that she was led to for afternoon tea. As she followed the butler into the spacious room, she was greeted by the duchess.
“Good afternoon!”
“Good afternoon,” Catherine returned. She noted that no one else was present for tea and took a seat when the Duchess of Wesley gestured to the sofa.
“Thank you for joining me today. Now, you accepted Lady Winstead’s invitation, did you not?”
Catherine dove into conversation and planning with the Duchess of Wesley, as was their custom when together. But when their plans were established, Catherine made a request.
“Would it be unpardonable for me to ask to borrow a few books from your library, Your Grace? I’ve read most of the ones I find interesting from my own.”
The duchess nodded as she set her teacup in the saucer. “Of course. I’ll take you there directly. In fact, make yourself at home and read for a while, if it suits you. No one uses the library save Quin, and I don’t think he’s visited it for some time.” Her brow pinched at the mention of her son’s name, and Catherine wondered why.
“Thank you,” she responded and, following the Duchess of Wesley’s lead, stood and trailed her into the corridor.
“It’s just down this hall, the double doors on the right.” The Duchess of Wesley motioned as she spoke over her shoulder. When the duchess turned the brass knobs, the heavy wooden doors opened wide.
The first things Catherine noticed were the large windows that filtered sunlight onto the rows of books lining the walls. The room was much larger than her own library.
She gloried at the possibilities of endless reading. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“My pleasure. If you need anything, ring for a maid. I’ll come and check on you later.” With a gracious nod, the Duchess of Wesley departed from the library and went into the hall, leaving the doors wide open.
Catherine studied the rows of shelving, wondering about the order in which the books were placed. The wall to her left was nearest, and she walked over to peruse the titles. Her fingers traced the leather bindings as she walked by, reading them in the beautiful sunlight. At the end of one row, she moved on to the next, which took her toward the back of the library. As she ended the last row, she turned to the shelves on the opposite wall and paused, hearing a soft noise.
Tipping her head in the direction of the sound, she frowned and walked forward, past a half shelf of a bookcase and into a small sitting area where she found the source of the noise.
A warmth spread within her heart at the sight of Quin’s sleeping form sprawled across a sofa, his long legs bent over the arm of it. She covered her mouth to muffle her amusement. An errant thought flashed through her mind as she wondered how his hair would feel as she smoothed it back from his face, or if her glove would hinder any sensation. Yet she sobered when she noted the dark rings under his eyes, as if he hadn’t been resting well—or at all. His skin was paler, too, as if he was exhausted. She tiptoed away, not wishing to awaken him.
What had caused him to be so wearied? What kept him awake at night? Tenderness filled her at the thought of some burden weighing on his chest, causing such anxiety for him. Maybe that was why the duchess’s expression had been so concerned at the mention of Quin’s name.
She wouldn’t wake him. Let him sleep.
The shelves of books beckoned to her, and she returned to peruse the titles, selecting four to take home with her. She chose a chair on the opposite side of the room from Quin’s sleeping form and set to reading with the knowledge that having Quin nearby somehow set her further at ease. Her finger skipped over the page as she tried to turn it. Frustrated, she set down the book and slipped off her gloves, setting them aside before lifting the book once more. The page turned effortlessly, and she lost herself in the words.
She was finishing the fourth chapter in the first book,The Mystery of the Scottish Moors, when the duchess walked in. Upon seeing Catherine reading, she asked, “Did you find what you were searching for?”
“Yes,” Catherine replied in a subdued tone. “If it’s acceptable, I’d like to borrow these.”
The duchess waved her off as she pointed to the books. “Of course, and take more if you wish. I’ll send a footman to collect the books in a while and place them in your carriage. Now, if I could only find my son as easily as you found your books.” The duchess’s lips twisted ruefully. “He must have departed earlier. It is of no consequence.” She dismissed any reply with a flick of her wrist and left the room. Catherine almost called her back to let her know just where her son was…but hesitated.
Maybe Quin had selected the library because he assumed no one would find him here.
If so, he probably didn’t want his mother to discover him asleep. She’d likely have the same questions Catherine had and would demand the answers Catherine had no right to ask.
As the library fell into silence once more, Catherine stood and quietly made her way back to where Quin slept. As she came around a corner, she watched as his chest rose and fell with a peaceful rhythm. Should she wake him? She turned to the large clock guarding the doorway; it was late in the afternoon. No telling how long he’d been asleep. But if he had any prayer of sleeping this evening, he probably should awaken.
Or so she told herself as she stepped forward. She knelt beside the sofa. Tipping her head to get a better perspective of his face, she studied him. He was so peaceful in sleep; the pensive expression that would filter across his face was absent, and he looked younger, even though he was still several years older than her. Without thinking, she brushed away a wayward curl that had fallen over his forehead, her fingers grazing his skin ever so lightly, but the touch sent a shock through her, causing her to gasp.
Quin’s eyes opened, and he blinked several times before his eyes focused on hers.
“Quin?” she said softly, her voice foreign to her own ears.
His expression sharpened, not with the awareness that usually followed waking up, but with a tenderness that was deeply familiar, as if he’d been waking up to the sound of her voice for months—years.