Quin allowed his mind to wander as he made the short jaunt to the other side of Mayfair. As his carriage approached, he noted the other carriages lining the drive and wondered if maybe his mother hadn’t divulged the full details about her “small party.” It wouldn’t surprise him.
She had recently been a woman on a mission: find him a wife.
Much against his will, his word, and his vehement arguments to the contrary.
He hoped he was incorrect in his assessment of the party, but he held suspicions. As the carriage rolled to a stop before the entrance, Quin started to plan an escape to the library midparty, just in case it was too stuffy. It was his own home, and if he wished to disappear… Well, that was certainly his prerogative, was it not?
He straightened his jacket as he stepped from the carriage, deeply inhaling the night air. How the hell had Wesley done this—own the title and carry it with such delight? How had he not questioned every smile and suspected every woman of mercenary motives? A new well of respect for his lost brother overflowed.
Quin gave a nod to the footman as he opened the door, the hum of voices immediately filling the air along with the scent of perfume and beeswax from the many candles. He strode through the foyer, his eyes lingering on the stairs that led to the library, silently promising himself to visit there later. A memory of the Cambridge University library washed over him, leaving a wave of longing in its wake. He dismissed the emotion and focused on the flickering candles illuminating the hall. The hum of voices rose in volume as he approached the parlor, and with the escalation of noise, his tension increased as well. Distracting himself, he noted that his mother had redecorated the hall, removing a bust of some relative of importance and replacing it with a crystal vase filled with roses, their scent adding to the perfume of the air.
His movement was nearly silent on the rug that lined the hall, covering the newly polished hardwood floors, but his mother greeted him at the entrance to the parlor as if she’d heard his approach.
“Ah, Quin, how good of you to come.” Her hazel eyes danced with some sort of motive.
She had the right intentions, Quin reminded himself, but her application was usually faulty. He steeled himself, taking into account those in attendance.
His suspicions were swiftly validated as he noted several young ladies perched beside their mothers, all eyeing him subtly.
His attention darted back to his mother as he bowed and greeted her. “Mother. I see you’ve been busy.”
“Someone has to be,” she quipped. She had the good grace to look abashed. “It’s not as bad as you think.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Quin observed.
“That’s because you haven’t met everyone yet.”
“And I’m sure you’re eager to remedy that, aren’t you?” Quin challenged.
“It’s like you read my mind, darling. Come.”
His mother led the way through the parlor, pausing for him to nod to previous acquaintances. Quin tried to linger in speaking with a few, but his mother was dogged in her determination, and by the time they approached Lady Freemon, Quin had accepted his fate of meeting every eligible lady in the room before the dinner began.
“Lady Freemon, allow me to introduce my son, His Grace Quinton Duke of Wesley.” Her voice broke ever so slightly over the title.
Truly, if Quin hadn’t been waiting for it, or listening for it, he wouldn’t have noticed. But it was there, and he felt a kinship with his mother for a moment.
“A pleasure.” Quin took his cue and bowed to the lady.
“Your Grace.” Lady Freemon gave a curtsy, then turned to the young lady beside her. “And this is my daughter, Miss Amanda Freemon.”
“A pleasure.” Quin addressed the younger version of her mother.
Dark hair was swept into an intricate design, far more elaborate than a “small dinner party” would require. Her cheeks turned pink at the introduction, and her hazel eyes darted to the floor. It wasn’t easy for her to be paraded about, he realized. And in a moment of empathy, he relaxed a bit.
“Thank you for accepting our invitation,” he added benevolently.
“We wouldn’t have missed it, Your Grace,” Lady Freemon assured him quickly.
His mother was already waving, all but shuffling him along to the next lady and daughter.
So it continued for the next quarter hour, though Quin would have sworn it was much longer than that. As he finished the last introduction, he heard a slight gasp beside him. Curious, he turned to see what had startled the woman. Her focus was on the doorway. He turned his attention in the same direction and froze. Lady Greatheart and Lady Catherine had paused by the door. He felt rather than saw the collective stares of the room upon them and took a step forward to greet them to break the tension. God bless his mother, she’d beaten him to it with a quick step and was already clasping hands with Lady Greatheart, welcoming them.
Lady Catherine’s eyes were lowered, as if forcing a calm that didn’t react to the interest of the ongoing stares. After a moment, she lifted her eyes to accept his mother’s welcome. For a second, he caught her attention. Quin nodded, barely, but to communicate that he understood. That he was sorry. That he saw her and welcomed her too.
Odd how such a simple gesture could communicate so much, but pain—shared pain—had a way of changing a person, changing the way things were seen.
The way people were seen.