If Quincy hadn’t promised he would make an appearance at the ball, he would have gladly crawled into bed and pulled the covers over his head.
He put the finishing touches to his cravat, trying and failing to rein in the hopelessness that threatened to engulf him. Mr. Richmond’s letter informing him that the papers from the Lancashire house had arrived had seemed a beacon of hope. But in the last hours Quincy had come to the realization that he’d been fooling himself. If anything, the documents had only made his situation more dire. Reigate Manor was fairly rotting from negligence, the grounds in no better shape. Added to that the repairs demanded in the village, a decade and a half of inattention leaving the people desperate, and a need for expediency had been added to the whole mess. He could not let the tenants hurt any longer than necessary. And so it seemed there was no more hope to be had.
But now wasn’t the time. He had a ball to attend, and people to charm. And a fiancée to see to. He did not have time for self-pity.
Clara’s face swam in his thoughts, and for a moment he forgot his troubles. These past days, as he’d waited with increasing anxiety for word from Lancashire, she had been the brightest spot. And his suspicions that there was more to her than he’d first assumed were proven right with each stroll, each conversation.
He peered at himself in the glass, making one final adjustment to his cravat before hurrying from the room, suddenly anxious to get to her. How was she handling this evening? Was she enjoying herself? Was she so fixated on her sister that she forgot to eat?
Then and there he determined to focus on Clara tonight. Not only would she have someone looking out for her—not a common occurrence, as he’d seen firsthand—but it would take his mind from his own troubles as well. And if there was anything he needed, it was to pretend for a few blissful hours that he was still the same carefree fellow he had always been, before the noose that was the dukedom had been placed around his neck.
The sounds of revelry grew in volume as he reached the stairs, proof that Lady Tesh’s wishes on this being the crush of the season had come to fruition. He hurried around a group of stragglers loitering in the front hall, hardly noticing as they fell silent and stared as he passed, his focus on the hall clock.
Damnation, was he truly that tardy? Not a one of Peter and his family would reprimand him for the lateness of the hour—well, save for Lady Tesh, who would be only too happy to rake him over the coals. No, his guilt was self-inflicted. These people were more family to him than his own had ever been. He should have been here for them, to celebrate Phoebe and her good fortune, to raise a glass with the others on this momentous occasion.
To lend an arm for Clara to lean on.
It did not matter that they were not engaged in truth. He cared for her.As friends, he reminded himself sternly. But all the more reason to help her where he could.
The noise grew louder, conversation and laughter and music all coalescing into a nearly unintelligible roar. It should have perhaps warned him of what he was to find at the end of his journey. Just then, however, he ducked around a group of ladies conversing near the doors to the ballroom. They fell silent as well, their eyes widening when they saw him before they began a mad whispering.
A sliver of unease dug its way under his skin as he entered the ballroom. That unease transformed into shock as he caught sight of the sea of humanity before him.
Which made it that much worse when the butler, having spied him, announced in sonorous tones, “His Grace, the Duke of Reigate.”
Well, hell.
The hush that momentarily fell over the room suddenly exploded in a din of voices even louder than before. So much for making a quiet, unobtrusive entrance. How had he forgotten just how title-hungry thetonwas? That the appearance of a new duke in London was like waving a red cape before a bull?
And he couldn’t blame them one bit. A long-lost heir, returning from America to find himself a duke? It was a story straight from a novel, too sensational to be real. His lips twisted. This was his life now. As much as he wished it otherwise.
Plastering a carefree smile on his face, he sauntered down the stairs and into the throng.
And was immediately set upon by a veritable tidal wave of well-wishers.
Thoughwell-wisherswas a generous term. They smiled and shook his hand heartily, claiming whatever tenuous connection to his father or his brothers or, worse, his mother that they could manage to concoct as an excuse for ignoring the rules of polite society in not waiting for a proper introduction, the calculation in their eyes unnerving.
But Quincy, while completely unprepared for such a barrage—though why he had been foolish enough to think his first entrance into London society might go unremarked upon was beyond him—was not without talents. He grinned and shook hands heartily and winked at the ladies, charming his way across the ballroom.
Even so, he could only be grateful when Clara came charging through the crowd, his knight in shining silk, wielding a fan instead of a sword.
“Your Grace, my cousin requires your assistance,” she said, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm. She smiled at Lady Fulton and her two eager daughters, gave pretty excuses to Lord Kendrick and Lord Greeveson, complimented Lady Bulville on her turban, and deftly extricated Quincy from the small crowd that had closed in around him.
He exhaled for the first time in what felt hours, letting loose a small chuckle. “Well, you’ve gone and saved me again,Clara.Truly, I have a running debt with you that I’ll be hard-pressed to pay off.”
“You may not be thanking me in a moment,” she muttered, sidestepping a group of elderly ladies that would try to intercept them. “But we have to do this before I lose my nerve completely.”
He blinked, taking in for the first time the seriousness of her face. Before he could question her on it, however, Lady Tesh called to them, her strident voice carrying through the crowd, seeming to push a clear path through sheer intent alone. She waved her cane, and the few people who had not heeded her unspoken wishes to get out of the way scuttled aside with alacrity. Quincy, bemused and not a little apprehensive, rather thought that if she donned a long white beard she would make a fine Moses.
“It’s about time, my boy,” she snapped as Quincy and Clara approached.
If he hadn’t already adored her, that short, clipped sentence would have earned her his eternal devotion. After the past minutes of fawning flattery, all of which had made him feel akin to a damp rag wrung out to dry, her insistence in seeing him as nothing more thanQuincywas like a balm to his soul.
“Missed me, did you?” he murmured, kissing her lined cheek. “Well, I have missed you, too.”
“Flatterer,” she said, though the faint flush of pleasure on her face softened the arch tone considerably. “But we’ve delayed long enough.” And with that she peered up toward the orchestra gallery, giving a regal nod.
“You didn’t have to wait on announcing Phoebe and Oswin for me,” he said.