Blinking back tears—that dream had never come to pass, and never would—she pulled the ring from its bed.
“Oh, Clara, how lovely. Try it on.”
Before Clara could react, her sister plucked the ring from her palm and slipped it on her finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been patiently waiting for her to grow into it all these years. Tears burned her eyes, though happy memories had supplanted much of the sadness she expected to feel.
“Oh, Clara, it’s like it was made for you.” Phoebe sighed, resting her head on Clara’s shoulder as she admired the ring. “It’s hard to believe we’ll soon both leave this place. I’ll miss Danesford.”
“As will I,” Clara murmured, trying and failing to banish the feeling of hopelessness that coursed through her as she removed the ring and placed it back in the box. She loved Danesford so very much. Yet she also knew she would never leave this house. She would grow old here while Peter and Lenora raised their family. And later, when their children were grown, she would watch them go off to live their own lives.
She started at the unexpected grief. Wasn’t that exactly what she had wished for, to stay here with her family, to remain useful to them?
Why, then, did that dream suddenly sit heavy on her?
Blessedly Lenora arrived, breaking her from her melancholy. “Clara dear,” she said with a smile, “this came for you from London.”
Her heart leapt in her chest as she spied the now-familiar handwriting. In an instant everything else was forgotten as, a smile breaking over her face, she rushed to take the letter from Lenora.
“Thank you so much.” She turned to Phoebe to excuse herself, but already her sister was laughing and shooing her out.
“I’ll put Mother’s box away,” she said with a grin. “Go and enjoy your letter.”
A quick glance at Lenora’s face, still smiling but strained with underlying worry, nearly had Clara halting her exit. But the call of the letter in her hands was too great. She didn’t stop until she was safely ensconced in her room. Leaning back against the closed door, she eagerly cracked the seal.
Quincy’s handwriting, as bold and exuberant as the man himself, jumped out at her from the page.
My sweet turtledove (and once again my brilliance shows),
Mr. Richmond must be tired of my company, the poor chap, for he has suggested I travel to Synne posthaste, as there’s nothing further to be done here in London. In fact, I’m so anxious to get to the Isle that I won’t be long past the arrival of this letter. Though this correspondence is scandalously short, and in order to hasten my departure, I wish you a temporary adieu…
Your besotted beau,
Quincy
Her heart pounded in excitement that, by tomorrow, he should be at Danesford. The very thought left her dizzy.
Suddenly she froze, crushing the letter in her grip. What was wrong with her? This was no mere excitement for an acquaintance’s arrival. This anticipation was much more potent, affecting her entire being. Especially those secret parts of her that had reawakened with their kiss.
She had been fooling herself in believing she and Quincy could ever be mere friends. Though she had been certain they could put their kiss behind them and act as if it had never occurred, it had, in fact, changed everything.
Was this the reason, then, that the idea of staying on at Danesford felt so wrong now? She knew it was the only path available to her, but the drive to make the best of it was gone. And as anticipation, not concern, continued to sizzle along her veins, she knew: she was in trouble.
***
He was in trouble.
Quincy urged on his mount as he left the ferry dock. His heart beat in rhythm to the horse’s hooves on the road, excitement building in him. It wasn’t due to the promise of sleeping in a soft bed or seeing his closest friend, though. No, it was the thought of seeing Clara again.
It surprised and troubled him how much he had missed her. How had she gotten under his skin with one kiss? Even as he wondered it, however, he knew it had started before then, with every dinner spent beside her, each walk with her on his arm. She was kind and humorous, smart and quick-witted. There was a depth and passion to her that fascinated him, making him want to uncover what she was hiding from the world. Their kiss had only brought into sharper focus how affected he was. And it hadn’t waned in her absence. When he wasn’t at his solicitor’s office, his days had been spent searching the townhouse for things she might have left behind and waiting impatiently for her letters to arrive.
He wouldn’t even think about his nights…
He frowned, shaking his head sharply to dislodge the thought. Was there something more at work here than desire? Was it possible he was beginning to fall for her?
He blanched. He was about to see everything he’d ever wanted realized. The devastating mountain of inheriting a bankrupt dukedom was about to be scaled; with a bit of effort he would see the deeded property quickly sold off, the money used to patch up the dukedom and help the tenants, and he could be on his merry way again. He had no time for falling in love.
Which he most certainly wasn’t. He was a passionate fellow, after all. And flighty, and a hopeless romantic as well. He’d been infatuated over the years more times than he could count. And perhaps, in feigning love for Clara, he’d begun to fool himself as well. Were his acting abilities that impressive? Had their playacting gone to his head?
He let loose a strained chuckle, though only the horse was there to hear it. Of course that was it. There was nothing in his relationship with Clara to endanger his plans. No matter that he was attracted to her, that he had kissed her—that he would gladly kiss her again—he was certainly not falling in love with her. He breathed in deep of the warm sea air, welcoming the promise of summer into his lungs, relief filling him—until another equally disturbing question took shape in his mind: while he was certain his heart was safe, had she formed a tendre for him?