He raised one inky brow at her. “Not in the least. You deserve to enjoy this time with your sister. In a week she shall be married and off on her new life.”
She had been ignoring that fact as best she could. But coming from Quincy in such a simple way, it cut her to the quick. And the problem was, she could not even be angry that he had brought it up. He was right; after the wedding it would be some time before she saw Phoebe. It was devastating, when they had been inseparable since their mother’s death.
All but for that year, when she had hidden away to birth a child that would not live to take its first breath.
The memory crashed over her, taking her off guard. She quickly tucked it back into the darkest region of her heart, but the flavor of it stayed with her, making her stomach churn.
She schooled her features into a mild outrage, praying Quincy’s sharp eyes didn’t catch the moment of shocked grief. “I cannot abandon the wedding plans. It’s in aweek.”
Lady Tesh eyed her with pursed lips before she turned to Margery. “Can Lenora and Mrs. Ingram take over the remainder of the planning?”
Margery, eyes gleaming in understanding, nodded emphatically. “Oh, certainly. Why, Clara has done such a wonderful job that there’s hardly anything left to do at all.”
Clara gaped at her. “Youare against me, too?”
“Not against you, dearest,” her cousin answered. “Merely wanting to make certain you don’t regret anything. In the coming years, when you look back at this time, I guarantee you it will not matter a whit that the flowers were just so, or that the dress was hemmed just right. The thing you’ll remember most, the thing that will live on in your heart, is the time spent with Phoebe.”
There really was no fighting that. Clara slouched in her seat. “Very well,” she grumbled.
Margery beamed, clapping her hands. “Oh, wonderful. Phoebe will be so happy.”
“You won’t regret it, my girl,” Aunt Olivia said, giving Clara a small smile that was entirely too smug. Before Clara could make sense of it, Freya, seated in her mistress’s lap, gave a soft yip. Lady Tesh’s attention was immediately diverted. “Do you wish for a little something to eat, my darling?” she crooned.
Margery moved forward. “Shall I take her to the kitchens?”
“Nonsense,” Aunt Olivia snapped. She cradled Freya with one arm, holding her other hand out imperiously. “Help me up. I’ll find her a bit of something myself.”
Margery, looking thoroughly confused—for when had Aunt Olivia ever turned down a chance to have someone else do her bidding?—nonetheless helped the viscountess up and, giving Clara and Quincy an apologetic look, guided her grandmother away.
Quincy chuckled quietly. Clara shot him a dark look. “And just what is so humorous in this?”
“You act as if you’re about to ascend the gallows.” He grabbed at her hand, giving it a squeeze. “It will be enjoyable. You’ll see. And the wedding won’t collapse without you. I promise.”
If his words hadn’t been enough to soothe her, his touch certainly was. A delicious warmth crept through her, making her fairly melt in her seat. Without meaning to, her thumb drifted over his knuckles.
Immediately his expression shifted. The smile fell from his lips, his lids lowering over eyes that burned with a mesmerizing fire. He leaned closer to her, and she found herself swaying, like a puppet on a string, toward him. The space between them on the settee disappeared in an instant. Her gaze pulled away from his, settling on his firm lips. She drew in a shaking breath, wanting more than anything to taste him again…
A commotion sounded at the drawing room doors. And then the butler’s voice, ringing through the air.
“Lord and Lady Crabtree, Lord Oswin. And the Duchess of Reigate.”
***
Quincy’s first thought upon hearing his mother announced was that the woman had the damnedest timing, for wasn’t this the second occasion she’d disrupted such a moment between him and Clara?
The second thought was much more violent in nature. What in hell was his mother doing here?
He released Clara’s hand, lurching to his feet. Surely this was some lurid nightmare. That was it, he was dreaming. Why else would he have come so damn close to kissing Clara again? He had spent the better part of the past week burning for her, made worse by the necessary subterfuge of him playing the part of besotted fiancé. The more time he spent in her presence, the more the line between fact and fiction was blurred. There were times, he found to his dismay, that it wasn’t so much an act as it was the deepest desire of his heart.
Even so, he never allowed himself to forget that this was all for show, and would be over once Phoebe was safely wed. And he had never once attempted to kiss her again. Until now.
Yes, this was surely a dream. With his mother’s presence quickly turning it into a nightmare.
He surreptitiously took the skin of his wrist between two fingers and pinched, hard. But he did not waketangled in sheets from a night of restless tossing as had become his custom. His heart dropped. No, this was most assuredly not a dream. Damn it.
His mother stood with all the regality of a queen beside Lord and Lady Crabtree and their son. Her eyes landed on him, and her lips lifted in a cool smile. “Reigate.”
He stiffened. “Mother.” He cast a glance around the room. Every eye was on him in varying degrees of dismay and confusion. He should smile and feign politeness, then guide her into the hall to rain fire and brimstone down upon her in private for daring to come here. She was up to something. He was sure of it. Her self-satisfied smirk was proof enough of that.