“Oh, I’ve no doubt you will,” he murmured. The heat in his eyes called to something in her that made her feel at once powerful and confused.
Flustered, needing to redirect her quickly spiraling thoughts—in which she imagined what she could claim from him for being victor in this little battle of wills—she latched onto the first thing that came to mind. “I overheard you tell Peter this morning that you’ll be meeting with Lord Fletcher soon?”
He started. “What? Oh! Er, yes, I will.” He cleared his throat, shifting on the blanket as if physically uncomfortable. “Lady Tesh, it seems, was right; the man is eager to talk over terms and Mr. Dennison is quite confident we can get the price we want, despite the house being in such poor shape.”
At the mention of that place, her heart ached. But it was a good ache, that the house would finally return to what it had been.
It was not the first time they’d talked of Swallowhill since their visit. Yet Quincy had been glaringly quiet regarding one very important part of it all: Miss Willa Brandon. She might have thought he’d forgotten all about her, if it weren’t for the melancholy in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. She knew what it was to carry a silent heartache around with you, like a manacle about your foot, never allowing you to escape from the oppression of it.
Leaning toward him, she said in a low voice, “Did you think about my offer?”
Instant understanding flashed in his eyes. “You are referring to finding out more about Miss Brandon?” At her nod he shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m no closer to a decision. I just—I don’t know—”
She laid a hand over his. “I understand,” she said. “I’m in no way pressuring you. I can only imagine how hard this must be for you, loving your father as you did. Just know, whatever you may learn, should you choose to learn it, it will not change who he was to you.”
“I know you’re right,” he murmured, giving her a sad smile. “That doesn’t make it any easier, though, does it?”
“No,” she agreed softly.
They shared a quiet moment, each lost in their thoughts. Suddenly a shout went up from the rest of the group. Mr. Ronald Tunley was on the ground, a shuttlecock at his feet, laughter shaking his body. The rest of them were equally overcome, their laughs mingling with his in a joyful cacophony.
Clara smiled at the sight, her gaze lingering on Phoebe. She could not remember the last time she had seen her sister so utterly happy.
“Do you want to join them?”
She blinked and looked to Quincy beside her. Then lost her breath entirely. He had stretched out on the blanket, propped up on one elbow, his strong thighs outlined by his buff breeches, looking for all the world like a feast laid out for her to devour at her leisure.
Taken aback by her suddenly lascivious thoughts, she cleared her throat and tried to hide her flaming face by busily smoothing her muslin skirts. “Join in their game? No, thank you.”
“Don’t you enjoy battledore and shuttlecock?”
“I’m not certain. Truthfully, I cannot remember when last I played.”
“Certainly you indulged in sport as a child.”
“Oh, I did. But—”
He tilted his head when she abruptly broke off, a frown marring the strong line of his brow. “But?”
She gave a small sigh. “But I put all that aside when my mother died.”
“Ah,” he murmured. “And how old were you when she passed?”
“Nine.” She went silent a moment, remembering. Needing to say something more on that devastating time in her life—the first of many to come—she added, “Phoebe was just an infant at the time. And my brother, Hillram, not much older than her. They needed someone to care for them, to watch over them.”
“And so you gave up your childhood for theirs.”
She shrugged. “They needed a mother.”
“So did you.”
“Yes, well.” She looked into his eyes. Eyes that were full of compassion. Suddenly it was imperative that he understand. “But I had been the lucky one,” she continued, leaning toward him. “I’d had her for nine entire years. She was kind, and thoughtful, and brave. And they never had a chance to know her. I wanted them to experience some of what she gave me.”
He cocked his head, looking at her as if seeing her anew. A small smile lifted his chiseled lips. “You’re an amazing woman, Clara.”
“Nonsense,” she said on a breath, face suddenly burning. She looked to her lap.
He hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “You are,” he insisted quietly. “You decided at nine years old to be everything to everyone, to sacrifice your childhood for those you love. And it appears you have not stopped since. Even”—he grinned—“giving up playing battledore and shuttlecock.”