Her gaze rose to his, the vulnerability and longing in her eyes touching something deep in him. He ached to lower his head, to take her lips in a kiss…
Miss Peacham approached just then. “Lady Clara, if you have the time I have some questions about the cake for Lady Phoebe’s wedding?”
Clara gasped, breaking their locked gazes. He felt the loss down to the very depths of his soul.
“Of course,” she said to the young proprietress. “We can go to your office, can’t we?”
Oh, no. She wouldn’t bury herself in work again, not if he could help it.
“Actually,” Quincy said, smiling his most charming smile at Miss Peacham, “Lady Clara is taking time off from wedding preparations to spend these last days enjoying her sister’s company. Any questions can be relayed to the Duchess of Dane or Mrs. Kitteridge.”
“Of course, Your Grace!” Miss Peacham exclaimed. “How wonderful to be able to enjoy time with your sister, Lady Clara. I’ll send a note to the other ladies posthaste.” She smiled brightly and hurried off.
Clara gaped at Miss Peacham’s retreating back before turning to glare at him. “You had no right.”
“It is my duty to make certain you enjoy yourself to the fullest,” he declared. “No work for you, not as long as I’m around. Now,” he added, holding out his arm, “shall we find your sister and the rest of the party? I do believe there was talk of ribbons and frippery.”
She grumbled but nevertheless took his proffered arm. “You cannot force me to put aside all my duties.”
“I can certainly try.”
She gave him an exasperated look as he guided her from the tearoom. “You are a horrible influence,” she said, squinting as they stepped into the bright afternoon sun. “But despite your efforts, I will never be the laze-about you want me to be.”
“Perhaps,” he acknowledged, then grinned wickedly. “But you have to admit, it will be fun trying.”
She laughed, and the happiness lighting her face nearly had him stumbling on the walkway.
He knew in that moment he would do everything in his power to keep that light in her eyes. And part of that, he acknowledged grimly, keeping his features pleasant though his insides churned, would be making certain his mother stayed as far from Clara as possible.
***
Later that evening, as the rest of Danesford dressed for dinner, Quincy strode to his mother’s room. Guests would begin arriving tomorrow from all over England; he’d best get this out of the way, and quickly. He didn’t think he would be able to stomach being in her presence for long.
His sharp rap on her door was answered with alacrity by her maid. “Her Grace is not yet ready,” she said in reply to his query.
“Is she decent, at least?”
The maid blinked. “Yes—”
“That’s all I need then,” he said, pushing into the room.
“But, Your Grace—”
“You may go,” he said over his shoulder, his gaze already on his mother.
The duchess, seated at the dressing table, a box of jewels open before her, narrowed her eyes when she saw him. She studied him for a moment in the looking glass, as if weighing her chances of banishing him from her presence, before she said, “Leave us. I will ring for you when we’re done.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the maid said, dipping into a deep curtsy and hurrying out.
One side of the duchess’s mouth lifted in a condescending smile as she turned back to her jewels. “I suppose your future bride ran to you crying.”
Fury sliced through him. She was as good as admitting she had attacked Clara. He was tempted to lash out, to put his mother in her place.
At the last moment, however, he remembered Clara’s whisperedDon’t let her win. Immediately he subdued the fire in his belly. The duchess would do everything in her power to bait him, as surely as the monsters who set rabid dogs on manacled bears did. He would have to work hard to keep the power in this confrontation.
He moved forward, sinking into a chair close by the duchess, hooking one leg over the arm in a blatant show of disrespect. Her lips pressed together for a moment before her features smoothed into her typical disdain. He grinned. So it was to be a war of wills, was it? Well, she would soon learn he had no intention of losing this particular battle. His thoughts returned to Clara, her eyes haunted. He had too much riding on it.
The seconds passed, the ticking of the clock on the mantel seeming to grow louder with each jerk of its hand. Quincy remained silent, waiting, knowing how it would unsettle his mother and taking a disturbing amount of pleasure at the thought. She ignored him and continued to dig through her box, the grating scrape of jewels and gold dragging against one another rending the air. Brilliant rubies and sapphires winked at him as she rummaged. He had seen enough of his brothers’ papers to know that they had replaced most of the family jewels with paste copies in their quest to bleed the dukedom dry. He wondered how many of his mother’s pieces had been sacrificed in their attempts. And if she even knew.