Quincy might have kept his countenance if his mother had spoken of anyone else. That name, however, spoken with such smug condescension, nearly floored him. He spun to face her, the demand that she explain herself sticking in his throat, choking him.
Triumph lit her eyes. “Did you think I did not know of her? Of course I was aware of your father’s sidepiece. And that he hid her away on this godforsaken island.”
He thought he might be sick. Yes, he knew men of his station took mistresses. Yes, he knew it was an accepted fact in society that a man would betray his marriage vows. That did not mean Quincy had ever seen it as anything other than reprehensible. Even for someone who had been in such an unhappy union as his father had been.
And there was the true crux of the problem. He had looked up to his father as what all men should be: a good, kind, giving man who had been dealt a bad hand in life with his wife, but who nevertheless always did the right thing.
Now, however, that exalted image was tumbling down about his head.
As if she read his thoughts, her smile widened, transforming her beautiful face into a terrible mask. “How it must gall you, to know your father was not perfect.”
Her words, said with such cruel glee, finally snapped him from his shocked silence. He glared at her. “This changes nothing,” he lied. “And if you think this little ploy of yours, baiting me with knowledge I’m fully aware of, will keep me from throwing you off the Isle, you are sadly mistaken.”
“Mayhap not,” she conceded, though she didn’t look the least bit convinced. “But there is still the matter of Lady Phoebe and Lord Oswin’s marriage.”
Damnation. And with her recent friendship with Lady Crabtree, the duchess’s influence over that woman would be that much stronger.
“If you do anything to threaten their marriage—” he growled.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she drawled. Suddenly her gaze sharpened. “As long as you don’t cause any trouble.”
Furious, impotent, he pulled open the door and stormed out into the hall. Damn cruel woman. She was Satan in a gown, the very devil in his midst. And she held all the cards.
At least for the next few days, until Phoebe and Oswin were safely wed. After which there would be nothing holding him back from telling her exactly where she could go.
And in the interim, he would not allow her to harm even a single hair on Clara’s head.
***
Clara adjusted her skirts over the rock she was perched on and breathed in deeply of the fresh sea air. Trying and failing to rein in her anxiety from doing absolutely nothing.
Farther out on the beach Phoebe and her friends—the group swelled to double its previous number with the arrival of several wedding guests just that morning—packed away their picnic lunch. Their happy chattering carried on the breeze, laughter threaded through it, like busy seabirds making merry along the shore. And here she sat, watching as they cheerfully worked at clearing up, forbidden by Quincy to lift a finger. Clara let loose a frustrated sigh.
“You make it seem as if sitting back and letting others take control is torture.”
Quincy’s voice rumbled with suppressed laughter. She cast him a disgruntled glare where he perched beside her, looking more relaxed than she probably ever had in her entire life. “That’s because itistorture.”
He chuckled, leaning back on his elbows, giving her a wicked grin. “I’m glad I’m here to guide you in the ways of the lazy, then.”
Clara rolled her eyes, even as she longed to drink in the sight of him stretched out beside her in the cheerful afternoon sun. “I hardly think you’re lazy, Quincy,” she couldn’t help saying. Truly, the man was all long, lean muscles. Something she could attest to due to that kiss they’d shared in London. A form like that did not come without hard work and effort.
She shivered despite the warmth of the day. And not because she was in any way chilled. Oh, no, quite the opposite.
“I’ve been known to shirk my duties for a day of fun,” he quipped. When she did nothing more than blow out an irritated breath, he surged to his feet.
Startled by the abrupt movement, she stared up at him. The suddenly intense look in his eyes didn’t bode well for her.
“That’s it,” he declared, holding out his hand. “Allowing you to sit and watch the work being done is not helping you one bit. You need to be removed from the scene. Come along then.”
“I don’t see how that will change anything,” she scoffed. Nevertheless, she placed her fingers in his and stood before him. “And where are you proposing to take me off to?”
A hot look flashed in his dark eyes, his fingers tightening on hers. It was gone in an instant, the devil-may-care grin back in place. But that was all it took to send her thoughts spiraling to wholly improper places. Made so much worse by his murmured, “You’ll see.” When he tugged on her hand she followed readily, even eagerly, her heart pounding in anticipation as her steps shadowed his.
Warningbells pealed in her head, a frantic indication that if he were to take her in his arms she would be utterly lost. But they were distant, muffled, and losing their power by the instant. She was hardly aware of the sand slowing her half boots, of the breeze tugging at her bonnet, or of the fading sounds of gaiety. Her entire focus was on the feel of his fingers gripping hers and the sight of his strong back as he guided her along the cliff face that butted up to the small beach.
“I am going to assume,” he said, turning to help her over some rocks, “that you have not been exploring since you were a young girl.”
She dropped her gaze to the ground beneath her feet, praying he would attribute it to her need for balance and not to a need to avoid his gaze. She was already aching for him; goodness knew what it would do to her if she looked into those mesmerizing obsidian eyes of his.