“Wonderful. Now,” he said in a cheerful tone, releasing her hand, “I heard Oswin mentioning a plan to gather everyone for footraces after lunch was concluded, and I’ve a mind to show these young whelps how it’s done.”
She blinked in confusion but nodded, starting off again across the sand. As he fell into step beside her, he let his relaxed expression slip. Phoebe and Oswin’s wedding was less than a week away, after which they had agreed to part ways. How the hell would he get past the hurt in her to convince her to give them a chance?
For he could not contemplate sailing away from England without her by his side.
Chapter 17
What if we marry in truth?
Hours later, Quincy’s words were still swirling in Clara’s mind as she lay in her bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. Tempting her as nothing had in too many lonely years.
She flinched at the thought, guilt sitting heavy on her. No, not lonely. She’d been surrounded by loved ones, had never been without companionship.
Yet hadn’t she still been alone? Her father had been the only one who’d known of her past shame and heartache. And though she had fairly broken his heart with her reckless, thoughtless behavior, he had never wavered in his love and support of her. Something he had let her know day in and day out, through words and actions.
She’d made certain he never knew how deep her wounds cut, and that they would never heal. It was a promise she’d made to herself when she had finally emerged from the darkest days of her life, when she was able to comprehend what her mistake had cost, not only to herself, but to him as well.
With her father’s death she had not only a beloved parent, but her last connection to her child as well. The only proof that her son had even been here was a secret grave overlooking the sea and the small bundle hidden away in her room, containing a lock of palest blond hair and a threadbare blanket she had cried into for years after.
She had spent half her life keeping the memory of that child safe in her heart, at once her most treasured and her most agonizing secret. It was necessary, she’d told herself over and over. If the truth got out, she would be ruined, and by extension her entire family. Most especially Phoebe.
Now, however, as she thought of marrying Quincy, as she considered revealing everything to him, she realized that the fear of ruination, while always her greatest deterrent, was also accompanied by a need to keep the memory of her child protected. If she shared him with others, they would think him a curse, or something to be reviled. And she couldn’t stand his memory to be altered, not when he’d been so perfect in her eyes, that child she would always love and never forget.
Mayhap if Quincy were a meremistershe might have disappeared with him and had a happy life. But he was a duke. If she married him, she would be a duchess. She would be under constant scrutiny, her every move and action combed over. Her past looked at under a microscope. And eventually the truth would come out. Mayhap not that secret child. But the seduction, the ruination, would eventually come to light. She could not do that to Quincy, could not visit that upon him.
But how beautiful life would be if she could marry him and spend the rest of her days loving him.
She did not realize she was crying until her tears began to cool in the night air. She scrubbed at them, wishing she could as easily wipe away her heartache. She would have to watch him leave. With nothing to remember him by but the few kisses they’d shared, nothing to keep her warm as the years passed but a handful of passionate embraces.
Anger flared bright. Rolling on her side, she punched her pillow before pulling it tight against her chest, as if it could extinguish the fury building in her. She’d been foolish and naïve, allowing herself to be manipulated by that man when she’d been a girl. Her future had been stolen from her before she’d been able to claim it.
She shook her head sharply, her hair grating against her sheets. She wasn’t foolish or naïve now. And she decided, then and there, she did not want to spend the rest of her life with that long-ago act as her only remembrance of physical love. She would not take to her grave the hasty groping she’d endured with a man who had thought only of himself. No, she wanted something passionate and loving to remember as she grew old. With a man who had shown her nothing but respect from the first.
She was throwing off her covers before she knew what she was doing. She didn’t falter when she reached his room, raising her hand and knocking lightly at the door. In a moment it was thrown open.
Quincy’s chest was bare, his feet as well, his snug-fitting breeches leaving little to her imagination. His hair was damp from a recent bath and falling over his forehead in inky waves. His eyes flared wide when he saw her.
“Clara. What are you doing here?”
In answer she pushed into the room, closing the door firmly behind her, giving the key a twist in the lock for good measure. Then she turned to face him.
The cautious hope that flared in his eyes nearly undid her. She held up a hand to stop the words that were forming on his lips, knowing if he renewed his question to her, the one she had promised to think over in a moment of madness, she would not be able to do what she had come here for.
“I’m not here to accept your proposal,” she said, aware of a trembling in her voice but unable to control it. “I still have no plans to marry. I need you to understand that.”
She looked closely at him. His lips pressed tight, disappointment clear in his face. But he nodded.
She cleared her throat, suddenly unsure how to continue. How did one go about asking for a night of lovemaking? She suddenly had a new respect for the widows in society who had the confidence to carry on affairs. This was no easy feat.
Finally, deciding that transparency was the only way to broach this delicate situation, she straightened her shoulders and looked him square in the eye.
“I want you to take me to your bed.”
He drew in a sharp breath, longing and desire and shock and worry all coalescing in his face. “Clara—”
“I know this is highly unconventional,” she continued, cutting him off for fear he would refuse her outright. “And I know that unmarried women don’t often participate in…these things.” She cleared her throat, feeling the heat of a blush staining her cheeks but refusing to back down. “But I am not an innocent you need worry about marrying. I am a grown woman who has decided to take control of her desires. And the truth of the matter is, I want you.”
His dark eyes, glowing in the faint light from the fire in the hearth, flared with heat. She took it as encouragement to continue.