“Yes,” he said, blissfully unaware of her turmoil. “It sits right between Swallowhill and the path to the beach. It’s not part of my holdings. We’re determined to find out who owns it. Dennison believes he can secure a larger price if Fletcher can get his hands on both.”
Clara’s ears started to ring, and her vision blurred. She recalled with agonizing vividness a pain unlike any other, her body torn apart. And then a much worse pain as heartbreak quickly followed.
“Clara.”
Quincy’s voice came to her as if in a tunnel, far off and distant, growing closer as reality intruded. She blinked, looking in incomprehension at him. His face was close to hers, alarm clear in his eyes. His fingers were wrapped around her arm, as if holding her in place.
“Clara,” he said, his voice low, “are you well? You nearly fainted.”
It was then she realized where she was. Not back in that small cottage, hidden away from the world. No, she was in Danesford’s drawing room, preparing for her sister’s wedding. With Quincy at her side.
She thought she might be sick.
Drawing herself up—she had slouched down in her seat in an alarming way—she composed herself as best she could. “I’m fine,” she managed.
But Quincy didn’t look the least bit convinced by her efforts. If anything, he appeared even more worried. “I think it would be best if I see you to your room,” he said. “You’ve pushed yourself today.”
“No,” Clara said, embarrassment—and the far more troubling desire to have him comfort her—rushing through her. “I’d rather stay here. Truly, I’m fine now.”
“Nonsense,” Aunt Olivia declared, thumping her cane to draw Clara’s attention to her. As if her strident tone hadn’t been able to do that just fine. “Pushing yourself will not help one bit. You wouldn’t wish to be ill for Phoebe’s wedding, would you?”
To Clara’s consternation there really was no arguing with that. Before she quite knew what was happening, Quincy had risen and was helping her up. “I don’t need assistance,” she protested. Unfortunately her body decided to betray her, her legs nearly giving out under her.
“No more arguing,” Quincy declared, slipping an arm about her waist to steady her. And then she was being whisked from the room.
“I’m merely tired,” she protested as he guided her up the stairs. The noise and chaos of the drawing room faded behind them, the quiet giving them a false sense of privacy. She ached to cry her heart out in his arms. But she could never allow herself to be that vulnerable again, not after the stark reminder of the cottage.
She had been ruined, had birthed a child out of wedlock. And that small cottage nestled on Synne’s farthest northern corner had been witness to it. All too soon it would come out that the property had been her father’s, that the deed had been transferred to her. And that she had sold it off when the pain of owning it finally grew too great. No one in her family knew of its existence. Once it was unearthed that it had been hers, questions would arise. And the truth would out.
Again she felt her stomach lurch. And she knew it was not so much that she feared tainting her family with a scandal. It had been them finding out at all.
There was a chance they might react with the same loving understanding her father had, of course. But even if they, by some miracle, did not despise her for her actions, they would view her differently, would pity her or see her as broken. After dedicating her life to them all these years, and loving them as she did, she couldn’t bear it.
“Quincy,” she tried again as they rounded the hallway to the family apartments. “Please leave me. I’m fine now, truly.”
Still he guided her on, his hand under her arm and his arm about her waist gentle, yet his profile stern and unyielding. Finally, they reached her room. She thought he might leave her then, and the idea filled her with equal parts relief and pain.
Instead he pushed her through the door, following her before closing it firmly behind him. Before she could protest he spun to face her. The wild worry in his eyes stole her breath.
“What happened?”
Her gaze fell from his, her arms wrapping about her waist as she stepped back from him. “Nothing.”
He let loose a frustrated breath, his hand combing through his hair. Tension rolled off him in waves. “Clara, please don’t lie to me. I saw the change that came over you when the cottage was mentioned. You appeared utterly devastated.”
“Don’t mention it to me,” she choked, trying and failing to forget her son’s tiny, pale face. Her heart shuddered, all the unhealed cracks she’d tried so hard to hold together coming undone.
“Clara—”
She reared back as he reached for her. “Don’t!”
He froze, his shock a palpable thing. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice slow and careful as he backed away.
She stared at him, impotent grief filling her. Tears burned her eyes. She’d been a fool to think she could escape her past, or that she would eventually forget her heartache and all she’d lost.
“I need you to leave,” she mumbled.
“Damn it, Clara—”