“I tried.”
Peter snorted. “Tried? There is no trying, man. Only doing.”
Quincy gave a humorless laugh. “She wouldn’t let me.”
There was a beat of silence. Peter stared at him, uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand.”
Quincy exhaled in frustration. “I started to say the words.I love youwas literally coming out of my mouth. She stopped me; refused to hear it.”
“Refused?” Peter’s jaw dropped. “How the hell does a person refuse to hear a declaration?”
“I don’t know,” Quincy replied with a grim smile. “But she did it, I assure you. Said she didn’t want to hear it. Claimed it would make things worse.” He drained his glass, needing the burn of the whiskey in his gut to drown out the desolation that was beginning to take over him again. “I know something happened to her, something that damaged her ability to trust. But she won’t tell me.” He slammed the empty glass down on the small table beside him, the agitated action doing nothing to ease his frustration.
Peter remained quiet. Too quiet. Quincy looked at him and was shocked at the guilt that filled his features. His senses sharpened, and he sat forward. “What is it, man?”
Peter studied him for a long moment, his clear blue eyes clouded with whatever troubled thoughts were swirling about in his head. Finally, he spoke.
“You’re right that there’s something in her past that nearly destroyed her.”
The breath left Quincy in a rush. Before he could ask what that thing was, however, Peter held up a meaty hand.
“But I cannot tell you the particulars. She told me in confidence last year when I reconciled with her father. It took an incredible amount of strength to reveal it to me; I cannot break her trust. Not even for you.”
Whatever excitement and hope had been building in Quincy was doused in a heartbeat. “You’re right,” he said, slumping back against his seat. “And I wouldn’t want you to tell me. I need her to trust me, or this won’t work between us.”
Peter nodded morosely. “I wish with all my heart I could tell you, to help you in any way I can. Though—”
“Though?”
Peter frowned. “I do get the feeling she didn’t tell me the whole of it.” He shook his head, as if clearing a troubling image from his brain with force. “Truthfully, I’m not certain she’s ever told anyone the whole of it. Though everyone around her adores her, I don’t think I have ever seen anyone so lonely.”
The words chilled Quincy. It was too true; he’d sensed it himself. Whatever happened to Clara, she’d made a life out of distancing herself from everyone around her. And it seemed years in the making.
“I’ve seen a change in her since you arrived,” Peter added quietly, his gaze considering as he regarded Quincy. “There’s something different about her, a joy in life that wasn’t present before.” When Quincy could only stare at him, Peter leaned forward, clapping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I pray she confides in you, my friend. For both your sakes.”
“I do, as well,” Quincy said quietly.
Chapter 20
No matter the heartbreak of the night before, no matter the sleepless hours Clara had spent staring up at the ceiling in a futile attempt to forget Quincy and what they might have had, the world kept turning. It seemed impossible that it could do so. And yet there was the proof of it, the sunlight streaming in through Clara’s window as the following day dawned bright.
Rising from her bed was the very last thing she wanted to do. So she pulled the covers up over her head and curled into a ball on her side instead. Mayhap if she pretended the day hadn’t begun, it might hold off indefinitely. And she need not face Quincy again.
That hope was dashed minutes later when her maid entered.
“Lady Clara, the sun is shining on this wonderful day,” Anne chirped. “Let’s get you up and dressed; I’m sure there’s much to do.”
Clara only closed her eyes tighter. Beyond her cocoon of blankets the maid moved about the room, her cheerful whistle accompanying the closing of doors and the rustle of clothing as she set out Clara’s gown and things for the day. The pathetic hope that Anne might leave when Clara stayed stubbornly tucked under her fabric mound died a swift death when the maid yanked the covers back. The sunlight assaulted her senses and she recoiled from it with a low moan, pressing her face into her pillow.
“Come now, Lady Clara,” Anne said with a bright smile. “It’s a beautiful day, and you’ve only so many hours in it to enjoy.”
Normally Clara appreciated Anne’s optimism. Now, however, it grated on her. It seemed nothing should be happy again, not while her heart was in tatters.
But she couldn’t put off the day indefinitely. Heaving a sigh, she rose from her bed, wincing as her muscles protested. She had not realized just how tense she had been throughout the night, how stiffly she’d held herself in an attempt to contain her heartache.
Anne quickly went to work, and in no time Clara was nearly ready for the day. As the maid put the finishing touches to her hair, however, Clara’s mind began to wander. And what should it wander to, but Quincy.
She would never forget the stark hurt on his face last night. Or how badly she had wanted to call him back and retract every cold, untruthful thing she had said.