“Not in the least,” Clara responded, surprised to realize just how true that was. She was beyond fear. Having to push Quincy away had broken something in her. Now the only thing simmering in her breast was anger.
“Oh, come now,” the duchess said. “You and I both know that’s not true. Else why confront me once you learned of my attempts.”
Clara shook her head in disbelief. “You won’t even deny what you’ve been doing? That you’ve been attempting to bring to light some past scandal you imagine I committed?”
One elegant shoulder lifted. “What is there to deny? I’ve stated before that I won’t have you marrying Reigate. No one crosses me, my dear.”
The confession that she and Quincy were not engaged in truth—and had never been—battered against Clara’s lips, fighting to break free.
But she would not give the woman the satisfaction. Squeezing her hands into tight fists, she glared at the duchess. “You do not get to dictate my life,” she said, voice trembling. “And you will not decree what Quincy does, either. He is a good man, who does not deserve a viper like you for a mother.”
That seemed to finally light something in the other woman. She straightened, pinning Clara with a furious glare. “You have no idea what he deserves.”
Clara gaped at her, stunned by the poison in the woman’s words. There was pain, but also a deep disdain for Quincy. She gave the duchess a mournful look, that she could not see the treasure that her son was. “I do know what he deserves,” she replied quietly. And like a bolt of lightning it hit her just how right she was: she truly did know. Quincy deserved the truth.
As much as she feared his reaction, he did not deserve her hastily patched excuses as to why she couldn’t marry him. He was the best man she knew, so giving, so caring. He had lost his father young, had escaped the house of a woman who should have loved him unconditionally yet had only given him pain, had carved a life for himself. Then, upon returning home, he had learned of the deaths of his brothers, and that he was saddled with debts that could destroy his lifelong dreams.
Yet never in all that time had he lost his optimism for life. He had searched endlessly until he had found a solution, had shown her nothing but kindness in the process. Had taught her how to embrace a joy in life she had thought lost to her.
And what had she given him in return? Lies, and a refusal to allow him to speak his heart. Why? Because she feared that sharing her son with anyone would tarnish his memory? Because it might pain her to see Quincy’s reaction to the truth of her ruination? She was a coward. Just as she was a coward to allow this woman to manipulate her and threaten her. And the duchess would never stop. She would keep at it until Clara was trampled to dust in the wake of her fury.
But instead of the expected despair at such a realization, Clara felt freed. She knew just what she had to do.
She smiled at the duchess. The woman blinked, seemingly not knowing how to take Clara’s sudden change of mood.
Clara laughed, dipping into a deep, mocking curtsy. “Your Grace, I look forward to seeing you later.”
And with that she turned and sailed from the room, her mind already racing ahead to what had to be done.
***
A morning’s hard riding over Synne’s hills did nothing to ease the ache in Quincy’s chest. The wounds of Clara’s refusal the night before were still fresh. But he wouldn’t push his horse any farther. Nor could he escape seeing Clara again. And so, no better off than when he had fled at dawn, he turned his mount’s head back to Danesford.
The one thing he did not expect to see when turning his horse into the stable yard, however, was Clara, seemingly waiting for him.
His hands must have tightened on the reins, for the horse gave an agitated whinny and stumbled to a halt, its shoulders quivering. Quincy patted its neck, murmuring comfortingly to it before dismounting and handing the reins over to a groom. The whole while he could not keep his eyes from Clara. She stood ramrod-straight, her face arranged in its typical calm lines. But there was a nervous energy about her, showing clearly in her tightly clasped hands and her white knuckles. She kept her gaze focused on him, ignoring the bustle around her, as he walked toward her.
For a moment he stood silent before her, fighting the overwhelming desire to take her in his arms. Only the memory of her face the night before kept him from doing so.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“I came to find you.”
“Why?”
She flinched at his harsh tone but kept her gaze steady. “I’ve been unfair to you.”
Well, he certainly hadn’t expected that. Not knowing how to respond, he remained silent.
She dragged in a deep breath with seeming effort and raised her chin a fraction. “I’ve not been truthful with you, Quincy.”
“So you lied when you told me you have no plans to ever marry?”
“Oh, no. That was the truth. But I have not given you the true reasons for it. I would tell you now.”
A wild hope surged in his breast. He tamped it down as best he could. “I would very much like that,” he said carefully.
She nodded, relief and fear flashing in the deep blue depths of her eyes. Then, with a blush, she started off for the house. He fell into step beside her, his hands in fists at his sides to keep from reaching for her. All the while his mind whirled. What did this mean? Was she going to finally trust him?