Peter scoffed. “I’m not that drunk.”
Lenora, who was busy fending off her husband’s amorous affection, rolled her eyes. “As I can only assume your inebriated state has to do with Quincy’s news, you are forgiven. If you can behave.”
At once Peter straightened, though the sage nod he gave her nearly had him tipping right back into her. “Anything you say, my love. And as you are all no doubt waiting on the story behind Quincy’s news—and my head is spinning at a frightening speed—I’ll leave the floor to my friend here.”
But Aunt Olivia was through with waiting. She rounded on the duke. “Are you or are you not the missing fourth son of the Duke of Reigate?”
There was a flicker of pain in the man’s eyes. “I see you recall the history with impressive clarity,” he replied. Then he flashed her a devilish grin that did not fool Clara one bit. “Not that I’m at all surprised. I would never underestimate you, my lady.”
“Don’t pour that charm on me, m’boy,” she said with an arch of her brow. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough while you got my nephew here drunk out of his mind.”
“I am not drunk,” Peter repeated before looking to his wife with a frown. “Am I talking too loud?”
“Hush,” the viscountess said before turning back to the duke. “Out with it. And no more of your prevaricating.”
His attempts at levity were gone in an instant. “I suppose there is no sense in delaying it. I am the missing son,” he replied quietly.
Aunt Olivia fairly puffed up at that. “And you all thought I was losing my mind,” she said to the room at large. “I am not so old that I do not recall such an important detail as the old duke having four sons and not three.”
Again the pain in his face. Clara realized in a horrified instant that, having been separated from his family by an entire ocean for so long, he would not have learned of his siblings’ deaths until today. His shock at his new status confirmed that he had not believed it possible. How devastating must it be to lose nearly your entire family in an instant?
Without thinking Clara leaned toward him. “I am so very sorry for the loss of your brothers.”
He blinked, and she thought she detected a sheen of moisture in his eyes. But his expression was warm as he murmured in his deep voice, “Thank you.”
His dark gaze bored into her, and she felt for one brief, shining moment a link between them that stole her breath. In the next instant his expression changed, his eyes going flat as he seemed to close himself off from her. He stood with a suddenness that had her jerking back.
“But I’m exhausted and still have much to do. My tipsy friend here has insisted I stay at Dane House for the time being. He claims it’s because he will be able to assist me more easily as I transition into this new position of mine. I do believe, however, that he cannot stand to be out of my charming company.” He gave a small laugh.
The rest of the women laughed along with him, declaring their joy that he would be staying with them, bidding him cheerful farewells as he said his goodbyes in order to fetch his things from Mivart’s.
Clara, however, could only look on the scene with a frown. How was it that no one seemed to see the strain the man was under? How were they oblivious to the turmoil brewing just beneath the surface?
He strode out into the hall and out of view. Clara was on her feet before she knew what she was doing.
“Your Grace,” she called, hurrying after him. He froze halfway to the front door, his broad shoulders tensing under the snug fit of his dark coat at her use of his new title, and she winced.
Turning, he gifted her with a strained smile. “Lady Clara, I’m glad you’ve come after me, for I must ask your forgiveness.”
She stumbled to a halt before him and blinked. Of all the things she had expected him to say, that was not it.
“You must have thought me a candidate for Bedlam when I arrived. Yet you have been all that is kind and helpful. You eased my discomfort, helped facilitate a conversation between Peter and myself.” He grinned. “Reined in Lady Tesh.”
She gave a small, startled laugh, even as embarrassment filled her at his praise. And a disconcerting regret that he saw her merely as a friend who had come to his aid.
Which was ridiculous. That’s all she was to him, and all she ever should be. She would gladly help him as she would anyone else who was in distress. And determinedly ignore the small part of her that wanted more.
“Thank you,” he finished, with an intensity that sent her brain momentarily scrambling for purchase. “Thank you so very much for your help.”
She nodded, flustered. “Of course.”
He cocked his head to one side. “But I have not let you have your say. You were coming after me for something?”
Was I? She blinked, thoughts whirling, trying to latch onto something coherent. The only thing that filled her mind was the image of his devastatingly handsome face peering down into hers.
Finally—finally!—she lit upon one thing that would make perfect sense. That it was far from the comfort she had initially hoped to provide could only be seen as a positive.
“You came on foot.”
One of his dark eyebrows arched. “Yes.”
“You are going to fetch your things. I assume you don’t have a carriage to assist you in that endeavor.”
“I assure you, I don’t mind walking back to the hotel. And I can hire an equipage when I’m ready to return.”
“Which is truly silly, when Peter has plenty on hand to help. I’ll have one sent on to meet you there. Would an hour suffice?”
A small, bemused smile lifted his sculpted lips. “It would. Thank you, Lady Clara. As I’ve said, you are most kind.”
A small, rebellious voice suddenly whispered inside her, urging her to show him that she was not all unselfish goodness and helpfulness. It surprised her, that voice. She had become quite expert at ignoring it in the decade and a half since her ruination, so much so that it had not made an appearance in a good long while.
Why, then, did it reappear now? And why was it so hard to quiet? But she would not allow that passionate side of herself to gain the upper hand. She had vowed long ago never to let it rule her again; she was not about to lose that battle now.
She dipped into a proper curtsy, keeping her expression serene. “Until later, Your Grace.”
As she turned to go, his voice stopped her.
“Please, call me Quincy.”
She nearly lost her balance. His voice, so deep and soft, was like temptation in the garden. She shivered against the pull of it. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.”
“Please.” When she opened her mouth to refuse once again—hadn’t she already had this fight within herself just moments ago?—he spoke. “You all are like family to me. It would mean the world if I remain simply Quincy with you.” His lips quirked, a sad imitation of a smile.
Her heart plummeted—how could she possibly refuse such a request, though she knew it was the most foolhardy thing she could do?—even as she saw this development for the positive thing it was. Family. They could treat one another as family, and surely her strange infatuation for him would disappear. Especially with him staying at Dane House, being around her at all hours. He would be like a brother to her. Or a cousin. A very, very distant cousin.