“Nonsense,” Clara declared. “I’m happy to do it. Now you’d best be on your way. I’m certain that our great-aunt is impatiently awaiting you in the front hall with Margery and a fleet of footmen even as we speak, ready to lay siege on the fine merchants of Bond Street.”
Phoebe, laughing, allowed herself to be shooed from the room. Alone once more, Clara turned to the pile of invitations she had yet to address for the wedding itself. Keeping the two events separate, ensuring that every detail was gone over meticulously, was proving to take up much of the household’s time, and Clara’s more than anyone’s. As she had intended. Being useful filled the time while she figured out her place once the wedding was over and done with.
Not to mention, it also kept her from spending more time than necessary in the presence of a certain handsome male.
At the unwelcome thought, Clara’s pen went skidding off, leaving an unsightly scrawl across Lady Pennyweather’s invitation. She scowled down at it before, with a huff of exasperation, she tossed it aside and picked up another to begin again. Yet now that Quincy had infiltrated her thoughts, he would not be kept out of them.
Not that she had seen much of him in the past three days. Between the engagement ball and wedding taking up her every waking moment, and Quincy preoccupied with his newly realized dukedom, she seldom saw him. Why, it was almost as if he were not staying at Dane House at all—which had proved to be equally a relief and a disappointment, much to her consternation.
That was not to say there had not been attempts by a certain someone at getting them together.
She frowned as she dipped her quill once more in the inkstand. Aunt Olivia had appeared to see the presence of an eligible duke under her roof as an invitation to play matchmaker. Not that Clara should have been surprised. The woman had made it no secret that, with Phoebe happily engaged, she was not going to rest until Clara was matched as well. It was a relief that Quincy had appeared to be completely unaware of the viscountess’s meddling the few times they had been together. It was as if the idea of Clara being an eligible female had not even entered his brain. Yes, it was a relief. And she would continue to tell herself that.
She let out a breath, pressing her lips tight in annoyance. One of the reasons she had come to the drawing room to work on Phoebe’s wedding preparations was to ensure she did not think of Quincy.
Which she was failing at spectacularly.
Letting out a low growl, she refocused her attentions on the pile of invitations before her. No easy thing, especially when Aunt Olivia’s voice carried to her from the front hall.
She feared for a moment that her great-aunt might once more attempt to convince her to join them on their outing. Not counting her growing list of things to accomplish before the ball, Clara had no wish to be paraded in front of the eligible men of London again, especially as Aunt Olivia seemed to be growing more desperate in her attempts at matchmaking, not only with Quincy but with every other unmarried male she came across. And so she waited, hardly breathing, her ear cocked for the faintest sound of that telltale cane on the stairs.
Instead she heard the welcoming echo of the front door closing. She slumped in relief. It seemed she had managed to escape any such scenarios today. With Peter and Lenora away from home for the time being, and Quincy still off at his family solicitor’s office, she could return to the job at hand.
Tightening her fingers on her quill, she put her head down and was in the process of rewriting Lady Pennyweather’s address when a deep voice sounded behind her.
“Clara, good afternoon.”
She jumped with a gasp, just managing to keep her pen from damaging the carefully penned directions. That did not stop the large drop of ink from shivering from the tip and splattering the creamy vellum, however.
“Blast,” she muttered, the frustration of ruining yet another invitation combined with Quincy’s appearance making the word come out in a hiss.
“What was that?”
“Oh! Nothing at all.” Clara turned and offered him a feeble smile. “What are you doing here?”
Which sounded horribly like she did not want him here. Only too true, of course, seeing as how her body was already reacting to his presence, her heart galloping about in her chest and her breath coming faster. Yet she could not in good conscience be so rude to the man.
“That is,” she managed, her cheeks flushing hot, “you’ve been busy these past days. How nice that you are able to step away from it.”
It was a weak excuse at best, yet seemed to suffice. “It’s been unconscionable of me to spend so much time on my own matters when I have such wonderful hosts. Would that I could put them off indefinitely.” He grinned, moving into the room.
This was the most time they’d spent in one another’s presence in three days—and the first in all that time that she’d allowed herself to truly look at him. The sparkling smile was the same as it ever was, of course. But there was something brittle to it today. She was shocked by the pale cast to his skin and the dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. As he came closer those circles became more pronounced. And if she was not mistaken, there was a new slump to his broad shoulders, proof of the toll his increased responsibilities were taking on him.
Biting her lip, she saw her productive afternoon vanishing before her very eyes. She had no wish to be in the man’s presence any longer than she had to, but she could not very well turn her back on him. Heaving an internal sigh—truly, she was the biggest fool in England—she placed her quill down and stood. “You look as if you’re dead on your feet. Sit, and I’ll order us up a tray. I’ll assume you haven’t eaten a thing since your early breakfast.”
He smiled as she gave directions to a maid in the hall before ordering him into a chair. “Clara, you are, as ever, the voice of reason and kindness personified.”
She accepted his praise with a nod. Yet bitter regret weighed heavy on her. Confused by her reaction, she turned it over as she sat, and was shocked to realize she did not want him to see her as prim and proper. She wanted to let loose her inhibitions, to follow her heart. To show him she was not all rules and lists.
A sentiment that she was swift to nip in the bud. What the devil was wrong with her? Following her heart had given her nothing but ruin and shame, and a secret heartache that haunted her to this day.
“Do you know where Peter is?” he asked as the silence stretched between them. “Before she left, Lady Tesh said I might find him here.”
And any generous thoughts Clara might have been harboring for her great-aunt went right out the window. The woman had known well and good that Peter was out, and that Clara had planned to spend the day working on the wedding preparations. Her polite smile turned to a grimace. “I’m afraid my aunt was mistaken. Peter left this morning to accompany Lenora on a painting expedition.”
A gleam of understanding lit his eyes, and Clara thought she might melt from embarrassment. Of course he would have seen Aunt Olivia’s ill-concealed attempts at pairing them up. She had been a fool to think otherwise.
“Do you know when they might return?” he asked.
“I’m sorry to say I don’t.”
For a moment the cheerful mask slipped, and he appeared absolutely disheartened. Her humiliation disappeared, compassion and a burning curiosity taking its place. Don’t ask him the reason, don’t ask him the reason. The litany repeated in her mind, stern and unyielding, yet she found she was helpless against the words bubbling up in her when faced with his downcast expression. “Was there a particular reason you needed Peter?”