The man flushed—actually flushed. “It’s silly, really.”
Well, now she was truly curious.
She bit her lip and scooted forward in her seat. “Perhaps I might help in Peter’s stead, if you’re comfortable sharing.”
He let loose a chuckle, though there was an undercurrent of strain to it. “Truly, it’s so ridiculous as to be laughable. I’d hoped to meet with my mother this afternoon. There’s only so much I can glean from papers, and there are certain aspects of the dukedom I find…unsettling.” His lips twisted in a pained smile. “I admit, I’m dreading it. We’ve never had the healthiest relationship.”
“And you had hoped to bring Peter with you as support?” Clara asked quietly.
The warmth in his eyes sent her heart right up into her throat. “You’re uncommonly perceptive. Yes, that is exactly what I’d hoped. I should perhaps have planned more in advance for this. But once the idea took hold I only wanted to get it over and done with.” He let out a breath. “You must think me a veritable coward, that I would need my friend to accompany me.”
“Oh, certainly not cowardly,” Clara was quick to declare. She leaned forward and laid a hand on his sleeve, heart aching from the self-disgust barely concealed in his dark gaze. “This situation cannot be easy on you. We all need support from time to time; there’s no shame in it.”
He looked down at her hand as if trying to make sense of it, making her realize just how forward she had been. Just as she was about to pull it away, however, he laid his hand over hers.
Every one of her senses centered on her fingers, trapped between the hard muscles of his forearm and the strength of his hand. A longing in her belly reared up, swift and potent. How starved she must be for physical touch to react in such a way to something so innocent. A feeling that only intensified as his eyes darkened and dropped to her lips. She found herself swaying closer to him—
The butler’s voice tore through the moment like an arrow through the heart of a target. “The Duchess of Reigate.”
* * *
It took Quincy several long seconds to comprehend what was happening. One minute he was transfixed by the deep blue of Clara’s eyes, the rosy fullness of her lips.
The next she’d pulled away with a gasp as the butler announced…his mother?
Well, hell.
“Reigate.”
The title, spoken in that hard, bitter voice, latched onto the base of his skull like talons. And any peace he might have found in Clara’s presence went right out the proverbial window. He lurched to his feet, spinning to face his mother, his breath leaving him in a low hiss. She’d purposely come here with no warning, knowing how much he would hate being caught unawares. It was a wonder she hadn’t stormed the solicitor’s offices.
Quick to recover, he sketched a shallow bow that would be certain to infuriate the woman, rearranging his features into an unconcern he didn’t feel. “Your Grace. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Her hard eyes traveled to Clara before settling on him again. “You have remained absent since your abrupt departure from Reigate House. It was only after some effort that I learned you were staying with the Duke of Dane. I’m glad to see you’re at least not bringing your uneducated American ways back with you, and are embracing your status by consorting with your own kind.” She arched one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Though I certainly did not expect to find you entertaining a light-skirt in His Grace’s home.”
Fury pounded, swift and fierce, through his blood. He was not one to anger quickly, and it hit him all the harder for it, a crashing wave that drowned out his intention to remain aloof. He took a step forward, unable to control the trembling in his clenched hands. “You will not insult Lady Clara. Apologize to her. Now.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Clara?”
Her tone dripped with disbelief. Before he could demand she leave, however, Clara moved to his side, her hand light on his back, grounding him as nothing else could have.
“Your Grace,” she said, dipping into a graceful curtsy. “In my cousin the Duke of Dane’s absence, I welcome you to Dane House. I am Lady Clara Ashford.”
It was prettily said, with not a hint of censure in it. Yet the undercurrent of steel beneath the words, the emphasis on her status, did not go unnoticed by him. Or his mother, if the considering look she gave Clara was any indication.
The duchess inclined her head in a regal tilt.
And that was all. No apology, no remorse for the great slight to Clara. But Clara’s brief feather-light touch to his back had reminded him to rein in his raging temper. He perhaps should have been concerned by the strength of his reaction to a mere touch from her. In that moment, however, he could only be grateful. If there was anything he needed just then, it was to remain in tight control of his emotions. His mother had ever looked for weaknesses in others, and exploited them wherever she could.
“Yargood,” Clara said into the silence, “if you would be so kind as to add two extra cups for Her Grace and her guest to the tray being prepared?”
As the butler turned to go, Clara’s words brought Quincy’s notice to the slight woman half hidden behind the duchess. She was a colorless little thing, her blue eyes wide in her pale face. Her blond hair, so light as to be nearly white, was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Even her gown was without color, the pale gray dress only enhancing the waxen look of her.
A choked sound escaped her thin lips when his eyes fell on her. She dipped into a deep curtsy and held it so long, he nearly rushed forward to assist her back upright.
The duchess considered him with sharp eyes as the girl straightened. “May I present Lady Mary Durant.”
No other explanation as to who the girl was, or why she had accompanied the duchess to so private a meeting. No doubt, from the way his mother gazed at him like the proverbial cat that licked the cream, she wanted nothing more than to see him squirm in curiosity.
But though the name Durant snagged at something just out of reach in his memories, he would not give his mother the pleasure. He schooled his features into his typical rakish devilry and dipped into a bow. “Lady Mary, how absolutely enchanting to make your acquaintance. May I present Lady Clara Ashford?”
As Clara greeted her, deftly guiding the two women to a circle of comfortable seats, he cast a sideways glance at his mother. The smug smile had not left her face, instead only increasing into a kind of cold satisfaction.
Trepidation wormed under his skin, a chill shiver that had his hair standing on end. What the devil was the woman up to?
Though there were plenty of seats to choose from, he found himself gravitating toward Clara, sinking down beside her on the settee. His mother could be cruel and had already insulted Clara beyond bearing. He would protect her as well as he could.
Yet he knew, deep down, it was Clara doing the saving. He needed her calming presence, as the effect of her touch on his back had proven. This meeting was unsettling him much more than he would ever admit.
“Lady Mary,” Clara said with a small smile for the girl, “have you been in London long?”
The sudden infusion of color to the girl’s cheeks did nothing to help her complexion, leaving mottled splotches across her face and down her neck. “I have arrived just this morning,” she choked out.