And those eyes. Damnation, those beautiful clear blue eyes that widened when she saw him. Her full lips parted on a soft gasp of air.
He bowed a second later than was polite. What the devil was wrong with him? “Lady Clara, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
The delicate rose of a blush spread up her neck and settled, bright and warm, on her cheeks. She gave a quick, shallow curtsy. “Mr. Nesbitt. How lovely to have you back in England.”
Quincy, please. He just managed to hold the words back, knowing such familiarity would be ill advised. If there was anything he didn’t need right now, it was more to tempt him with this woman.
Her blush deepened as his silence crept on. She looked to Lenora. “Shall I have Mrs. Ingram make up that room then?”
Before Lenora could answer, Quincy stepped forward, his hand raised. “No need, my lady. I’m staying at Mivart’s.”
Was that relief in Lady Clara’s eyes? Or disappointment? Before he could wonder at it, her expression shifted, taking on a pleasant if blank expression.
“Oh, but we have more than enough room,” Lenora said. “And Lady Tesh will be ever so disappointed. She always speaks fondly of you.”
Quite an accomplishment, that. Peter’s irascible aunt, the Dowager Viscountess Tesh, was as plain-spoken and opinionated a woman as he’d ever had the pleasure to know. And he adored her.
“That is because she has wonderful taste,” he teased. “But I shall be about so much, you’ll no doubt grow sick of me.”
“Very well, you stubborn man,” Lenora grumbled. “But you shall be the one to tell Lady Tesh.” Suddenly her expression changed, her mouth falling open in dismay. “Oh! But I have quite forgotten. We’re expected for tea at Lord and Lady Crabtree’s and are already running behind schedule. Phoebe is recently engaged to their son, and this shall be our first informal meeting with them. They are quite the sticklers for propriety,” she added ruefully.
Peter groaned. “I had forgotten.” He gave his wife a pleading look. “I don’t suppose I can stay behind?”
Quincy couldn’t help but grin at his great beast of a friend, who looked more the part of Viking than duke, begging his wife for a respite from tea. In the next moment he was hard-pressed to keep from laughing out loud as the small and delicate—and utterly unterrifying—Lenora leveled a stern look on her husband. Especially as she had to crane her neck to do so.
“Peter, you know you must attend. This meeting is important.” She turned to Quincy. “You are, of course, welcome to join us. You’re family, after all.”
Warmth filled Quincy at that, and he nearly relented. Especially when Peter gave him a look that fairly begged for his company.
But he knew, deep inside, that accompanying them on their outing would only be a way of delaying the inevitable. As much as he wished he could postpone forever, it was time to visit his family.
Now that the moment was at hand, he felt the beginnings of panic settling in his gut. Still, underlying the anxiety was a sense of relief. In short order it would be over and done with. And he could move forward.
Filled with a new determination, he smiled at Lenora. “Alas, I have an errand to attend to.”
“You will return this evening?” Lady Clara asked. Her cheeks bloomed with bright color. “To make certain we have enough places set for dinner,” she explained. “And to mollify Lady Tesh. She’ll be livid she missed you.”
The anticipation Quincy had begun to feel at the thought of returning to this house suddenly increased. “Yes,” he replied, unable to look away from the deep blue of her eyes, “I’ll be back.”
Chapter 2
There should not be a single thing distracting Lady Clara Ashford from her sister Phoebe’s upcoming nuptials.
Yet Clara could not focus. Seated in Lord and Lady Crabtree’s drawing room, her family discussing with the groom’s a possible time line for the wedding, Clara’s mind wandered to inky black hair and eyes as dark as the night sky. Mr. Quincy Nesbitt. Goodness, she had not thought to see him again. Yes, Peter talked of him often, read his letters aloud when they arrived, and voiced his hope that his friend would once again grace English shores. But she had not believed the man would return.
No, that was not exactly true, was it? She peered into the milky depths of her tea, swirling the remaining liquid about with her spoon until it created a small cyclone in her cup. She had hoped he would not return. A selfish thing, she knew, when Peter loved him so well.
It was self-preservation, really. She had nothing against the man. He was one of the loveliest people, both in face and in spirit, she had ever had the pleasure to meet.
But from the moment she’d met him a year ago she’d found herself taken with his incredible good looks and sparkling manners. And each meeting thereafter, as few as there had been, had only increased her attraction to him, making her long for things she could never have.
Which was something she would not think about. With Phoebe marrying and beginning her new life with Oswin, the last of Clara’s responsibilities was going off with her. She cast a surreptitious glance around the room. It was time to become useful elsewhere, to find her new place within the family. She refused to be a burden on these people she loved so very much.
The only question now was, where did she fit in with the new family dynamic…if she even fit in at all?
The sharp voice of Aunt Olivia—the formidable Lady Tesh—cut through Clara’s morose thoughts and brought her back to the conversation at hand.
“We shall need six months at the very least, perhaps eight, to plan a wedding appropriate for a duke’s daughter.” She thumped her cane on the floor, spearing Lady Crabtree with a stern look. Aunt Olivia’s small white dog, Freya, jumped at the sound before huffing and settling more firmly into her mistress’s lap.
“Better yet,” the dowager viscountess continued, “let us plan for a spring wedding. That way we may be certain that everyone who is anyone is in town for the event.”
“I agree, my dear Lady Tesh, that we should take the time to plan a proper wedding,” Lady Crabtree stated officiously. “However, Lord Crabtree and I insist on the wedding being held at our country estate. It is the only proper venue.”
“Proper?” Aunt Olivia’s nostrils flared, making it look as if she had caught a whiff of manure in the silk cushions of her chair. “To have half of society trek north for days? No, I will not allow my great-niece to be insulted by a sparse guest list.”
“I hardly think the guest list will be sparse. My husband is a marquess, after all, and my Oswin is in line for the title. No one would dare turn down an invitation.”
“Not to mention, of course,” Aunt Olivia replied with all the silky danger of a snake about to strike, “that Phoebe is the daughter of a duke.”
A triumphant gleam entered Lady Crabtree’s eyes. “So we are in agreement then. The wedding shall be held at Hedley.”
“Over my dead—”
“Perhaps,” Clara broke in, laying a staying hand on her great-aunt’s arm, “we should ask the couple what their wishes are. After all,” she continued with a serene smile, “nothing matters more than their happiness. Isn’t that right?”