Home > Someday My Duke Will Come(6)

Someday My Duke Will Come(6)
Author: Christina Britton

Though it was different now, wasn’t it? Mixed in with the familiar grief was something much sharper, much newer, a creeping regret for a life of her own, a life that had been stolen from her in one ill-conceived moment.

Why this sudden ache deep in her gut for the impossible? Was it because of these weeks in London witnessing the wide-eyed hope of young women just starting out on their futures? Or was it due to her younger sister, the last living member of her immediate family, marrying and leaving her?

Or worse, was it due to Mr. Nesbitt’s return?

While the first two were natural reasons for her sudden restlessness, the last was troubling indeed. Nothing could come of it, even if she wished it. Which she did not.

At least she kept telling herself that.

“I shall concede that Phoebe and Oswin will marry at Danesford. I am not such a harridan to deny them what they wish. But”—Aunt Olivia pointed a glare at each and every person in the room—“I will not miss out on a grand London engagement ball. I will have that much, at least.” She gave an injured sniff.

“As will I,” Lady Crabtree joined in with an outraged air. “Oswin is my eldest, after all.”

“Of course,” Lenora soothed. “With Clara, Margery, and myself working together, we can manage it in a week, I think, and leave for Synne the following morning. Phoebe, you do not oppose such a scheme, do you?”

“Not a bit,” she said with a smile.

With that the planning began in earnest. And Clara found her exhaustion returning tenfold. It had all seemed a dream, her sister leaving her. Now, however, with the dates and times pinned down, bringing that possibility into clear focus, she could see the end of their time together, the end of her usefulness. And it frightened her.

For years she had been the foundation of their family, holding them together after her younger brother Hillram’s death some four years prior, and then during their father’s lengthy illness. With his passing last year she might have felt lost, for most of her time and energy had been spent caring for him. But there had been Phoebe to look after and see through the grief, and Peter to help guide in his new position as duke.

Yet now Peter was more than capable of taking on the duties that had been thrust on him, and Phoebe was setting off on a new life. And Clara was left behind.

A hand on her arm brought her back to the present. She blinked owlishly, looking into Margery’s concerned face. She realized belatedly that they were quite alone.

“The others have decided a walk in the gardens is in order,” she explained gently, “to get some air. And, I suspect, to provide a bit of distraction for my grandmother and the terrifying Lady Crabtree.” Her full cheeks lifted in a wry smile.

“Of course,” Clara said, trying with all her might to shrug off the sadness that continued to cling to her like a barnacle. She forced a smile, standing and shaking out her skirts. “Let us be off at once.”

But Margery’s hand landed once more on her sleeve, staying her. “I think,” she said quietly, “that it might be wise for you to return to Dane House.”

“Nonsense,” Clara declared, though she could not meet her cousin’s eyes for the understanding she knew she would find there. Margery might not know the tragedy in Clara’s past, but she had an intuitive soul and had offered Clara a compassionate ear more than once in the past year of change and upheaval.

That did not mean, however, that Clara could take her up on her kind offers. Clara only knew to be strong, to help where it was needed, to prop others up when they might collapse. She didn’t know how to lean on another—and feared ever finding strength again should she let her guard down.

But despite Margery’s mild disposition, she could be stubborn when she put her mind to it. “I will not hear another word on it,” she declared, pushing Clara toward the door. “They have gotten the important details out of the way and shall only be discussing the color of the flowers and the style of cake. Besides”—she gave Clara a sly look—“think how much help you’ll be by returning home and giving Mrs. Ingram and Yargood advance notice of the coming move. There is no one who can start the necessary coordination of packing and preparation like you.”

Clara gave her cousin a smile. “You can be a crafty thing, did you know that?”

Margery grinned. “Go,” she said firmly, shooing Clara out the door.

Clara relented, giving a soft chuckle as she turned for the stairs. Just as she reached the ground floor, however, Margery called her name. Clara looked up and spied her cousin’s round face peering over the banister.

“Oh, and dearest? Lenora quite forgot to tell Mrs. Ingram of Mr. Nesbitt’s appearance for dinner. Can you please let her know?” Her eyes shone. “How exciting to have him back in England. I cannot wait to see our friend after so long.”

Dazed, Clara could only watch numbly as Margery waved merrily and ducked out of sight. For a blessed moment she had forgotten him.

But she was not a young, impressionable girl any longer. She was a woman, with much more sense than she’d had at fifteen. Yes, Mr. Nesbitt was handsome, and kind, and she was attracted to him as she had not been to anyone in ages. But that did not mean she was foolish enough to act on her desires. With so many years of practice at keeping her head in control and in silencing the urgings of her heart, it would be an easy thing to ignore her feelings for the man.

And perhaps, she mused wryly as she accepted her outer things from the butler, she might eventually believe it herself.

* * *

 

Quincy took a steadying breath as he looked up at the imposing façade of his family’s London townhouse. It had taken a good pounding ride, followed by several hours of walking the stately streets of Mayfair, to get him to this point. And still something deep inside urged him to turn tail and flee and not look back. When last he’d been this nervous he’d been a mere lad, leaving this place for a new life. Away from the hell that home had become and the terror of the future his mother had mapped out for him.

But no, this feeling wasn’t the same. His hand tightened into a fist, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached. The anxiety he’d felt then had been overshadowed by youthful pride, and rage, and a certainty that the path he was about to embark on was right. And he could not regret it one bit. He had carved a new life for himself, had made himself into a man he could be proud of.

Now, however, his nervousness was accompanied by the anger of a man who knew what he’d been robbed of, who had seen that there were loving mothers in the world who did not feel obliged to ship their sons off to war in order to rid themselves of the burden of them.

Fury pounded through him, so hard and fast he could feel the pulse of it in his temples. He saw it clearly then, the reason he had delayed coming back, that thing that the anger had sprouted from like a poisonous weed. No matter he was a grown man and had spent half his life building his confidence, along with his fortune; he was still that frightened, hurt boy who could do no right.

Well, no more.

Shoulders set in determination, he strode up the front steps and rapped sharply on the grand oak door. Within moments it swung open.

Quincy had not realized what seeing the butler would do to him. For there was Byerly, still at his post, though with a decade and a half of gray hair topping his head, new lines bracketing his eyes and mouth, and extra weight about his middle.

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