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She attempted a smile back, though it was clear from the way her gaze suddenly shuttered that she was not the least bit convinced.
“Now,” he said, reaching for the lemonade pitcher and refilling her glass, “I need your opinion on something of the utmost import.”
She blinked several times, no doubt confused as to his lightning-fast change of subject. But she let out a relieved breath and tilted her head. “Of course.”
“Now that I have the means to save the dukedom and I can plan my travels in earnest again,” he said, sitting back in his seat, “I find myself not at all content with starting in Spain, as I had originally intended. I’ve a mind to go a bit farther afield. If you were to sail the world, where would you start your journey?”
“Goodness.” She gave a startled laugh. “I’m not sure I’ve ever considered it.”
He raised a brow. “Surely you learned geography from your governess.”
“Of course,” she scoffed.
“Well then?” he prompted, clasping his hands on his stomach and waiting expectantly.
She pursed her lips, taking a considering draught of her lemonade. “I suppose,” she ventured slowly, “that I would love to go to Italy. Though,” she finished hastily, her cheeks coloring, “you might think that too expected.”
“Not at all,” he murmured. “I would love to see it as well. But why Italy?”
She shrugged, picking up another biscuit on the table and crumbling it with her fingers. “My father often told us tales of his Grand Tour. My brother, Hillram, was fascinated by the idea, and begged Papa to tell him of his travels there so often we had them memorized. He dreamed of going one day. But of course, with the war raging, he was never able to.”
“Hillram,” Quincy repeated quietly. “He was the one engaged to Lenora some years ago, was he not?”
“Yes.” Her smile turned sad. “He was a good man. It was devastating when he died. He was too young.”
He studied her a moment. The expression in her eyes was one he’d never seen in her before. Wanting to know more about this side of her, he said quietly, “Tell me about him.”
She gave a small laugh. “You don’t wish to hear me wax poetic about my late brother.”
“I assure you,” he said, “there is nothing I would like better than to hear about your brother.” And in the process, to learn of something that had made ClaraClara.
The realization hit him hard. It was not only this part of her past he wished to know, but all of it. Every triumph, every heartache. To know what had shaped her into this amazing, giving, complex woman.
This was so much more than the physical draw he had for her, and well past the close friendship they’d developed in recent weeks. Such a realization couldn’t fail to open a door he had not considered before: that he was growing to care for Clara much, much more than he had thought possible.
“He was younger than you, was he not?” he prompted, as much to get her talking as it was to distract himself from his unexpected thoughts of her.
“By five years,” she replied, the doubt leaving her, a fond remembrance taking its place. She smiled. “He was a vibrant thing from the start, always so happy, with a boundless energy and an optimism that could not be stifled, even when the odds were stacked against him.”
The look in her eyes was so unguarded, his heart stalled in his chest. “You helped raise him?” he asked, his voice a touch hoarser than it had been. She nodded. “Tell me what he was like as a child.”
And she did. Tales emerged from her, like a dam that had been breached, of Hillram’s childhood antics, the pranks he pulled on his tutors, the time he had been sent down from school for some infraction or other. She told it all with a pride in her eyes, and a fondness that was made bittersweet by the muted grief in it.
He was struck that he had never met anyone so perfect for motherhood. And he wondered again why she had never married and set up a house of her own. She was beautiful, kind, loving. She came from a good family. What had happened that had kept her from having children of her own?
His mother’s voice came back to him then from that fateful day in Dane House’s drawing room when Clara had jumped in to save him by claiming they were engaged.
I do not think the late duke was ill these past fourteen years…One wonders why Lady Clara did not marry before his illness.
He nearly recoiled at the invasive memory. But now that it had taken hold it would not let him go. From all accounts her father had doted on her. Why had he not given her a season? Why had he allowed her to remain a spinster, toiling away in his home, watching over his younger children? Quincy had learned through letters from Peter that the previous duke had made them promise to give Phoebe a season. Why, then, had Clara been allowed to languish?
But what was this? Was he going to allow his mother to poison his thoughts, to pollute his opinion of Clara? He damn well wouldn’t.
Blessedly she was so engrossed in memories of her brother, she didn’t notice his inattention. Nor would she have reason to, he vowed. For the next half hour he made sure his focus did not waver from her. Their table was cleared, their drinks refreshed, and all the while she talked of Hillram, and Phoebe, and her life on the Isle with gentle prodding from him. And the image he had of her became clearer, more in focus, the colors more vibrant than he’d thought possible.
Eventually her attention was snagged by something out the tearoom window. She started, her cheeks turning red. “Goodness, how long have we been sitting here?” She gave a strained laugh, pushing her seat back, lurching to her feet. “What you must think of me, prattling on.”
He rose beside her, grabbing her hand when she would have hurried away. “I’m glad you told me all of that,” he murmured. “I like knowing more about you.”
