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“That kindness, the ability to bring joy to people.” She pointed her cane in Phoebe’s direction before jabbing it toward Clara. “You gave her that gift.”
“Oh.” Clara blushed, rearing back from the cane as it nearly clipped her nose. “I’m sure that’s all Phoebe. No one can teach that.”
“Poppycock,” Aunt Olivia said before shooing Clara to the side.
Clara slid over on the settee so the viscountess could sit. “How are you enjoying the wedding festivities thus far, Aunt Olivia?” she asked. “You must be so pleased; I don’t believe anyone expected such a turnout.”
The older woman didn’t answer. Instead she peered closely at Clara as if searching for something. Finally, when Clara had begun to think she wouldn’t answer, she said, “I’m as pleased as you expect me to be. Which is not very, for there is still room for improvement. I shall not be satisfied until Lady Crabtree admits she was wrong. And I suspect that will only be gotten when hell turns to ice. But what’s different about you? Something has altered since yesterday that I can’t quite put my finger on.”
Clara, in the process of taking a sip from her wineglass, promptly choked. “I don’t know what you mean,” she croaked. “Mayhap Anne did my hair differently tonight. And this dress is new.”
“No,” Aunt Olivia said, her eyes narrowing. “It’s not something so simple and obvious.”
Flustered, desperate to distract the woman—for there was one thing, and one thing only, that Aunt Olivia could have sensed different in her—Clara said, “I’m sorry you were unable to bring Freya down. I know she would have been well behaved, though others feared otherwise.”
As expected, the change of subject worked beautifully. “Oh, that Lady Crabtree,” the viscountess grumbled, shooting the woman in question a dark look. “I know she was behind it. She’s as sour a woman as I’ve ever met. And she still isn’t over me bringing Freya to her house when we visited her in London. As if my darling pet acted as anything but the angel she is.” Aunt Olivia sniffed, her offense at such a snub palpable.
Clara’s relief that she had successfully redirected her great-aunt’s attentions was short-lived.
The viscountess swung back to pin Clara with a piercing look. “But don’t think you shall get out of answering me. I know there’s something different about you. And I’d be willing to bet you’re aware of it, too, or you wouldn’t have taken such pains to bring up something that infuriates me so.” Her look turned smug as Clara gaped at her. “I’m not as senile as you all think I am; I know when I’m being manipulated, young lady.”
“Oh, do you?” Quincy drawled, sauntering up to their corner of the drawing room.
Clara’s entire body responded to his approach, her heart picking up speed and heat blooming low in her belly. She had always wanted him, of course. But it was so much stronger now.
More than that, however, was the happiness that bloomed in her chest from his presence. Just being near him brought her joy that had nothing whatsoever to do with physical desire and everything to do with his effect on her heart.
“Don’t think to charm me, my boy,” Aunt Olivia said. “I’ve dealt with your kind before.”
“Now, that’s highly doubtful,” he said with a wink and a grin. “I’m certain there are no others quite like me.”
“Well, that’s true enough,” the viscountess grumbled. “But don’t just stand there. Sit; my neck aches from looking up at you.”
As he sat, Aunt Olivia speared him with a sharp glare. “I hear you spent much of the morning with Mr. Dennison and Lord Fletcher at Swallowhill.”
“You are, as always, impressively well informed. I met up with them quite by accident after an early ride into town, and Lord Fletcher was eager to see the place. Though the house is in bad repair, he was so taken with the view I don’t see a problem in getting the highest price possible.”
They droned on, discussing the merits of its position, the fertile soil, the bones of the house. But Clara couldn’t focus on any of it. She was too aware of Quincy’s nearness. His hand rested on the arm of his chair, mere inches from her own. She couldn’t help but remember those strong fingers on her skin, bringing her to such pleasure.
What would he do if she reached across that small space and laced her fingers with his?
She tightened her hand around her wineglass to keep it in place. Such an act would be as good as a declaration to Quincy, considering what was between them and what had yet to be resolved. He would see it as a sign that her decision had been made.
When in reality she was even more mired in doubt.
That morning she had been so certain she should refuse him. But now…
Now, after spending the evening in his company, pretending what they had was real, she couldn’t imagine ending it. What they had wasn’t just a physical connection, nor merely a shared association of secrecy. No, it was much deeper, built up over the past weeks into something abiding and true, bringing a light and joy to her life she never thought to have.
And she wanted a future with him so much she ached.
It was stupid to even consider it when just hours ago she had been so certain it could never be. It was the maddest of mads.
And yet nothing had ever made more sense.
“And there’s a small property with a tidy little cottage on it that butts up against Swallowhill. Lord Fletcher’s of a mind to purchase it as well.”
Quincy’s voice was like a bucket of cold water over her head. Her insides turned frigid with shock, her mind going numb. “A cottage?”
