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“Leave.”
The single word was quiet and stark, as broken as she felt. And more powerful than any shout could have been if his reaction was anything to go by. He sucked in a sharp breath, dropping his hands to his sides, his strong shoulders drooping as if all the fight had drained out of him.
“I told you I had no intention of marrying,” she continued, purposely slicing through her pain, needing the wound to stay open and bleeding in order to find the strength to break from him. He was stubborn, perhaps even more stubborn than she. It would be no easy thing to convince him that what they’d had was over.
She rearranged her features into cool disdain and forced herself to lie.
“Mayhap you thought my coming to you last night was a confession of deeper feelings than are truly there. But it was just physical, Quincy. If you believed that our proximity today was an indication that I had changed my mind about marrying you, you’re wrong. How else were we to continue making the others believe our engagement was real if not to continue pretending we were in love? I intend to see this agreement of ours through, and then we may both go our separate ways after Phoebe’s wedding without any expectations. Just as we determined we would from the start.”
He stared at her a long moment, the only sound their harsh breathing mingling in the gaping abyss between them. Then, with a silent nod, he turned and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Leaving her alone with her heartbreak.
***
Quincy didn’t know how long he sat on the stairs with his head in his hands. The sounds of merriment drifted down the hall to him, the muted laughter and conversation making him feel more alone than he ever had in his life. Even after his father died, when he had huddled under his desk crying, he’d not felt such desolation. Then, he’d used that grief to fuel his anger enough to leave that place and forge a new life. Now, however, there seemed no option where he would win. A life without Clara was no life at all; no matter that he’d told himself he would leave if she refused him, he saw now he’d been fooling himself. And he could not see a way past whatever was holding her back.
After what seemed an eternity, he felt a hand on his shoulder. But though the weight of it was too heavy to be Clara’s, it was still one he knew well.
“Peter,” he said without looking up. “Shouldn’t you be helping your wife?”
His friend grunted then sank, with a sigh, to the step beside Quincy. “I do believe this is a more pressing problem.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Quincy muttered. Even so, he could not dredge the strength to raise his head.
There was a beat of silence. And then his friend’s gruff voice softer than Quincy had ever heard it: “You’ve fallen in love with Clara, haven’t you?”
That finally was the prodding Quincy needed to rally some energy. He straightened, casting a disgruntled look at Peter. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Right now, there is no place more important. And I’ve two good ears to hear whatever you might need to get off your chest.”
Just then a burst of laughter rose up from the drawing room. “But not here,” Peter muttered, casting a glare in the general direction of the sound. He rose, nudging Quincy’s shoulder. “Come along then. We’ll hide away in my study and you can tell me everything.”
“And if I don’t wish to tell you everything?” Quincy grumbled as he rose and fell into step beside Peter, torn between frustration that his feelings had been seen so clearly and relief that his friend wanted to help him.
“Then you can stay sullen and silent and listen to me prattle on about what a horse’s arse you are.”
The normalcy of the insult drew a reluctant laugh from Quincy. Soon they entered the study and Peter closed the door firmly behind them.
“I swear,” Peter muttered as he strode to the sideboard, “I was a damn fool for agreeing to this mad scheme of Phoebe’s. Whole house overrun with spoiled aristocrats. This is my worst nightmare come to life.”
“Except you are now one of those despised aristocrats,” Quincy said with as much levity as he could muster. Which was not very much. With a groan he lowered himself into a chair before the hearth. The fire blazing merrily away could not warm the chill that had taken root inside him.
“Don’t remind me.” There was the faint clink of glass. And then Peter was at his side, pressing a drink into his hand. “Besides, you’re one of those aristocrats, too,” he said as he lowered himself into a chair. “Though after getting to know your mother’s character these past days, I understand why you wanted to leave it all behind. Just let me know if you want me to throw the woman out on her ear. I shall do it, and gladly.”
Quincy snorted. “Do you truly want the wrath of the Duchess of Reigate on your head, man?”
“She may be a duchess,” Peter said with a wicked smile, “but I’m a bloody duke now. And if I can’t utilize it for something good, what the hell is the purpose of it?”
The laugh that burst from Quincy’s lips was freeing. “Damn, but I’ve missed your company.”
Peter grinned. “And I you. Though,” he continued with a stern look, “don’t think this gets you out of discussing Clara.”
In a moment Quincy’s mood, which had begun to lighten, fell back into its hopeless gloom again. “What is there to talk about?” he muttered, taking a drink of his whiskey. “She won’t have me, and I see no way to get past the defenses she’s put up around her.”
“You’ve proposed then?”
“I did ask her if she would marry me in truth, yes.”
“And you told her your feelings?”
