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A sob broke free from Clara’s lips. As she buried her face in her sister’s neck and the rest of them consoled her, Quincy ached to go to her.
But now was not the time. Let her family show her that she was loved, that she had not lost their respect. There would be time for him to tell her his own feelings on the matter, and to renew his offer for her hand. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the reason she had refused him, some heroic attempt to protect him from this tragedy. When in reality it just proved to him that she was even stronger than he had believed her to be, and made him love her more.
To live with such a thing for so long would destroy anyone. Yet she had funneled that grief into a positive, throwing herself into loving her family in every way she could. He would be blessed indeed if she accepted him.
And then he would spend the rest of his life making her happy.
A sudden movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. When he turned to find his mother slinking from the room, fury welled up in him. How this woman must have terrorized Clara into revealing this painful truth about herself.
He hurried after her. “Mother,” he growled when he reached the hall.
“Not now, Reigate,” she said over her shoulder, no doubt desperate to escape the unintended consequences of her actions.
“Yes, now, Mother,” he spat. His long legs had him quickly overtaking her. He spun to face her, halting her in her tracks. “I told you to leave her alone. Yet you could not, could you?”
She threw her hands up in the air. “How could I? Does it surprise you that I would allow a woman such as that—”
“I warned you, madam,” he snarled, “that I will not look kindly on any insult to Clara.”
Her mouth closed with a snap. Though uncertainty flared in her eyes, she glared at him with a righteous fury. “I had a bride picked out for you. A young woman of good family who would provide us the means to recoup all we’ve lost.”
“You mean you groomed a lonely girl, someone you knew would be easily manipulated. You tried to fob her off on my brother. And when I arrived, you saw a way to control me, the one son you had no hold over, by transferring her to me. Though I wonder,” he said with a curl of his lip, “that you had any control over your older sons. Didn’t they utterly destroy the dukedom, after all?”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” she hissed.
“No, you’re right in that,” he replied. Sudden exhaustion dragged at him. He’d known all along that this woman, who should have loved him as unconditionally as Clara’s family loved her, would never be capable of giving him what he’d needed from her. But as he was faced with the proof of her unswerving bitterness he realized that he didn’t despise her for it. Rather, there was a deep grief for what they might have had. He felt the loss of it, of that thing she had stolen from not just him, but herself as well, down to his soul.
Had he returned to her house to truly say goodbye for good? Or had there been a part of himself that had hoped she might have changed? If that hope had ever been in him, however, it was dead now.
“After today I will not want anything further to do with you. But,” he said when she made to go around him, “know one thing: you will not speak a word of Clara’s past to anyone. If word gets out, I will know who caused it. And you will regret it.”
Her eyes shot outraged fire at him. “You think to frighten me?”
“Yes,” he said, the word blunt and hard. “And don’t forget, I will not be alone in my revenge. The Duke of Dane will be behind me, as will Viscountess Tesh. I think it safe to say the punishment would be dire indeed.”
Finally common sense seemed to make an appearance in the form of fear, quickly stifled under a blanket of pride. “Very well,” she bit out. “I vow I shall not say a word.”
With that she went to go around him again. This time he let her, painfully aware of just what she had stolen from him: a happy childhood, with wonderful memories that he should have been able to look back on with fondness as he grew older.
Impotent anger welled up in him, so unexpected he demanded, quite without thinking, “Why do you despise me? You’re my mother; you should have loved me and supported me.”
She froze, then turned slowly to face him. And he was stunned mute at the hatred twisting her beautiful features.
“If I act as if I despise you it is because I do. With everything in me I despise you.”
He gaped at her. “You’re a cruel woman.”
“Cruel? Your father was the cruel one, foisting his bastard on me to raise as my own.”
“It’s a lie,” he managed, shaking his head in desperate denial, his mind racing. His father had known how miserable Quincy had been, how horrible the duchess had made his life. Surely he would have told him if it was true.
“And what reason would I have to lie to you?” she demanded. “Revealing the truth now gives me no benefit. I cannot see you made illegitimate, for your father made sure everything was drawn up nice and tight. And I risk being kicked from my home and cut off.”
Still he could not process what she had just revealed. Surely this was just some attempt to hurt him. The duchess had always gone out of her way to do that.
Yet he could not deny that, beyond that, there was no benefit for her in this. And the woman never did anything without making certain she benefited from it.
He felt sick down to his soul. As he stood staring at her in shock, she smirked and started off down the hall.
