An Affair So Right (Rebel Hearts #4)(2)
Deacon smiled, glancing around the room as he did to see who was near. “The usual business?”
“Is there anything else that prevents me seeing my friends but my father’s orders?”
“None so far, but I am sure that your future wife might have the ability to sway you one day.” Deacon’s eyes sparkled with mirth, glancing toward the distant drawing room, where Miss Cushing had vanished. “Did Templeton’s latest matrimonial prospect catch your fancy?”
“Hardly,” Quinn grumbled. Deacon knew the challenges Quinn faced thanks to his overly ambitious father. “I swear she squeaked.”
“Could be amusing in the right setting. At least you could find Miss Cushing in the dark, should you ever misplace her.” Deacon laughed suddenly. “Mary would have set down a plate of cheese for her, had you expressed the slightest interest in marrying the girl.”
“She would have, too.” Quinn raised his glass with a deep sigh. He missed his little sister, but never more so than today—on the anniversary of when she’d ended her life.
“To Puddleduck,” Deacon said, raising his glass, too. Deacon was one of the few friends who knew today’s significance to them. Suicides were rarely spoken of in polite circles.
Quinn’s sister had been seventeen when she’d drowned herself. Three and Twenty in a few weeks’ time. It still shocked him that she was gone. Quinn’s nose itched, and he forced a laugh out to fight his sadness. “She adored the name you gave her.”
“She was a good sport. But at least Puddleduck is better than the nickname you gave her,” Deacon scowled. “The Pestilence was hardly a respectful name to give any lady.”
Mary had been something of a pest as a child, and calling her the Pestilence had stuck until her last year. “She never minded the names.”
In hindsight, perhaps the nickname hadn’t been the best choice to give to his younger sister. No one had sensed her unhappiness or known her emotions were so fragile. Mary had died so young, for reasons that to this day baffled him. His second younger sister had appeared happy one day, full of plans for the future, her season, marriage, and babies, and yet had waded out into the sea at the family estate fully clothed and drowned—as she must have known she would.
Quinn surveyed the room, his thoughts stuck on that tragic day. The sun had been shining, and he’d had good news to share about his new command and had run out to the cliffs to tell her about it. Discovering Mary face down in the churning sea was a shock Quinn would never forget. He hadn’t been able to save her. She’d already been gone too long by the time he’d pulled her from the water.
“She gave as good as she got. What was her nickname for you again?”
“Bumblefoot, on account of my lack of prowess on the dance floor,” Deacon said glumly. “At least that was accurate. I still can’t dance well enough to please the ladies I like.”
Mary had been Deacon’s friend. Quinn had assumed they’d marry once Mary came of age, and she finally noticed Deacon had adored the ground she walked on. They had always been whispering to each other and laughing over the silliest things no one else had found remotely funny. Deacon had taken her death as hard as any member of the family.
All except for Father. Templeton hadn’t shed a tear.
Quinn regarded his parent as he spoke loudly and with great enthusiasm without any respect for the anniversary they had planned to mark today. Templeton had covered up the suicide swiftly and had told everyone to forget her.
Quinn couldn’t do that and had suffered for his disobedience.
Mother openly marked each anniversary just to spite her husband.
“Maitland?” Deacon regarded him solely, and the softly spoken word drew him back from the dark abyss of his grief and anger. It was always there, catching him off guard. He couldn’t accept that he’d never know why she’d died.
He forced his fists to uncurl. “Father and Mr. Cushing are as thick as thieves tonight, but I’d rather die without an heir than marry his daughter.”
“I’d like a smart wife who was happy to put up with a fool like me.” Deacon’s grin faded to apprehension. “Watch out. He’s got that look about him. Oh, damn and blast it. He’s coming our way,” Deacon complained
Quinn quickly turned his back on the room to peer out the window. Outside, Londoners were going about their business without a care in the world. And the world was finally at peace. Napoleon was locked up; the French army and navy thwarted by the might of the British forces. Life should be pleasant.
Except that it couldn’t be while his father pursued his own agenda to direct Quinn’s life.
“Ah, Lord Templeton,” Deacon bellowed with great enthusiasm. “Excellent dinner as usual. Your dear wife has outdone herself yet again. My sincere compliments to your cook and staff, too. I can’t remember the last time I’ve ever felt so full, except for Lord Sanderson’s dinner last week. But do you know I had to turn down a second helping of that fine pork chop that night because it left the faint aftertaste of lemon in my mouth? None of that at your table here, of course. Lady Templeton would never allow such culinary faux pas beneath your roof, would she?”
Quinn struggled not to grin. Deacon could natter on about dinners, and the food served to him, for hours on end. He bored everyone with his little speeches—always on purpose. It was a useful skill Quinn couldn’t hope to emulate but appreciated. Deacon could play the fool at will without breaking a sweat.