Peter stared hard at his reflection. “I want my damn boots,” he growled.
Quincy looked up from adjusting his cuff and raised an inky brow. “Even you in all your stubbornness must know that you can’t wear boots to a ball.”
“But pumps, Quincy?” He pointed down to his feet in disgust. “Truly? And these pantaloons. I’ve never worn pants so tight. Are you certain the tailor didn’t cut them too small? I wouldn’t put it past the man to have shorted us on material to save some money.”
His friend did laugh at that, though it was accompanied by a roll of the eyes that told Peter more than words that he was being an unmitigated ass about the whole ordeal. “Trust me,” he drawled as he came to stand beside Peter, “you look perfect for an evening out.”
Still Peter was not convinced. Especially as he looked on his and Quincy’s reflections side by side. His friend was all lean muscle, and the snug evening wear fit his form perfectly. From the deep blue of his tailcoat to the tight white of his pantaloons, to the glint of the gold chain watch fob at his waist, the man looked every inch a London rake.
Peter, on the other hand, looked as awkward as he felt. The stark black of his coat and pants did nothing to hide the fact that he looked ridiculous. He was too large, too rough. Even with his beard trimmed neatly, his hair brushed and tied back in a queue, there was nothing debonair or elegant about him. He looked like the imposter he was.
Tugging at the edges of his coat, trying with all his might to keep his fingers from the intricate knot of his cravat, he turned from the sight. “Well, I hope Lady Tesh appreciates my efforts at least.”
“I’m sure she will, old man.” Quincy retrieved their gloves from the dressing table, handing Peter his before tugging on his own. “Now, shall we?”
Fighting the urge to look back one more time on the horror that was his reflection, Peter straightened his shoulders and stormed from the room. He may as well get it over with. And if his steps were a bit too quick, he would certainly not attribute it to wanting to see Lenora. He may not be the smartest man, but he wasn’t stupid enough to pine for a woman who he would never allow to be more than his dead cousin’s former fiancée.
Despite this, however, he found himself scanning the front hall as he descended the stairs. Lenora wasn’t there. His fury toward himself for noticing her absence doubled as disappointment surged in him. He was a stupid arse.
“My goodness, Peter,” Lady Tesh called out as he made his way to her, “I cannot believe the change in you. I would hardly know you if I saw you on the street. Though,” she continued with a touch of sarcasm, “I do believe that scowl would reveal your identity right away. Do try not to scare all of the young ladies tonight.”
“I’ve forced myself into this ridiculous costume,” he gritted, “and am attending the event against my will. I refuse to pretend to be happy for your amusement.”
“You look as beautiful as ever, my lady,” Quincy said with a bow. “And Mrs. Kitteridge, that color of amethyst on you is stunning. But where is our fair Miss Hartley?”
“She’ll be down momentarily,” Mrs. Kitteridge said. Was it Peter, or did the woman give him a worried glance?
Surely she didn’t know what had transpired between him and Lenora. Though perhaps she did, for the women were thick as thieves.
In the next moment, however, that suspicion was laid to rest. Her face smoothed to its typical calm, a small smile lifting her lips. “And my grandmother is right; you look very handsome tonight.”
He inclined his head, his face heating. His fingers twitched, itching to tear at his cravat. Just get through the night. Surely one ball wasn’t going to kill him.
Though that may be a distinct possibility, he thought as he spied Lenora on the staircase.
He had done his best to keep his distance from her over the past three days. And so it only hit him harder, spying her for the first time in her finery. She was stunning. Gone were the stiff flounces and overly embroidered hems, and in their place was a vibrant orange gown that fell in delicate folds to the floor. The skirt was split, revealing a creamy satin underskirt that flashed and flirted as she made her way down the stairs. Cream-colored ribbon adorned the small puffed sleeves and the low curve of her bodice.
It was simplicity, and elegance, and a touch of innocence. Undeniably and completely Lenora.
She hurried to Lady Tesh’s side. “I’m sorry I’m late, Gran,” she said as she gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek.
“Nonsense,” the viscountess said, patting her arm, “for we’ve just been joined by Peter and Mr. Nesbitt. But you are a vision, child. That gown is becoming on you. Peter,” she said, startling him, “don’t you think our Lenora is lovely?”
Lenora had not looked his way once since her arrival. He should simply grunt an answer and turn away.
Instead he said, his voice thick and low, “She’s beautiful.”
She started, her gaze finding him. Her eyes widened, running down his body, her mouth forming a small oval of surprise as she took in the changes in him.
He felt that perusal like a physical caress. Heat shot through him, igniting what he had fought so hard against since their kiss.
It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping his thoughts weren’t made obvious by his pantaloons. Which left nothing to the imagination, damn it.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “And you look very handsome.”
Polite words, no doubt, an automatic compliment that she had given a thousand times before. Yet he couldn’t fail to notice the way her eyes lingered on him. Nor did he fail to notice the desperate hunger deep in him that her gaze dredged up. And not only to touch her. He had missed her over the past few days, her conversation and laughter, and the freedom from the bone-deep anger that had been his companion for so long.
Damnation, what was wrong with him?
A moment later, she seemed to recall herself. Blushing, she turned her attention to Quincy. “And you as well, Mr. Nesbitt. Why, you wouldn’t be out of place in even the most discerning London drawing room.”
Quincy grinned. “Miss Hartley, you shall turn my head.”
Peter barely bit back a growl. “Shall we be off then? I wish to get this infernal evening over with.”
“Oh, Peter, you’re so gallant,” Lady Tesh drawled as they turned for the door.
Once outside, Peter immediately strode for the box where the driver was perched, awaiting them. He would ride there tonight, and he didn’t care if it was unseasonably chill, or that the drive would most certainly make a complete mess of the careful job he’d done on his clothing and hair. There was no way in hell he was going to be stuck inside a carriage with Lenora.
Lady Tesh, however, was not about to let him get away so easy.
“Peter, where do you think you’re going?”
He ground his teeth together. “There won’t be enough room for all of us inside the carriage. I’ll ride up top with the driver.”
“There will be plenty of room, for Mr. Nesbitt has graciously offered to ride his horse.”
Peter cast an incredulous glance to Quincy, but his friend was already mounted up and looked sickeningly dashing. By the time he’d reined in his frustration and turned back to the others, they’d already been helped up into the waiting carriage. Grumbling to himself—for what else could he do?—he lumbered over, knowing even before peering inside that the only seat would be next to Lenora. Because what else could he expect, considering the joke his life had become?
Lenora, for her part, didn’t so much as glance his way as he hefted himself inside. She fairly hugged the carriage wall as he settled onto the plush bench, as far away from him as she could manage. Even so, he couldn’t fail to feel her leg pressing into his, to smell her faint scent of summer berries drifting toward him.
He swallowed hard, shifting in his seat.
“There now,” Lady Tesh said with a contented smile. “Completely comfortable.”
Peter would have disagreed, and loudly. If he had not been fully focused on controlling his baser urges. For the carriage started off down the drive with such a rocking jolt that Lenora instinctively reached out to steady herself. Unfortunately the closest thing was Peter’s arm. She pulled her hand back as if burned, mumbling her apologies. Peter turned to look at the passing scenery and caught sight of Quincy prancing into view. The man had the gall to grin and salute him before kicking his horse off at a gallop.
If he didn’t embarrass himself with the obvious proof of his desire showing in these ridiculously tight pants, or killing his best friend, he would count it a miracle.