How was it possible a week could seem so long?
Redburn’s laughter reached Peter, setting his back teeth on edge. Ah, yes, that was how.
He had tried his damnedest to ignore the man’s presence. But Redburn spent more time at Seacliff than he did outside of it. And Lenora seemed only too happy to have him about.
Lenora. The same ache that had plagued him since Redburn’s arrival settled in his chest. He rubbed at it, sinking more deeply in his chair by the window, and looked out at the bright blue of the sky over Lady Tesh’s rose garden. In three days’ time he would be free of this place, and he could leave all of this behind.
Which only made the ache worse. He let loose a soft curse. He was miserable here on the Isle. He was miserable about returning home. It seemed nothing about this could make him happy. Even worse, the knowledge that he would not have to forgo his revenge on the Duke of Dane gave him no comfort, either. Where was the burning desire to see the man suffer? What had happened to the rage that had fueled him for over a decade?
A stupid question, really. He knew what had happened. Lenora had happened. Working her way into his heart, making him want things he had refused to consider before. Revenge had been all he had ever wanted, the impetus that drove him, the fire in his blood. Now it was a bitter, hollow thing. It wouldn’t warm him at night, wouldn’t bring comfort and contentment to him in his old age.
“Peter.” Lady Tesh’s voice crashed into his morose thoughts with all the finesse of a glass shattering. “The tea has arrived. Come here, Peter.”
Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. He would not fail in finally keeping his last promise to his mother. He’d sat through countless hours biting his tongue as Lady Tesh baited him, had donned that ridiculous formal suit, had traipsed all over this blasted island learning about the love affair—and subsequent tragedy—that had shaped it. Surely he could suffer through another three days to see it realized.
He rose and made his way to where the group was sitting. As had become his habit in the past week, he eschewed the sturdy, comfortable, ugly chair he’d placed there that first night, instead easing himself down on a delicate, spindly excuse for seating as far from Lenora as he was able. What care did he have if the damn thing splintered to bits under him? If he had to sit close to Lenora, to smell her and watch how she allowed Redburn to cater to her, he would vomit.
Margery was already busy with the tea tray. As the beverage steeped, she poured a glass of lemonade from the pitcher, handing it to Lenora.
“I still don’t understand how you can prefer that to a bracing cup of tea,” Redburn said. The words were spoken with his typical joviality. Yet it rubbed Peter wrong. As it had every time the man had commented on Lenora’s beverage choice.
“It’s a silly quirk, I know,” she replied with a small smile.
Peter expected Lenora’s comment to be the end of it, as it had been every other time her drink preference had been brought up. After all, the two were amazingly cordial with one another.
They would have years of happy politeness ahead of them.
But Redburn was not quite ready to let it go today.
“Truly, though, you can’t mean to never drink tea.”
“If I can manage it.”
“But surely, when you’re hostess in your own home, you’ll drink what your guests do. Otherwise they might be made to feel uncomfortable.”
There was a pause in the conversation, Redburn’s words hanging like a challenge in the air. The meaning was subtle but clear: Redburn didn’t wish for Lenora to embarrass him in front of their guests once they married.
Margery, ever the peacekeeper, broke the strained silence as she busied herself with the tea, asking everyone their preference, though she had been serving the same cups of tea to the same people for weeks now.
“And Mr. Nesbitt,” she asked, “how would you like your tea?”
Peter didn’t hear Quincy’s reply, for Redburn chose that moment to speak again.
“Perhaps if you were to try to like tea, you might find something to recommend it,” he said with an encouraging smile.
Lenora stared at Redburn, the only movement her hand as it tucked into the pocket of her gown. Surely she would fight back against such high-handedness.
But in the next moment, she nodded. “Perhaps” was all she said.
Outrage rose up in him. Where was the spitfire who had put him in his place, who had never backed down from a fight with him? He had the urge to lurch to his feet, grab Redburn’s cravat, and beat him to a bloody pulp. Instead he turned to Margery.
“I would like a glass of lemonade.”
Margery, in the process of adding a splash of milk to some tea, blinked at him, which caused considerably more milk to be added if her horrified expression was anything to go by.
“Oh, Mr. Nesbitt, I am so very sorry. Here, let me prepare you another cup.”
“No need,” Quincy said with a smile. “I was actually hoping for a bit more milk today.” He took the cup, casting Peter a hooded look.
It took Margery a moment to regain her calm demeanor. “Let’s see,” she fretted, looking at the tea tray. “Oh! Peter, of course I can give you a glass of lemonade.”
Peter accepted the glass she offered him, refusing to look Redburn’s way as he did so. Despite his determination, however, he could not keep from glancing at Lenora. Her face was impassive, a blank mask. But there was something deep in the pale green of her eyes, an emotion he couldn’t fathom.
Conversation turned to innocuous things, the weather, the quality of Miss Peacham’s biscuits at the Beakhead Tea Room versus the ones made by Lady Tesh’s own cook, the assembly ball that evening that they all expected to attend.
At the next lull in conversation, Lady Tesh, who had been silent until then, spoke up. “Have you decided when to return to the cliffs? It’s the final painting I require for my records, you know.”
“Yes, we know,” Margery said with the patience she had used in fielding the very same question for days now. “But Lenora is not ready to draw.”
“And when will she be ready?”
Peter chanced a glance at Lenora. She had fallen silent at Lady Tesh’s question. While the other women talked about her as if she were not there, she gave no indication of having heard them.
Save for the slight tightening of her lips, the convulsion of her fingers on her untouched glass. In a flash, he remembered the frustration on her face as she’d struggled at the cliffs to draw, her unexpected failure to sketch anything. He’d been unable to stand by silently and do nothing then, though she had not appreciated his concern in the slightest. He could not stand by now.
“She will return to the cliffs when she’s good and ready to,” Peter growled.
That seemed to break her from the fog she was in. She looked at him fully, for what felt like the first time in over a week.
Oh, she had glanced at him, her lovely green eyes with that maddening fringe of thick lashes skimming over him like a ladle taking the thick cream from the top of a bucket of fresh milk.
But she had not allowed her eyes to settle on him, to take him in. No, the last time she’d done that, she’d been begging him to understand about Redburn, claiming he was not of her choosing. Asking Peter if he’d had a near miss with her.
He’d been a fool, a damn fool, for turning away from her.
He took a deep draft of his lemonade, trying to shock the ridiculous regret back into the ether where it belonged. Redburn was her match in every way. He would give her the life she deserved.
But did he understand her? Would he make her happy? For the first time, doubt settled in Peter’s gut. And all over a damn glass of lemonade. It was an overreaction on his part, surely. The two had been nothing but pleasant with one another over the past week, to the point that Peter had been nearly physically ill watching it. One small disagreement did not indicate their future unhappiness.
Mundane talk buzzed about him for a time. It was interrupted by the butler entering.
“Lady Clara and Lady Phoebe are here to see you, my lady.”
The two women sailed into the room, their faces wreathed in smiles as Peter, Quincy, and Redburn rose from their seats.
“My dears,” Lady Tesh said with a wide smile, “what a splendid surprise. Is your father feeling better today then?”
“He is, thank God,” Lady Clara replied. Just then her gaze snagged on Quincy and her steps faltered. With seeming effort, she tore it away, turning a bright smile on the rest of them.
“When he ordered us out of the house, we could not think of a better place to come than here,” Lady Phoebe chirped happily, moving forward to kiss Lady Tesh’s cheek.
The two sisters headed for seats. Suddenly Quincy lurched away from his chair next to Peter. “Here’s a fine seat, Lady Clara.”
The woman appeared startled by the offer. Coloring, she nodded her thanks and moved to the chair in question. “And how are you, Aunt?” she asked as she sat. “You seem well.”
“How can I not be well, when I have such company to keep me young?”
Happy greetings commenced. Finally they came to Peter.
“Cousin,” Lady Clara said warmly, “it’s good to see you.”
Peter grunted a response, turning back to his drink in the hopes they would leave him in peace.
But it was not to be. As the others fell into easy conversation, Lady Clara, seated at his side, turned her full attention on him. “I had hoped you might take me up on my invitation to visit Danesford,” she said, accepting a cup of tea from Margery with a smile. “My father is most eager to see you again.”
Peter didn’t think it possible for his shoulders to tense further than they were. But he felt it, the tightening of the muscles, spreading up over the back of his neck, making his head pound. “I don’t know that I will have the time,” he muttered.
Lady Clara laughed. “Not have the time? You’re here for another few days at least, are you not? I’m certain you can manage an hour or two.”
“I cannot.”
“Goodness, is our great-aunt such a taskmaster?” Again that laugh. “I must have a talk with her then.”
“It will not do any good, my lady.”
“Oh, pish. She’s not a difficult woman; she will understand it’s something you wish to do.”
“I do not wish to visit the duke,” he growled, unable to take one more minute of her rambling.
The words hung in the air between them. Lady Clara stared at him, the pleasant smile that had curved her lips faltering.
“You don’t wish to see Father?”
He should retreat. This woman had done nothing wrong, did not deserve his ire.
Yet now that the beast of his frustration and anger had been released, he couldn’t close it back up again.
“I’ve said all there is to say to your father, and if I never see him again, it will be too soon,” he snapped. “Your father is a heartless monster who deserves nothing from me.”
As Lady Clara stared at him in stunned horror, Peter gradually became aware of the silence in the room. Every eye was trained on him, with expressions running from shock to pity to anger.
A ringing started up in his ears. Good God, he had to get away from here. Rising, he strode from the room, realizing only as he reached the front hall that the glass of lemonade was still in his hand. He slammed it on a nearby table and hurried out into the bright summer day. He would ride, until the riot of his emotions was tamed, until the devil on his shoulders was appeased.
He had not gone twenty paces when a hand on his arm spun him about. Quincy stood there, his face tense with anger.
“What the devil was that about, Peter?”
He threw off his friend’s hand, continuing on the path to the stables. But Quincy’s boots sounded behind him, angry and quick on the crushed shell path.
“I’m talking to you, damn it.”
“It’s no business of yours,” Peter shot back over his shoulder.
“Isn’t it? I followed you halfway across the world. I think that makes it my business. You’re still going through with it, aren’t you? You still intend to ruin their lives.”
“Did you think I would give it up? You know me better than that.”
“You damn, idiotic fool,” Quincy spat. “Stop and face me.”
It wasn’t the insult that caused Peter to do as he was bid. It was the pain in his friend’s voice. The fury that twisted Quincy’s normally cheerful countenance, however, stunned him.
“Even after getting to know these people,” his friend said, his words low and furious, “you will still go through with your revenge?”
What could he say to that? “Yes.”
The one word, clipped and tense, hung in the air between them. “You bastard,” Quincy breathed.
Peter drew himself up. “He deserves to pay for what he did.”
“The duke?” Quincy let loose a humorless laugh. “The man is dying. Your revenge, for what it’s worth, doesn’t have to go beyond the end of his life.”
“Are you suggesting I forget it all after he’s dead?”
“And why not? He’ll be dead; he’ll never know.”
Fury snaked through Peter. “So I’m to pretend the debt is settled, just because the man is dead?”
“It will be,” Quincy insisted. “Don’t you see? Your revenge will be complete.”
“My revenge will not be complete until everything he loved is destroyed.” He shook his head. “It matters not that he’s not here to witness it. I will know his empire is intact. I will know that I’m the reason his bloodline lives on.”
“This is madness,” Quincy cried. “You would ruin countless lives because of your mother’s death? It’s just as well she’s dead, for she would be ashamed of you.”
Peter’s fist met Quincy’s jaw. Pain exploded in his knuckles, the skin splitting from the force of the impact. He stood, breathing heavily, the sudden blossom of red in his vision fading as Quincy fingered his bloodied lip.
“Forgive me,” his friend murmured, his eyes focused on something over Peter’s shoulder. “I should not have brought your mother into it.”
Peter wanted to howl. The apology, sounding so hollow, so defeated, only managed to expand the guilt that had begun to work under his skin. He opened his mouth, desperate to mend the breach between them. Quincy, however, cut the words off before they could take shape.
“I think it’s best if I return to Boston as soon as possible. I can no longer support your efforts here. And I can’t sit by and watch while you destroy these people’s lives and your own.”
Pain stole the very breath from Peter. “You would leave?”
Still his friend would not meet his eyes. “I can see no other way. For what you’ve been to me, I can’t watch the damage you would willingly cause.”
The pain intensified until it was all he could see, all he could feel. He fought against it, transformed it, turned the burn of it into the cleansing fire of anger.
“I will bid you goodbye then,” he said, before turning and stalking away.