Peter!” Lady Tesh exclaimed as he was shown into her sitting room not half an hour later. “You have not returned to Boston.”
His lips quirked as he strode toward her. “Obviously.” And yet, despite the sarcasm in his drawl, he could not help scanning the room. Lenora was not there. Damn and blast, he’d been so certain she would be. But perhaps that was for the best, for if she had been, Redburn was certain to be as well. And he could not stomach the thought of the man just then.
“You’re looking well, Aunt,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. Freya lifted her head, and he scrubbed at her messy mop with his fingers before seating himself beside Lady Tesh.
Still the viscountess gaped at him. He tried for a mocking smile, though his insides churned with impatience. “I see I have rendered you speechless. One might think you were not happy to see me.”
Lady Tesh seemed to recall herself at once. “Of course I’m happy to see you, my boy. Goodness, but I’ve been lonely. It is good to have you back.”
Uneasiness settled under his skin for a moment. He laughed, but it was strained. “Lonely? I would hardly call having the company of two young ladies a lonely thing.”
To his shock, Lady Tesh appeared stricken. “But you don’t know? Lenora and Margery are no longer here. They’ve been gone several days now.”
He straightened, leaning forward. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?” The dread that had been simmering beneath the surface exploded into a choking fear. “And Redburn?”
She shrugged. “Gone, too. Back to London.”
Shock pulled at him and he slumped back in his seat. There was only one reason for them to return to London: marriage. He was too late. She was lost to him. He ran a hand over his face. To be so close, and still to have lost her.
But the fire of hope was not yet extinguished. She had been gone only a few days. Even if Redburn managed to obtain a special license once they reached the capital, they would be traveling by carriage; if Peter rode hard, he might make up the time.
He surged to his feet. He must have appeared a madman, for Lady Tesh stared at him as if he had lost his mind.
“Peter, what the devil are you about?”
“I have to get to London,” he muttered, hurrying for the door.
“Why?” she cried.
“For Lenora,” he bit out over his shoulder. “She can’t marry Redburn. I have to stop her.”
Nothing on God’s green earth could have stopped him in that moment. Except for the sound of Lady Tesh’s laughter.
He wheeled about, gaping at her. “What is so damned funny?”
“Oh, Peter,” she gasped between guffaws, “you needn’t travel all the way to London for that.”
He frowned. “You make no sense, madam. Speak plainly or let me be off.”
Her laughter fell away, yet her eyes still glinted in amusement. “It is a fool’s errand to go to London for Lenora, because she’s not there. She’s still here, on the Isle.”
He stared at her in disbelief. Was the woman losing her mind? But no, she appeared in full possession of her faculties. In fact, she appeared much saner than he did in that moment, seemed to find him absolutely hilarious, in fact. Brows drawing down in warning, he demanded, “If Lenora is not here, yet still on the Isle, where is she?”
Lady Tesh pursed her lips, her eyebrows rising in a considering arch. “She was devastated when you left, you know. She did not voice it, but Margery and I saw it all the same.”
Nothing could have destroyed him more. Nor given him more hope. For if she had been hurt by his abrupt leaving, it meant her heart was engaged.
Perhaps, just perhaps, she loved him as desperately as he loved her. Though he had been a complete arse and deserved her disgust until the end of time.
He shifted forward in his chair. “Please,” he begged, something he had never allowed himself to do, “I will do anything to win her back.”
A spark flared in her sharp gaze. “Anything?”
The old woman looked almost feral. But Peter didn’t care what she was plotting in that disturbingly agile mind of hers. “Yes,” he answered without hesitation.
She studied him for a long moment, as if taking his measure. In the end, she nodded. “She will attend the subscription ball this evening.”
“I’ll be there.” He stood and strode for the door, his mind already whirling with the possible outcomes, fear and hope warring for dominance in his chest. Lady Tesh had asked if he would do anything to win Lenora. In a heartbeat. He would walk through fire, would face a dragon.
Would don that ridiculous formal suit every day for the rest of his life.
But how to prove it to her?
He stilled, his hand on the latch. How indeed. Storming the assembly hall and glowering in the corner, as he had on his last two visits, would not be enough. He had to show Lenora just how committed he was to loving her the rest of his days. No matter what.
“Peter, you have not changed your mind, have you?”
His grip on the latch tightened, determination roaring through him. “Not in the least, madam.” He turned to face her. “The ball is not for several hours.”
Again that white brow arched up her forehead. “Correct.”
He grinned. “You’ve called me a gentleman before. What say we make that official?”
* * *
Lenora frowned, peering up at the ochre stone façade of the assembly hall as their carriage slowly made its way down the long line of equipages. “I told you, Margery,” she grumbled, tugging her glove smooth, “there’s still too much to do at the dower cottage for me to even consider attending a ball.”
“Nonsense,” Margery declared with a bracing smile. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone day and night to make the cottage habitable. Between that and your painting, you’ve not had a moment to relax.”
I hardly call a ball relaxing, she nearly said. At the last moment, the words stuck in her throat. The echo of Peter was in them, and she would not allow herself to think of him. Not now. Those painful moments were relegated to the quiet dark of her bedroom, her tears kept private from all but the pillow beneath her head as she tried unsuccessfully to find peace in slumber.
Not that her life was all heartache. Her determination to carve out this new and wholly unchartered path in her life had seen to that. The dower cottage had been unused for years, and while it was in fairly good repair, it still needed hard work to bring it back to the glory it had been. Between the physical labor of painting and dusting and polishing, and the very emotional labor of her art, she had found a purpose she’d never thought to have. And it had surprised her that, though her father had disowned her, though Peter had left, she was able to claim a contentment and satisfaction in this new life of hers.
But there was still much to do. Which was why this ill-timed trip to the subscription ball rankled so.
Margery laid her hand over Lenora’s, dragging her attention back to the present. “I’m happy you’ve come tonight,” she said softly. “I’ve missed you, dearest.”
The quiet words struck her mute. While it was true the last week had seen them much in each other’s company, Margery insisting on helping where she could in the start of Lenora’s new life, there had been no time for sitting quietly together as they used to do. Lenora realized in that moment how much she had missed her friend, missed their walks and easy affection, missed the way she felt grounded after time in her presence. And as she looked into Margery’s gentle brown eyes, she recognized an answering need for reconnection.
Lenora slumped in her seat, her heart twisting. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said, sandwiching Margery’s hand between her own. “And you were right, I need this. We need this.”
The carriage rocked to a halt, the door opening to reveal a bewigged footman. The two women descended to the pavement, linking arms as they entered the assembly hall. From the echoing strains of music that drifted out to them, to the gentle roar of laughter and conversation that made the dances on the Isle so much more palatable than those stiff, starched affairs she had grown accustomed to in London, it sounded as if the ball was already in full swing.
Lenora eyed the crush of people as she and Margery worked their way through the portico and toward the wide double doorways leading into the ball. “Has Gran arrived yet, do you think?”
“Oh, you know Gran,” Margery said, pressing closer to Lenora as she sidestepped a group of young women loitering near the entrance. “She will have wanted to be first in the door. No doubt she’s been watching for us this past half hour or better.”
Lenora let loose a small sigh. “The blame for our tardiness is mine. I’ve been so anxious to have everything just right, I have not given her the attention she deserves. I do hope she can forgive me for being so distracted these past days.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Margery murmured, a smile in her voice as they made their way into the long ballroom. “I do believe she would forgive you for anything tonight.”
Lenora frowned at that peculiar statement. Before she could ask Margery about it, the crowd opened up, and they spied Lady Tesh seated at her typical place along the wall. And beside her, his back to them, was…
“Peter,” she breathed.
He stilled, then turned, as if heeding the call of his name on her lips. A silly thing, really, considering the noise that filled the place. And yet his eyes found hers unerringly, the heat in them nearly buckling her knees. Only Margery’s arm linked with hers kept her on her feet.
“I—I don’t understand,” she managed through stiff lips. “He left, set sail for America.”
“He came back,” Margery said in her ear.
Lenora swung her gaze to her friend. Margery smiled at her, not an ounce of surprise on her face.
She blinked in incomprehension. “You knew?”
Her friend merely smiled wider before she released Lenora’s arm, with a comforting squeeze, and stepped away, melding back in with the crowd. Lenora stared after her for a moment, utterly confused, feeling lost in a rough sea.
Until a familiar deep voice anchored her.
“Lenora.”
Peter stood silent and still, a great stone monolith in the midst of the chaos of revelry. And yet he looked as if he belonged. Garbed again in that expertly tailored formal suit he so despised, he was nevertheless the epitome of a noble. He stood straight as an arrow, his hair brushed and tied back into a neat queue, his beard trimmed close. He would not have been out of place in a London ballroom, surrounded by the cream of society.
But this was not her Peter. She ran her gaze over him, searching for the man she had come to love, hidden somewhere in this impeccably dressed swain. She wanted to weep that he seemed gone—until she came to his eyes. They were the same, wild and untamed. And burning.
The urge to fling herself into his arms nearly overwhelmed her. But she resisted. He had made himself clear; his revenge on his cousin was too important to him. He would never abandon his carefully laid plans. Most especially not for her.
She hugged herself about the middle, painfully aware of the crowd of people surrounding them, the happy sounds of celebration that bounced jarringly off the tense bubble she and Peter seemed to be encased in. “You were returning to Boston. You should be on the ship this very moment.”
“I couldn’t leave.”
Three words, so simple, yet full of some hidden meaning. Her heart ached to know: was she the reason he had come back? But she would not ask. She could not ask.
His gaze didn’t leave her face, his blue eyes lacking the defenses that had so filled them before, a fragile longing shimmering from their depths. “May I have the honor of this dance, Lenora?” He held one pristine gloved hand out.
In the next moment, her hand was in his. It was as if her heart had taken control of her body, doing what her mind willed her not to. He led her to the floor with careful, stately steps. She should remove her hand from his grip, should refuse him. Yet she could not. It would cause a scene, she told herself. But even as the words whispered halfheartedly through her mind, she knew they were a lie. She did not pull her fingers from his grip for one reason, and one reason only: it felt right to have them there.
It was only as he stopped in the center of the gleaming floor that her befuddled brain caught the familiar strains of the music: a waltz.
She shook her head helplessly as he bowed low, his eyes never leaving her. “You don’t know the waltz, Peter.”
In answer, he grasped her right hand, placing his free hand along the curve of her spine.
She dragged in a deep breath as longing washed over her, his scent of spices and black coffee and horse and leather bringing tears to her eyes. She dropped her gaze and blinked them away, desperate that he not see how much this pained her, how he affected her still.
He was the proper distance from her, his posture perfect, nothing scandalous in the way he touched her. Yet he filled the space between them, overpowering it with his sheer presence. He began to move, and she helplessly followed his lead. This is a mistake, her mind whispered, even as her heart pounded out quite another rhythm. Ignoring them both as best she could, she found herself focusing on the way he moved, on the elegance of his step, on the masterful way he guided her. Which only brought about more confusion to her dazed mind.
“You waltz,” she blurted out.
“Aunt Olivia was most obliging in my schooling.”
She blinked, taken aback not only by his formal speech but his address of Lady Tesh. Since when had he called the viscountess by anything other than her title? He swung her in a turn, and she caught sight of that woman and Margery, heads bent close together, watching them with beatific smiles lighting their faces. She narrowed her eyes, remembering the lack of surprise in her friend when they’d first spied Peter. And even before that, her uncharacteristic stubbornness in insisting that Lenora attend the ball.
“And Margery?” she asked tightly. “Did she have a part in your lessons?”
“My cousin was very helpful.”
His overly proper manner snapped her frazzled patience in two. “And did she also teach you how to talk like a pompous arse?”
He blinked, his steps faltering before he quickly recovered. “I’m only conversing as any of the men you knew in London would.”
“And does it look as if I care for all that?” she exploded before recalling they were surrounded by couples. Spying more than one set of curious gazes on them, she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Trying not to focus on the feel of his hands or the gentle swaying as his large body conformed to the tight, square pattern of the dance.
Weariness filled her, until she thought she might burst into tears. She could not do this again, could not work past the grief of him leaving her.
Or rather, she could. She had learned in the past week that she was stronger than she had ever thought. But the very idea of having to battle her way through the pain again had her heart breaking anew.
“Why are you here, Peter?” she whispered, too exhausted down to her bones to manage more.
He seemed to sense the brittleness in her, for when he spoke, his voice was gruff, back to what it had been. Back to what she loved. “I had to see you.”
“Why?”
He blinked, seeming at a loss. Then, “You did not leave for London with Redburn.”
“No.”
“You did not marry him.”
Lenora frowned. It was not a question, yet there was an undercurrent that seemed to beg for an answer. “No. I knew we would not suit. I broke off our engagement.”
Immediately she wanted to bite her tongue. Why had she told him as much? He would not care that yet another of her engagements had failed.
Yet his shoulders, tense up until then, sagged with obvious relief. “I’m glad,” he said in a voice that barely reached her ears for all the noise surrounding them, yet seemed loud to her hungry heart.
“Why?”
The one word, harsh, tearing from her throat, finally broke her from her weary grief, replacing it with a deep anger. How dare he come here and undermine the foundation she was trying to build her new life on? She stopped in the middle of the dance floor, not caring that she was making a spectacle of herself, pulling herself from his arms. About them, couples twirled and spun, a dizzy array of bright colors that made her feel as if she were the center of a riotous kaleidoscope.
“Why are you glad, Peter?” she demanded. “By all accounts, you were more than happy to let me marry Lord Redburn, were more than happy to leave without a word of farewell.”
“I was never happy to leave you,” he rasped.
“Then why did you?” she cried. The words burst from her, startling her with their vehemence. There had been a time she would have curled into herself and apologized for making a scene. But she was through holding in her emotions. And she refused to give any more time to this man who had not wanted her.
She fought back the tears that threatened and glared at him with all the anger that simmered in her before storming across the floor for the side of the room. The dancing couples parted for her like the Red Sea. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
He let loose a low curse. “Of course it matters.” He followed her, grabbed her arm. “Lenora—”
She threw her arms up, breaking his tentative hold. Panic rearing that, even now, she wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms. “Don’t,” she managed.
His lips pressed together in frustration, but he nodded, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I never wanted to leave you. But it was the only way I could see.”
“See what?”
“For you to be happy.”
The confession knocked the breath from her. “You thought that by leaving, you were making me happy?”
He didn’t answer, but she could see from the pain that flashed in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched up to his pristine cravat before dropping heavily again to his side, that was exactly what he’d believed.
She felt a softening in the general region of her heart, his unintentional vulnerability affecting her as it always had. She longed to caress the side of his face, to kiss away the self-recrimination that sat heavily on his brow. She swallowed hard, trying to hold herself together by sheer force of will.
Yet she couldn’t sit silently by and watch his torment. “You did not make me happy by leaving, Peter,” she said in a low, pained voice.
Hope flared in his eyes. A dangerous thing, for she was beginning to forget why she should hold him at arm’s length.
Her resolve was decimated by his next words.
“I was a fool, Lenora. I should never have left. I should have fought for you. No matter that I’m big and rough and uneducated. No matter that I don’t deserve you. I should have never let you go so easy.”
As she stared at him, shocked, he moved closer, his movements slow and careful, as if he feared she would bolt. As if she could leave him in that moment.
“The second Redburn arrived at Seacliff, I should have told him the truth of the matter,” he said in a voice thick with emotion, “that you had stolen my heart, and I could not imagine my life without you.”
“Peter,” she whispered.
A small, tender smile curved his lips as he reached her. His hand came up, his fingers caressing the curve of her cheek. “And I should not have allowed him to prevent me from telling you one very important thing.”
Her heart pounded, her fingers trembling as they found his chest, pressing over his heart, a heart that beat as fiercely as her own. “What is that?”
He sank to his knees. Peter, the strongest, proudest man she had ever known, kneeled before her in front of everyone in that overheated, crowded assembly hall.
He took her hands, held them tight in his own. “That I love you. With all my body, all my heart, all my soul. I love you, Lenora.”
She let out the breath she had been holding on a soft “Oh.”
His smile faltered, doubt creeping into his eyes. “Is that a good oh or a bad oh?”
In answer, she dropped to her knees, flung her arms about his neck, and pressed her mouth to his. It seemed to unlock something in him, and he let loose a low moan of pure longing that vibrated through her. He held her with a tenderness that belied his rough past, with arms banded from years of manual labor, hands scarred with the trials and tribulations of a hard life. His mouth worshipped hers, every bit of the love he professed to have for her displayed in the achingly gentle kiss. She nearly cried out when their mouths separated, when he placed his forehead against her own.
The noise about them, which had faded away to nothing, intruded once more. The music had stalled, but gasps and horrified laughter rang through the space. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied faces lax with shock, people whispering.
Lenora had experienced her fair share of embarrassments and scandal. This time was not one of them. How could it be, when she was so happy?
Letting loose a giggle, she lurched to her feet, pulling Peter right along with her. Holding hands, they hurried through the crowd and out the side door. Her last glimpse before the door closed behind them was of Lady Tesh and Margery at their places against the wall, faces beaming.
And then she was back in Peter’s arms, and everything else was forgotten.
“I know I’m not one of the polished gentlemen of the ton,” he whispered, the coarseness of his beard a heady contrast to the feel of his full lips against the bare curve of her neck. “I’m rough and crude and ill-mannered.”
Heart aching, she pulled back and placed her hands on either side of his beloved face. “Is that what this was all about?” she asked, not a hint of humor in her voice. “The way you’ve dressed, the proper manners?”
“You deserve a gentleman,” he said, voice thick, his eyes begging her to understand. “And I can be that for you. I’ll go to London, put on this ridiculous suit every evening, polish my speech until no one can find fault with it.”
She shook her head even as her heart fractured. “Do you think I want that?”
He pressed his lips tight, pain flashing in his eyes.
She smiled, a watery thing. “If that was all I wanted, I would have been happy with Redburn. I prefer my men to have hair wild as any Viking’s.” She reached for the strip of silk holding his hair, pulling it loose until his golden locks fell in disarray about his shoulders. “To listen to a woman with respect and interest.” She ran her finger over the swirl of his ear. “To say what they mean instead of mere platitudes.” She caressed the softening line of his lips.
“And,” she continued with a smile, her fingers going to the starched, careful folds of his cravat, destroying what had no doubt taken much work, “to wear their heart on their sleeve. Especially if that heart is covered by a limp cravat.”
Love and joy flared in his eyes. He took her hands, pulling the gloves from her fingers and pressing his warm mouth to her palm. “I know your heart will always belong to Hillram. But do you think you might come to care for me, Lenora?”
“You silly man,” she managed through a throat tight with unshed tears. “Yes, I loved Hillram. But only as my dear friend, nothing more.”
His eyes searched hers, hope a living thing in their depths. “Truly?”
“I told you that night when you came to me, I never felt with anyone else what I feel for you. That includes my heart.” She smiled. “You are one of the most giving, caring men I have ever had the honor to know. You wonder if I could come to care for you? Peter, I have loved you almost from the moment you caught me up against you on Lady Tesh’s front steps.”
He searched her face, more than golden lantern light glinting in his eyes. “Say it again,” he demanded gruffly.
She blinked in confusion a split second before understanding washed over her. Smiling, she caressed the sharp curve of his cheek with her thumb. “I love you, Peter.”
The words were hardly free of her lips before he claimed them again. “Marry me,” he said into the dark recesses of her mouth.
She longed to accept. But a tinge of doubt polluted the haze of happiness that enfolded her. “What of His Grace?”
He would know what she asked: Would he be able to give up his revenge? Would he be happy with her when making the duke pay his debt was so important to him? She tensed, waiting for his answer.
She did not have long to wait. He smiled, his hands stroking loose tendrils of hair back from her face with an expression amazingly clear and free. “Dane and I have reconciled.”
As shock swirled through her, and more questions than she could wrap her head around, he turned serious. “Marry me, Lenora. Be my wife.”
And then, “Please.”
That one word banished any lingering doubts in her heart. He wasn’t telling her what she should do; he was asking, begging, with every ounce of his soul. He was giving her the choice to accept or reject. “Yes,” she said without hesitation.
Relief flared in his eyes. His kiss was tender, reverent. But she wanted so much more of him. She wanted all of him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her body arching up into his.
He did not misunderstand what she was trying to convey. “Lenora,” he gasped. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
The desire that flared in his eyes was brighter than any flame. Anticipation shivered through her as his gaze zeroed in on her mouth—
A rumble of laughter interrupted them. And not muted through the assembly room door but much closer than anticipated. Peter must have heard it as well, for he stilled, his hands tightening protectively on her before he raised his head.
A small group of grooms stood close by, grinning. One of them saluted Peter with his flask.
“If I may say, sir, you’re a right lucky one,” the man quipped.
To Lenora’s surprise, a deep chuckle rumbled up from Peter’s chest. “Luckier than you know. You may be the first to congratulate me, for this lady has just consented to be my wife.”
As the men burst into a rousing cheer, Lenora peered up into Peter’s face—and nearly lost her breath from the happiness shining there. Never had she seen him so utterly content. Knowing that she had been the one to put that joy there made her heart swell.
Another man stepped into the pool of lantern light under the colonnade, this time Lady Tesh’s own groom. “Mr. Ashford, sir? Are you needing the carriage then?”
In no time, they were being herded to the waiting equipage, the cheers of the men fading behind them. “To Seacliff, sir?” the groom asked as he saw them inside.
Before Peter could assent, Lenora spoke, a smile curving her lips. “To the dower cottage, if you please?”