Chapter Six
“If Medusa ever lowered herself to take the form of a human man, you would be it, brother.” Meg wrapped a hand around Peter’s arm, leaning into him more heavily than she ordinarily would.
“You should have skipped this ball,” he said. “In fact, skip every ball this week. It is too much for you in your current condition.”
“Shush,” Meg replied. “It’s Winnie’s first week of her first season. Let me enjoy it.”
Two young women approached from the side, peeping over their fans to stare at him, edging closer but shying away from direct eye contact.
Peter raised an eyebrow and they skittered off.
“That is precisely my point,” Meg said. “You’re terrifying the girls. They either turn to stone in front of you or flee to the outer reaches of the room.”
“I do nothing but cast my gaze in their direction. Would you have me ignore them completely?” He wished that he could.
He smothered the huff his body tried to expel so that Meg would not hear it.
He didn’t need to burden her with his discomfort.
It would solve nothing and only cause her unnecessary angst. It wasn’t his sisters’ responsibility to manage his feelings. He had to deal with those on his own.
“All I’m saying is that you could try for a more welcoming demeanor,” Meg continued, oblivious to the turn of his thoughts. “Encourage them to stay the course.”
“Like this?” Peter turned to Meg and pinned on a saccharine smile.
She shuddered. “No. Definitely not like that. Just be less… imposing.”
Peter was six foot three when he wasn’t in shoes.
The stark black and white of his attire might also be intimidating but it couldn’t be helped, not that he’d wear anything different even if given the option.
He also wasn’t about to stand there with a hand in one pocket and a drink in the other like most of the men around him, nodding cheerfully at every girl who walked past. If that made him daunting, then there was very little he could do about it.
Besides, he wanted a woman who wasn’t terrified to look in his direction.
He wanted a woman who had gumption enough to offer an opinion other than his.
He could understand meekness. Lord only knew some men of his acquaintance required it from their wives and children, but it was not how he’d raised his sisters, and it would not be how he raised his daughters.
He wanted a strong, forthright woman who could set a good example and not hide behind rice paper and whalebone, no matter how prettily it was painted.
“Winnie is having a good time,” Meg said, gesturing to where Edwina stood at the center of a lively group. “The house will be inundated with suitors tomorrow.”
“Don’t remind me.” Calling time had become a juggling act worthy of a ringmaster.
Jac, of course, would not be there, because she would not let London know she was incapacitated.
She also refused to miss the action, requiring a network of footmen-turned-spies to relay gossip and a steady stream of notes from Peter, who would rather focus on ensuring that Edwina’s suitors were, in fact, suitable.
“You know,” Meg said, “you should also consider marrying this year.”
“I will take that under advisement,” he replied, shifting uncomfortably.
Boundaries, he reminded himself. Sea walls.
He had to keep his intentions to himself for as long as he could.
His sisters would involve themselves otherwise, and when he ultimately acted as he wished—which he would in this matter, without question—they would be hurt.
It was why he tried to keep them from his affairs.
They could be idealistic and he wouldn’t expose them to harsh realities that might crush that.
Witnessing how he worried about their circumstances might cause them to think he was not the steady, solid rock they could depend on. Then, who could they turn to?
“It is the perfect time to find a wife,” Meg continued. “You have to socialize anyway. It would be efficient, don’t you think? You like efficiency.”
He sighed. “It would be.”
Encouraged, she leaned closer. “In light of Lady Cordelia’s latest escape, one could make the argument for a small wedding, out of respect for the duke and his heartbreak, of course.
” She put a hand to her chest in mock sincerity.
“Unless you want a large spectacle, brother. In which case you’re right. You should wait until next season.”
He could tell by the way the corners of her eyes crinkled, that she knew she was getting to him. He tactically ignored her point, angling his body toward the crowd as though it had suddenly become fascinating. His sea wall was made of stone and mortar. It could withstand her.
She huffed, but was not deterred. “And Rhett has finally settled. He is doing so well as the ambassador to Belgium. It would be terrible for him to have to become the duke now, should you pass.”
At least fifty percent of Peter’s gray hairs could be attributed to his brother—more than Jac and Winnie combined.
Now that Rhett could be reasonably relied upon not to fall asleep shirtless in a public fountain, the thought of him assuming guardianship of their two youngest sisters and their chaos was attractive. But it was neither here nor there.
Peter turned to her, refusing to let her blinking eyes impede his frown. “Whether I marry this season or next, or the one after that, Rhett would still need to return to England. My heir could not manage the estates for another eighteen years.”
She nodded seriously and squeezed his arm. “Correct, brother. I agree with you. It is imperative to sire an heir as soon as possible in order to relieve our brother of that burden. You are so responsible to think of him and marry quickly.”
The mortar crumbled at her incessant buffeting. Damn. She would keep at this for days, and when her resolve failed, her sisters would step in. Resigned, he yielded to the wave and admitted the truth. “It was already on my list of things to do.”
Her excitement made him cringe. “How seriously are you taking it, truly?” she asked, her tone now conspiratorial, as though this had become a joint endeavor, which was exactly what he had been trying to avoid. “You haven’t danced with anyone in the last two hours.”
He sighed. “I have given up dancing, Margaret. Tonight has broken me. During three separate quadrilles, I heard about Lord Debington’s planned expedition to the Aztec pyramids, yet all three dance partners believed he was traveling to Africa.”
“Ouch.” Meg winced and Peter cursed himself for referencing Egypt, where his brother-in-law had absconded to once again. Lord Geoffrey Titteler was the primary reason Peter needed to make the Linotype work.
Peter had unknowingly allowed his sister to marry poorly—a mistake that weighed on him every day.
If the Linotype didn’t succeed, Meg may well have to rely on that ne’er-do-well for the rest of her life.
The thought of his sisters unable to depend on him because he couldn’t keep the estates flush was nauseating.
He swallowed and hid the sudden flash of fear, choosing to reveal his frustration instead. “I see no point in mincing about a dance floor, given I don’t need to dance with a chit in order to marry her.”
Meg pulled away and her supportive countenance flattened. “Peter Louis Archibald Montgomery! That is no way to treat your future wife. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Shame was a companion that rarely left his side, but he avoided giving it oxygen if he could. He held up his hands in surrender. “I promise to dance with whoever I choose to marry the moment I have made that decision.”
Margaret pinched the bridge of her nose. “But how will you make such a determination without spending time with your aforementioned betrothed? Dancing is required in order to find her.”
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I have sought expressions of interest from my peers. I have a half dozen meetings lined up at White’s this week.”
Meg’s lips pursed. “Brother, please tell me you have not turned wooing a woman into a business contract.”
He sighed. It had taken less than thirty seconds to disappoint her. “They are all business contracts, Margaret. The wooing aspect is only there to make us feel less bloodless about it.” It was the wooing aspect he objected to most. Such inauthenticity was stomach turning.
She scowled. “I do not approve.”
“Understood.”
“I will not let this go.”
“Completely expected.”
“We will have words tomorrow.”
Peter nodded. Brilliant. One more thing on tomorrow’s agenda, along with taking care of Jac, meeting with publishers, voting on the Elementary Education Act, and discussing a marriage proposal with the Earl of Forsyth.
He needed his duchess problem solved as soon as possible, because while he might have told Meg that marriage was bloodless, it was far from the case.
And all the blood involved would be his.
It would be splashed across the streets of Mayfair and run riverlike down the aisle of Westminster Abbey if the marriageable young women of London had their way.
They were the hunters, and he was the fox—a prize to be caught, skinned, and worn around the neck.
The past eighteen years had proven that for every meek young miss too scared to speak to him, there was another who would say and do whatever she needed to in order to gain his attention.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the most determined of his suitresses headed in his direction. Meg hadn’t noticed. Instead, she’d shifted, putting more of her weight against him. Thank you, Lord. He’d never want her to be unwell, but if she was going to be, then at least the timing was perfect.
“You’re tired.”
“I can keep going for another hour or so.”
Peter raised an eyebrow.
“Another fifteen minutes?”