Chapter Fifteen
Do you think we should meet?
What on earth had he been thinking? The moment Peter had returned home, he’d pressed the letter into the hand of a footman before cowardice won out. Then he’d spent the rest of the night second-guessing his decision.
What if she said no?
What if they met, and she was not at all what he expected?
What if they met, and he was a disappointment to her?
What if they met, and she recognized him for who he was and she instantly lost all the sensibility he admired about her?
He’d tossed and turned, and the lack of sleep made a long day even longer.
As he sat in the House of Lords, his mind wasn’t on the bill they were currently debating; it was on what new color he might wear if she said yes, or what book he would bring, or where he would take her.
The museum, perhaps, or the art gallery.
She would enjoy those. There was also an excellent secondhand bookstore that specialized in rare books.
Would it be strange to take a woman to a bookshop as a first encounter?
Perhaps he should consider something more traditional.
But then, perhaps all this worry was for nothing, because perhaps she didn’t want to meet at all and his overture had done nothing but ruin the easy friendship they had.
Could they continue to write to each other?
Or would it be too awkward? Perhaps she would find an excuse to refuse him that saved him from embarrassment.
They would both say, “Maybe next time,” and then never broach the topic again.
But she would want to meet, surely? She’d responded to his letters with the same alacrity with which he had responded to hers. That must indicate some kind of affection.
He gave his coat to his butler, Dawson, and hastened to the sitting room, where Jac would be waiting for him, along with her letters, one of which would contain Booklover’s response.
He slowed when he saw his sisters, staring at the doorway with their lips pursed. As much as he’d like to think the maid had forgotten to bring them tea, he knew they were waiting for him. Those querulous expressions were saved for him alone. He girded his loins and crossed the threshold.
“Brother.”
“Brother.”
“Brother.”
“Sisters…,” he said, his inflection rising with his blood pressure. “How lovely to have the company of all of you this fine afternoon.”
His words didn’t make a dent in their indignation.
“Is there something you wish to tell us?” Winnie asked.
“Me, specifically?” The ire in Jac’s voice was usually reserved for her younger sister. Lord help him.
Peter swallowed, uneasy, slightly nauseous. Don’t be that. Don’t be her. Be some other transgression that is impossible for a man to understand but rankled them nonetheless. “There is every chance that I have forgotten to tell you something, but I’m not sure what it is.”
Winnie whipped a letter from the cushion beside her.
Even from this distance, he could recognize Booklover’s hand.
Panic set in, then dread—his sisters would be ruthless in their interrogation—but then dread turned to anger.
Booklover was his. She was the only part of his life that his family and his estates hadn’t claimed dominion over.
In fact, he would go as far as to say that she was a separate life of his entirely.
Could he not have that? Could there not be one place with one person where he was not the duke—not a landlord, not a member of the lords, not a brother—just himself?
“That is private correspondence.” He crossed the room and snatched the pages. There was a sharp kick of regret, but only because he may have creased the paper, not because Winnie’s mulish countenance became utterly intransigent.
Jac thrust out her foot, catching the side of his leg rather than his shin. “It was in an envelope addressed to me.”
Damn. He should have put an end to that days ago. He and Booklover exchanged more letters than her correspondence with Jac could keep up with, anyway. There was no good reason for any of their notes to have been included with his sister’s once that first solo missive was sent.
“Regardless, the envelope within did not have your name on it, and it should never have been opened. I have a life outside of the three of you, as I am entitled to.”
Winnie scoffed. “Since when? You have your ledgers and your machines and us.”
Up until a month ago, that would have been true.
And perhaps he should have carved out his own time years earlier, but he hadn’t known that it had been an option.
No one had told him that it was allowed.
From the moment his father died, it had been impressed upon him that he had responsibilities, despite his youth.
Every time he’d pointed to his peers, he’d been told their time would come.
They would inherit and their carefree lives would become likewise encumbered and he simply had the misfortune of taking on the responsibility early.
When he’d pointed to his father’s peers, who drank and carried on, his stewards had shaken their heads.
So sad, they’d said. So shameful. You owe it to your sisters to be better than that.
They no longer have a father to provide security or a mother to guide their tempers and gentle their nerves. You are all they have.
And so, he hadn’t considered that a life beyond the path he’d inherited was possible. But Booklover had shown him it was, that he could have both, and he was loath to lose it now.
He fixed his sisters with a stare that he hoped conveyed how serious he was. “The details of my personal life are not yours to know.”
“But—”
Meg put a hand on Winnie’s knee before any of them could discover if the shake in his voice was anger or something else. “Truly, brother, we did not read much. We stopped the moment I realized it was intended for you.”
Thank God she’d been here. His younger sisters would likely have read through the entire missive.
“You stole my pen pal!” Even with a bandage covering a third of her face, Jac looked indignant.
Peter took a deep breath, the familiar pall of guilt dampening his frustration. She was hurt. He’d hurt her. But damn it, he was hurt. Almost hurt enough to let them see it. “I did not steal anyone. She is still writing to you, is she not?”
Jac frowned. “Well, yes. But that is beside the point. This is not some dull accounting business that you haven’t mentioned. This is a whole person. How could you keep a whole person secret?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Her disbelief was understandable.
His sisters were tenacious in their need to know everything and he could rarely keep a secret from them once they’d gotten the bit between their teeth.
But that tenacity only ever ran down paths they saw or suspected, and they had clearly never considered that he might have a person in his life who wasn’t one of them.
“You are overreacting,” he said. “I am hardly some fortune teller keeping a wife in the attic.”
Winnie cocked her head, brows furrowed. “You’ve read Jane—”
Jac stood, finger pointing. “I am hardly—ugh.” Her feet tangled in the fallen lap blanket.
Peter cursed and caught her. He kicked the damned blanket away and guided her back into the chair.
Once she was settled, he stood back so they could all hear him properly.
“My friendship with Booklover is not up for discussion.” Perhaps it might be, at some point.
If their meeting went as hoped, if she was all he’d made her out to be in his head, then he would have no choice but to share her with his sisters.
But that couldn’t be now. It was bad enough that he was risking his own disappointment and potentially risking Booklover’s also. If his sisters discovered the depths of his emotional investment, they would invest likewise and their happiness would be in jeopardy also.
“My friendship with her is nothing,” he said. “I thought it polite to introduce myself if I was to be privy to her thoughts. We exchanged a handful of letters on topics of mutual interest, and that is the end of the matter. I do not need to justify myself further.”
Meg patted the seat next to her. “Please sit,” she said. “You’re looming.”
He had to loom, because she was giving him the same compassionate look she’d given Rhett every time that he’d balked against the suffocating life of a second son.
It was one she’d never directed at Peter before.
He’d allowed her to see more than he’d meant to.
Looming could keep whatever this feeling was at bay.
Unable to see what he’d accidentally revealed to Meg, Jac snorted. “Yes, brother. Sit. Explain.”
This conversation would not go away. If he walked out now, they would interrogate him at dinner. If he had dinner in his room, they would interrogate him at breakfast.
He sighed, steeled himself, stalked to the settee, and watched his sea wall crumble again.
“How long have you been writing to this woman?”
“A handful of weeks.”
“And you like her? Is she why you have been so reluctant to pursue anyone this season?”
Was she? Perhaps. It was certainly uncomfortable to think of marrying somebody else when he was so preoccupied with her.
“She is a well read, articulate woman,” he said, dodging the question.
“One who seems kind and intelligent and motivated, which just happen to be the three things I most admire. She also thinks I’m witty. ”
Winnie snorted. “She thinks you’re witty? Truly? She clearly doesn’t know you well.”
Booklover knew him better than most people, and if she thought he was witty, then maybe he was. Maybe it was only in the shadows of his much more amusing siblings that he was considered staid and boring.
Meg turned to Peter, then to Jac, and then back again. “So, who is she, then?”
“I don’t actually know,” Jac replied.
Meg’s incredulity made it difficult to admit the truth. “Neither do I,” he mumbled, “though I would like to.”