Chapter Twenty-Nine
Peter had barely slept, yet he wasn’t tired. She’d kissed him last night. She had kissed him. Perhaps there was indeed hope. Perhaps there was a chance of her falling for the version of him that was somewhere between the duke society knew and the Captain who had been hers alone.
Instead of sleeping, he’d ruminated on a thought that had teased him for weeks. He couldn’t be the Captain entirely. Nor did he want to be just the duke. Not forever. He had to find a way to merge the two and last night, he might have managed the beginning of that.
He scooted into the sitting room, where Winnie was reading the gossip pages and Jac was drinking tea. They jumped at his sudden entrance and Winnie yelped as Jac unwittingly splashed liquid on the thick blanket that protected her legs.
“Winnie, we are going shopping. Gather your things.”
Winnie tossed aside the gossip pages and clapped. “Of course, brother. Thank you, brother. I am in dire need of a new dress and purse.”
Jac turned. He could not see her scowl, but he felt it nonetheless. “That is not fair. I want to go shopping. I want a new dress and purse. I haven’t left the house in months and yet she gets to go out whenever she likes.”
Peter bobbed down, taking a napkin and soaking up the spilled tea. He was tempted to tell her that her confinement was her own doing, but over the past week she’d become increasingly distressed by it. “The bandages will come off soon,” he said gently.
She gripped his hand. “I could just take them off now. It is only a few days early. When you changed them last night, there was only the slightest blur.”
He stifled a groan. “Jacqueline, you should not have had your eyes open when we changed the bandages. The doctor was very clear.”
“Well, they were.” She crossed her arms and flounced back into the cushions. “It has been months of darkness, and while I’m thrilled that my sense of smell has improved, I’m rather frustrated that my equally improved sense of hearing has had to put up with Winnie’s incessant breathing.”
“Mean.” With no cushion to toss—he’d had them removed last night—she shoved Jac with a foot.
For a moment, he took solace in the idea that they would soon both grow up and get married and the house would be quiet. Solace quickly turned to sadness. They would both grow up and get married, and then his house would be quiet.
He jerked his head toward the door. “Get your things quickly, or I will shop on my own and make do without your advice.”
Winnie raced from the room.
“What advice do you need, brother?” Jac asked, taking his hands. “I can help from here, surely. You do not need to take her shopping.”
“I have four hours to inject more color into my wardrobe.” Eleanor had noticed when he’d added a yellow handkerchief to his attire weeks back. It had made her smile. She’d said nothing about it since, but that was to be expected. One hardly compliments an opponent in the middle of battle.
“You want more than the yellow handkerchief that I’ve yet to see? Oooh. Do say you will buy more jackets. Peacock green looks so dashing and it would contrast nicely with your eyes.”
He shuddered. “Not a jacket. And not peacock green.” He might be more than a duke, but he was not a dandy. Besides, Eleanor had kissed him last night, and that small pop of yellow was all he’d been wearing.
“A waistcoat, perhaps?”
That was more like it. “A waistcoat or a necktie. Something that is modest. Something that a woman might find—”
“Miss Wright?” Jac interjected. Her entire countenance brightened. She squeezed his hand more than was warranted, and he grunted. “Has she inspired this daring change? Are you seeing her this afternoon? Do you have an assignation planned?”
He grinned and then tempered it. She was overly enthusiastic already.
“It is not an assignation,” he said with what seriousness he could muster.
“It is perfectly proper. She will be at Lady Anne’s garden party, as will I.
” He would spend the time showing her that she could enjoy his company as much as she enjoyed the Captain’s.
“Lady Anne invited you? I thought she was terrified of you.”
That gave him pause. All season, he’d accompanied Winnie. She had taken care of their invitations and their schedule, presenting him with an itinerary to approve at the beginning of each week. Lady Anne’s garden party had not been on that week’s list. “Do we need an invitation?”
Jac shrugged. “I suppose not. No one will turn you away, regardless of whether they want you there or not.”
At last, the two-faced nature of the ton was working in his favor.
He kissed her forehead. “I will take you shopping the minute your bandages are removed. I promise.”
“Miss Wright, are you listening?” Lady Wharton had been leaning heavily on Eleanor’s arm as they crossed the manicured lawn. She pinched it, and Eleanor’s scattered attention returned to what she was supposed to be doing.
“Apologies, Your Ladyship.” Her mind had not accompanied her body out of the flat. It had stayed right there, in the spot where she’d kissed him. At least, she thought she’d kissed him. Last night had been rather a haze and determining truth from dream from imagination was proving difficult.
They were not far from the set of chairs that had been set up under a marquee. Cashmere rugs had been artfully thrown over wicker baskets. Tables of lemonade and sweet treats dotted the perimeter and beyond. Footmen carrying steaming pots of tea trailed like ants from the house to the garden.
“I asked if you had any insider information about the next Elizabeth Lewis book. It has been six years since her last.”
Eleanor shook her head. “I have not heard anything about it. I’m not sure if she is writing or if she used the proceeds of her first book to live a life of luxury in the south of France.”
Lady Wharton hmphed. “That would be selfish of her if she did so. I am waiting for the next one.”
“You and me both.” As she helped Lady Wharton navigate the stone path, she scanned the lawn.
A plethora of games had been set up. Sir Melton had already been finagled into bowls, but there was no one else she recognized.
The closest refreshment tent was bustling, but none of the men helping themselves to food or drink were tall and dark and hewn from marble.
Peter had said he would meet her here, to be friendly.
The peonies on her coffee table were evidence that his presence last night had not been a vivid dream brought on by the gin and the elderflower cordial that had sat in Eleanor’s pantry for far too long.
Thus, it stood to reason that the memory of promising to meet her was likewise true.
“Miss Wright?” Her heart had done jumping jacks all morning. This time, Lady Wharton’s pinch would leave a bruise.
“Apologies, Your Ladyship. What were you saying?”
“I was asking why the Duke of Strafford is loitering near our chairs.”
Her eyes flew to the marquee, where Peter stood, casually talking to the ton’s grande dames. He bore that good-humored grin she’d seen during their first encounter and rarely since. His demeanor was softer than it had been since their waltz.
The women listening to him did so with narrowed eyes.
From what she’d heard, Peter didn’t chat casually with anyone.
He welcomed no questions and sought no one’s opinions.
The coterie chafed against his reticence.
They considered him intelligent, honorable, and restrained in a way they approved of in theory.
His behavior was frustratingly unimpeachable, apparently, because he was frigid but not rude.
He always followed through with his commitments, but made no social ones, and he clearly loved his siblings, though that warmth failed to radiate elsewhere.
They admired everything he allowed them to see and were suspicious of everything he did not.
Eleanor and Lady Wharton ground to a halt as the dowager studied the tableau. Thank God. It gave Eleanor a moment to settle, because no matter how much she’d thought she’d readied herself to see him again, she was woefully unprepared for the sudden racing of her heart and prickle of her skin.
“I thought you and the duke were avoiding each other.”
Eleanor grimaced. Every time Agatha had mentioned Peter, Eleanor had dodged the question. Even deleting Peter from her account of the disastrous evening at Bowen’s Kitchen hadn’t prevented the dowager from suspecting that there was more to the duke and Eleanor’s relationship than business.
Eleanor had denied the suggestion each time, but that had been before Peter had shown up on her doorstep. “I’m not sure what led you to believe that I was avoiding him.”
Lady Wharton raised an eyebrow. “It might have had something to do with the way you walked into a potted plant at Lady Restwell’s ball last week in an effort to evade him.”
Eleanor flushed. Her eyes had been too transfixed on Peter to notice where she was going, and she’d hoped no one had caught her stumble. “I’ve always been clumsy. My lack of coordination has nothing to do with His Grace. We had a professional disagreement. It wasn’t personal.”
“Not personal.” Lady Wharton scoffed. “Your entire life turned upside down and it wasn’t ‘personal.’”
The validation was somewhat mollifying to hear, given how strenuously Peter had insisted that it was only business. She sighed. “Very well, I might have been trying to dodge him, but he had no reason to avoid me. He won.”
“And he is a duke.”
“And he is a duke.” Dukes didn’t fear running into companions. They weren’t racked with nerves at the thought of seeing one across a busy dance floor. Dukes were devoid of such emotions. His steely expressions had been proof.
Except there had been nothing steely about him last night, and emotions of all sorts had flashed across his face. “His Grace was not avoiding me. If we didn’t interact at Lady Restwell’s ball—”
“Or Lady Cunningham’s.”