Chapter Thirty-Three
Of all days, Prince George had to have chosen this one to come to the damned zoo.
The entrance had been crowded with carriages bearing the polished crests of society’s biggest gossips.
Peter’s driver had known enough to continue past without slowing down.
Three blocks away, he’d pulled over so that Peter could formulate a new plan.
Entering the zoo without attracting royal attention had meant that the plethora of flowers he’d purchased for the occasion had to be left behind.
All he’d managed to bring with him was a bouquet of peonies in every color imaginable.
It had not held up particularly well to being concealed inside the greatcoat Peter had borrowed.
The outer flowers had lost petals and the whole thing was a little flatter than it had been a few hours ago.
His only saving grace was that the prince had little interest in the Australian enclosure, preferring to ride the elephants instead.
Peter wished him well, given he was likely sauced already and Eleanor’s information was rarely wrong.
Peter stood by the sign that listed facts about the echidna along with a detailed drawing of one, which was essential because the damn thing wasn’t showing itself again.
In a perfect world, he and Eleanor would kiss, he’d spin her around, and then just as her feet hit the ground, the echidna, the wombat, and the platypus would all emerge from their hiding places in a display of solidarity and a sign that this marriage was meant to be.
But where lions could be enticed to show themselves with a slab of raw meat, echidnas ate ants, which were not as easy to procure.
They had certainly proven impossible to contain properly, and by the time Peter had reached the enclosure, the box in which his gardener had put them was now empty and he’d had to shed his driver’s coat.
She would be here momentarily. He tried to calm his roiling stomach.
It had been almost a week since they’d kissed and he hadn’t seen her since.
Lady Wharton had attended events alone, and every attempt to casually run into her had failed.
Receiving her letter to the Captain had done nothing to reassure him, because she was about to discover the truth and he had no idea how she would react.
In an ideal world, he would declare his love and she would do the same, and they’d be married before the afternoon was over using a special license that he’d already procured.
He didn’t want to spend one hour more than necessary without her as his wife.
He didn’t want to go one more night without her in his bed, or one more morning without them reading their newspapers together at the breakfast table.
But given his premature betrothal announcement the year before, the archbishop hadn’t been inclined to grant a special license, and that was entirely his own fault.
“Gah!” He put his hands on his head and stared at the roof of the enclosure, where at least three pigeons had roosted in the rafters and spiderwebs created patterns in the light that filtered through the dirty skylights and dusty air.
If the Captain hadn’t written to her again and Peter had simply declared himself the day they’d kissed, would she have said yes?
If she loved the Captain but not the duke, would revealing himself to be both men mean losing her regardless?
Even if she was, in theory, pleased that he was both, could she forgive yet another betrayal?
All versions of him—the duke, the Captain, and Peter—had lied to her now.
Then there was the small matter of his title. He’d spent his life thinking he’d never find love because all women wanted it. Now he was in love with someone who didn’t want it, and who might not marry him as a result. The irony would have been laughable were the stakes not so high.
He prayed that in a few hours, he would be able to laugh because that would mean she’d said yes. Would the archbishop grant a special license if she went with Peter to ask? If she provided assurance that they were betrothed and she did know about it…
He paced, careful not to let the bouquet he held knock against his leg, and glared at the wombat burrow, as if the creature were the one responsible for his current predicament. If only any of these damned animals would show themselves. That would be some positive sign, wouldn’t it?
In his peripheral vision, the Tasmanian tiger jumped against the bars. Peter, already highly strung, flinched. Those claws were huge for an animal that was smaller than a wolfhound. Those bars better hold, or this grand gesture was going to be memorable for all the wrong reasons.
He exhaled sharply. Hiding his identity had been the only way. If he’d revealed the truth when he’d first learned it, she would have stormed away just as he had, and that would have been the end. His intention had been good. His method… He just had to hope she would see past it.
There was a whoosh as the door to the enclosure swung open. His heart lodged in his throat. He turned with the flowers proffered in love and abject apology—and two strangers walked in. A nanny in a staid uniform and a young boy in short pants.
“Good Lord, the exhibit is closed.”
“The sign out front says it’s open,” the nanny replied.
Damn. “The sign is mistaken. Please remove it on your way out.”
“But we want to see—”
He had no time for an argument. “Fine.” He dropped the flowers and ushered the two toward the echidnas. “They are somewhere in there. They will not show themselves.”
The young boy pouted and tried to get closer to the cage, but Peter took him by the shoulders and pushed him to the platypus enclosure. “See, nothing to see here, either.”
“This is not fair.” The boy pouted and banged on the glass as if the platypuses—platypi?—actually cared that a child wanted to see them. They wouldn’t even show themselves to Peter, and he was a duke.
The boy put his hands on his hips and scowled at his nanny. “I want to see the animals. Where are the wombats?”
Peter dragged him to the large mounds of dirt with half-hidden holes in them. “They’re asleep in there. If you want to see them, come back at nighttime.”
“The zoo isn’t open at nighttime.”
“Then you have a problem. Are we done? It’s time to go.” Eleanor would be here momentarily, and these interlopers were not part of his plan.
The boy pointed at the eucalyptus tree, where a blasted koala was eating a leaf and staring at them. “Make it move, Nanny. I want to stay until it moves.”
Peter stared the woman dead in the eye. “All the koalas have syphilis.”
Horrified, the nanny gasped, gathered the child, and ran away, muttering something about “rude, inappropriate men,” as she left.
Peter sighed, glaring at the koala and cursing it for the unnecessary stress it caused by existing.
“Chlamydia.”
Damn.
He spun to face the entrance. Eleanor was standing there with her head cocked and an inscrutable expression. “Koalas have chlamydia, not syphilis.”