Instead her friend forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyesas she rose from her own seat. “I’ve had enough for today as well. It’s not the easiest place to sketch, is it, dearest?”
Immediately she set about gathering their supplies with a busy cheerfulness. Lenora let her direct the men, her mind too full of Peter and Ivar and Synne and tragedy and her own broken heart to help. When they were ready to depart, she took a deep breath and turned to join the others. Only to find that Peter was not there. His mount, too, was gone when they emerged. The only indication he had even been there, the distant pounding of his horse’s hooves in the air, and the ache in Lenora’s chest.
Chapter 26
How was it possible a week could seem so long?
Redburn’s laughter reached Peter, setting his back teeth on edge. Ah, yes, that was how.
He had tried his damnedest to ignore the man’s presence. But Redburn spent more time at Seacliff than he did outside of it. And Lenora seemed only too happy to have him about.
Lenora. The same ache that had plagued him since Redburn’s arrival settled in his chest. He rubbed at it, sinking more deeply in his chair by the window, and looked out at the bright blue of the sky over Lady Tesh’s rose garden. In three days’ time he would be free of this place, and he could leave all of this behind.
Which only made the ache worse. He let loose a soft curse. He was miserable here on the Isle. He was miserable about returning home. It seemed nothing about this could make him happy. Even worse, the knowledge that he would not have to forgo his revenge on the Duke of Dane gave him no comfort, either. Where was the burning desire to see the man suffer? What had happened to the rage that had fueled him for over a decade?
A stupid question, really. He knew what had happened. Lenora had happened. Working her way into his heart, making him want things he had refused to consider before. Revenge had been all he had ever wanted, the impetus that drove him, the fire in his blood. Now it was a bitter, hollow thing. It wouldn’t warm him at night, wouldn’t bring comfort and contentment to him in his old age.
“Peter.” Lady Tesh’s voice crashed into his morose thoughts with all the finesse of a glass shattering. “The tea has arrived. Come here, Peter.”
Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. He would not fail in finally keeping his last promise to his mother. He’d sat through countless hours biting his tongue as Lady Tesh baited him, had donned that ridiculous formal suit, had traipsed all over this blasted island learning about the love affair—and subsequent tragedy—that had shaped it. Surely he could suffer through another three days to see it realized.
He rose and made his way to where the group was sitting. As had become his habit in the past week, he eschewed the sturdy, comfortable, ugly chair he’d placed there that first night, instead easing himself down on a delicate, spindly excuse for seating as far from Lenora as he was able. What care did he have if the damn thing splintered to bits under him? If he had to sit close to Lenora, to smell her and watch how she allowed Redburn to cater to her, he would vomit.
Margery was already busy with the tea tray. As the beverage steeped, she poured a glass of lemonade from the pitcher, handing it to Lenora.
“I still don’t understand how you can prefer that to a bracing cup of tea,” Redburn said. The words were spoken with his typical joviality. Yet it rubbed Peter wrong. As it had every time the man had commented on Lenora’s beverage choice.
“It’s a silly quirk, I know,” she replied with a small smile.
Peter expected Lenora’s comment to be the end of it, as it had been every other time her drink preference had been brought up. After all, the two were amazingly cordial with one another.
They would have years of happy politeness ahead of them.
But Redburn was not quite ready to let it go today.
“Truly, though, you can’t mean to never drink tea.”
“If I can manage it.”
“But surely, when you’re hostess in your own home, you’ll drink what your guests do. Otherwise they might be made to feel uncomfortable.”
There was a pause in the conversation, Redburn’s words hanging like a challenge in the air. The meaning was subtle but clear: Redburn didn’t wish for Lenora to embarrass him in front of their guests once they married.
Margery, ever the peacekeeper, broke the strained silence as she busied herself with the tea, asking everyone their preference, though she had been serving the same cups of tea to the same people for weeks now.
“And Mr. Nesbitt,” she asked, “how would you like your tea?”
Peter didn’t hear Quincy’s reply, for Redburn chose that moment to speak again.
“Perhaps if you were totryto like tea, you might find something to recommend it,” he said with an encouraging smile.
Lenora stared at Redburn, the only movement her hand as it tucked into the pocket of her gown. Surely she would fight back against such high-handedness.
But in the next moment, she nodded. “Perhaps” was all she said.
Outrage rose up in him. Where was the spitfire who had put him in his place, who had never backed down from a fight with him? He had the urge to lurch to his feet, grab Redburn’s cravat, and beat him to a bloody pulp. Instead he turned to Margery.
“I would like a glass of lemonade.”
