But she had got to her feet and stood looking down at him. She had even dredged up a half-cheerful smile from somewhere.
“I will treasure the memory of this fortnight,” she said. “Even the memory ofthis. But this is the end. It must be. Anything else would be sordid.”
“Sordid.”He frowned up at her and then reached for his hat and got slowly to his feet to stand beside her. “Would it?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am a teacher, not a courtesan. I will remain a teacher.”
He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes unfathomable, and then he nodded.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I do beg your forgiveness for the insult.”
“It was not insulting,” she said softly, “to let me know that you would prolong your acquaintance with me if you could. Shall we go back instead of walking farther? We must have been gone for some time, and Frances will wonder what—”
“We have been up to?” he suggested.
Slowly and ruefully they smiled at each other.
When he offered his arm, she took it, and they resumed their walk, albeit in the opposite direction. She felt all the unreality of the past half hour or so.
Except that it was not unreal.
Between her thighs she could feel the trembling aftermath of what they had done together.
Inside, she felt an unmistakable soreness.
Deep inside she harbored his seed.
Too late she thought of consequences.
12
Peter returned home to Sidley Park in September after he could besure that all his mother’s houseguests had left. He wondered a little uneasily as his carriage approached the house if he was going to find it easy—or even possible—to share his home with his mother now that he had made a decision to settle here. He loved her dearly, but shehadalways ruled Sidley as though it were her own domain and everyone in it as though she were a supreme deity who knew what was best for them. It was a good thing she had ruled her children with a loving as well as a firm hand—though that very fact, of course, would make it harder to exert his will against her now.
But why anticipate problems when they did not even exist yet?
When his carriage drew to a halt before the house and the coachman opened the door, Peter did not even wait for the steps to be set down but vaulted out onto the cobbled terrace like an eager boy home from a dreary term at school.
It did not take him long to discover that problems did indeed exist.
His mother had been alleviating the tedium of her days since the departure of the houseguests by having the drawing room refurbished with a preponderance of pink colorings and frills. Most notably there were frilly pink cushions everywhere, though even they were preferable to the pink curtains, which were pleated and ruched and frilled and scalloped in ways that made him feel slightly bilious.
“This has always seemed such a plain, dark, gloomy room,” she explained, her arm linked through her son’s as she took him to inspect what had been done. “Now already it looks light and cheerful, would you not agree, my love? It will look even better when the portraits have been replaced with some pretty landscapes.”
“Where are the portraits going?” he asked her, masking the dismay he felt with a tone of polite interest. They were portraits of some of his ancestors, and he had always been proud of them, fascinated by them, and altogether rather fond of them. They were a link to his father, whom he could not remember, and to his heritage on his father’s side, in which no one else but he had ever seemed interested.
“To the attic,” she said. “I have always hated them. One does not need such gloomy reminders of the past, would you not agree, my love?”
He grunted noncommittally.
The drawing room, he thought—though he did not say so aloud—looked like an oversize lady’s boudoir. It would look even more so with different pictures.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked, beaming up at him.
It was time, perhaps, to play ruthless lord and master. But she looked so very happy and so very sure that he would be pleased too. And it was a mere room when all was said and done. He could live with a pink room—provided it was not the library or his bedchamber.
“It is very…you,Mama,” he said. It really was a room suited to her. She had always been pretty—she still was—and delicate and very feminine. Pink had always been her favorite color.
“Iknewyou would adore it,” she said, squeezing his arm. “It issogood to have you home again. But, my love, it was most provoking of the Raycrofts to insist that you remain in Somerset when they knew you wished to be here. Our guests were very disappointed, especially Lady Larchwell, who was hoping, I daresay, that her daughter would take your eye. Miss Larchwell is a pretty young lady and modest too, considering the fact that her maternal great-grandfather was a duke. You would like her. You really ought to have asserted yourself with the Raycrofts, you know. You are just too kindhearted for your own good.”
