“Home?” Peter echoed. “I assume you mean…”
“Arlington Cottage,” she scoffed. Her eyes locked on his, and he could see a challenge there. “Where else would I call home?”
Peter winced. If she had jabbed him with a dagger, he might have felt less hurt.
He wanted to speak to his sister about Pemberton House, which was located near one end of Grosvenor Square. It was the ideal location for someone who wished to mingle with other members of the ton. He wanted to tell her how the Pemberton estate had grown and flourished over the last five or six years. When he had visited just two months ago, he found that his steward had managed everything well and had even recently purchased several new horses.
Does Madeline even like horses? Does she know how to ride?
She lived in the countryside, so it could be possible that someone had taught her to swing her legs onto a sidesaddle and sit upright, but Peter had not been there to do it. And when their father was alive, he would never have bothered to teach her such a skill.
Their father had given them very few lessons in life, and it was that which stuck in Peter’s craw. Their father had not taught them to ride, to shoot, or even how to carry on a proper conversation.
But above all that, Peter had never known what love looked like—not real love, the kind that built families and healed wounds. His father’s abuse had twisted his understanding of relationships, leaving him to believe that love was something to be feared, something that could only bring pain. His mother’s withdrawal had reinforced that belief, showing him that even the strongest people could be broken.
And so he had chosen to live alone, to push away anything that resembled the vulnerability of affection. He told himself he was protecting his family and himself. But deep down, he knew the truth: he was running. Running from the past, from the pain, from the possibility of disappointing everyone he encountered.
Before he knew what he was doing, Peter began sprinting down the pathway. He pumped his arms wildly as his boots pounded against the dirt.
“Peter! Where are you going?” Madeline hollered after him.
He heard her but did not dare slow down.
“Peter! Peter! Do come back. Do…” Her voice faded as he rounded a hedgerow and darted toward the stream that sparkled in the distance.
But no matter how far he ran, the shadows of his childhood always followed him. The loneliness, the guilt, the fear—they were always there, lurking in the corners of his mind, waiting for the moment when he would finally stop running.
And Peter wasn’t sure if he ever would.
CHAPTER 5
“How are you feeling today, my dearest?” her mother asked.
Only then did Lavinia remember that she was supposed to be sick the night before. “Starving, Mother,” she said truthfully.
The Baroness’s face contorted with worry.
The early morning in the summer always made the finest view, even more striking than a blossoming morning in the spring. But that was just Lavinia’s opinion. The previous night ended so late that the guests had not awoken from their slumber, but she had always been an early riser, and so was her mother.
As was routine, they met at the breakfast table in the sunroom. They bathed in the early sun while the maid poured their morning tea.
“I was supposed to send a tray to your room, but Abigail didn’t tell me that you wanted anything,” her mother said, reminding her that it was her fault she was ravenous in the morning.
Lavinia looked down at her hands. Because she was not wearing her gloves, she could easily see a smear of ink on her index finger.
Drat!
She lifted a cloth napkin from the table and scrubbed at the spot. As she worked, memories of the previous night flashed through her mind. She remembered the way the Duke had nibbled on her fingers and then how he had come so close to kissing her.
Her heart beat erratically in her chest, causing her to scrub her finger more vigorously.
I hope I do not see him here.
But the heavens must have loathed her, because just then, her mother exclaimed, “Your Grace!”
Lavinia knew several dukes were in attendance at the house party, but there was no doubt in her mind that the gentleman being addressed was the Duke of Pemberton.
Why me? Why must he be here, and now?
