“Who?” she asked in a tremulous voice.
Her mind whirled as she recalled all the gentlemen who had shown an interest in her that week. There was Lord Selway, who at the beginning of the week had been insufferable. Then, there was Lord Denton. He had complimented the diamond necklace at her throat every time she had worn it. She could not forget about Lord Windham either. He had told her that he was in love with her. He had professed his amorous feelings openly.
Perhaps he offered for my hand?
But then, her mind drifted back to Peter.
He was the one she wanted. The Duke of Pemberton was the only man whose offer she would accept.
CHAPTER 21
Peter’s carriage rumbled to a stop in the drive of Linfield Manor, the familiar silhouette of his country home rising against the evening sky. The grand estate stood still and imposing, a welcome sight after days of strained emotions and unspoken words.
The moment the carriage halted, footmen rushed forward, opening the door and bowing as Peter stepped out. The air was cooler here, fresher than the oppressive atmosphere of Crawford Hall, where his mind had been in turmoil.
Watson, his ever-reliable butler, stood near the entrance, a slight bow of his head acknowledging Peter’s return. The man, tall and composed as always, looked at Peter with the quiet calm that had seen him through every situation, good and bad.
“Welcome home, Your Grace,” he greeted, his voice steady and respectful. “It has been many months since we’ve had the pleasure of receiving you here.”
Peter gave him a curt nod while raking his hand through his disheveled hair, tired from the journey but glad to be back.
“Watson,” he asked, “did anything happen while I was away?”
Watson shook his head, clasping his hands behind his back. “Nothing of consequence, Your Grace. Everything is well, and the estate is running as it should.”
Peter let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. The days he had spent away had been filled with more tension than he had expected. The estate, at least, was stable, something predictable and steady in the chaotic swirl that his life had become since leaving the Fitzroys behind.
“Good,” he muttered, his eyes sweeping over the familiar grounds.
The footmen were already collecting his luggage from the back of the carriage, their movements efficient.
He turned back to Watson. “I’ll be in my study. Let me know if anything requires my attention.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Watson said, bowing once more before stepping aside.
Peter made his way into the foyer, the thick wooden doors closing behind him with a soft thud. The weight of the manor’s quiet embrace settled over him, comforting in its familiarity. Thewalls here knew him—every flaw, every decision, every moment of weakness and strength.
Without pause, he made his way to the study, where a stack of papers awaited him on the large mahogany desk. Correspondence that had piled up in his absence, estate matters, letters from associates—things he had neglected during his stay at Crawford Hall and for the many long months when he had been in London.
He dropped into the leather chair behind his desk, exhaling heavily as he reached for the letter atop the pile. It was from one of his estate managers, detailing crop yields from the past month. It should have held his full attention, but his mind wandered. He read the first few lines, then stopped, his gaze drifting toward the window.
Lavinia.
He had tried to push her out of his thoughts on the journey home, but here, in the quiet of his study, she crept back into his mind, her voice, her face, the last look she gave him still haunting him.
That look—cold, indifferent. She had all but ignored him, standing with her family in the courtyard, pretending as if he had already gone, as if he were no longer worth her time.
Peter gritted his teeth, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the image. He forced himself to focus on the document in frontof him, reading it once again from the beginning. But after a few lines, he stopped. It was futile.
Why can’t I forget her?
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as frustration gnawed at him. He had left for a reason. The confession, the feelings—he had not known what to do with them. Lavinia had laid her heart bare, confessed her love, and he… he had done nothing. He had not told her that he felt the same, had not admitted that her words had struck him deeper than anything else could have. Instead, he had run.
Coward.
Peter clenched his fists, her confession replaying in his mind. He had wanted to say something. He had wanted to explain why he couldn’t commit himself to a loving relationship. But he had not said any of that. Instead, he had left.
And she had ignored him when he left, just as he had feared she would.
