Not knowing what else to do, Peter followed a step or two behind the butler and turned toward the dining room.
Lunch was served, and his mother and Madeline made sure to compliment Mrs. Hubbard’s cooking liberally.
Peter ought to be comforted by seeing his family again so soon, but he was not. He barely touched his food, too lost in thoughts of Lavinia to be an excellent conversationalist or hearty eater.
Madeline, however, seemed unusually quiet. Midway through the meal, she cleared her throat.
“I received a letter from Lavinia this morning,” she announced, setting down her fork and glancing between her mother and Peter.
Peter’s chest tightened, though he kept his face impassive. He sipped his wine to mask the growing tension within him.
“Oh?” their mother asked, looking mildly interested. “What did she say, dear?”
Madeline smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes. “She wrote to announce her engagement.”
Peter’s hand froze, his grip on his glass tightening. The world seemed to tilt, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. He could not breathe.
Engagement?
“She’s marrying Lord Windham,” Madeline continued, her voice carrying a hint of disbelief. “I could not believe it when I read the letter.”
Peter set his glass down too forcefully. His hands trembled beneath the table, and his stomach churned with an overwhelming sense of loss.
Lord Windham? How? Why?
A wave of nausea assailed him.
No. This cannot be real.
“Lord Emanuel Windham?” his mother asked, frowning. “When we were at Crawford Hall, Tabitha and I discussed how Lord Windham expressed an interest in courting Lavinia, but I got the impression that she was resistant to the notion.”
Madeline shrugged, looking confused. “That’s what I thought, too. Lavinia did not seem particularly fond of him during our stay at Crawford Hall. But… well, maybe her parents pressured her into it?”
Peter’s mind swirled in chaos.
Is that possible? Would Lord and Lady Crawford pressure their daughter to do anything?
He did not know her age, but Lavinia was not a debutante. She did not even rush to London during the Season to attend balls and parties.
If Lavinia waited this long to find true love, why would she allow herself to be pressured into marrying now?
“You think her parents forced her hand?” His voice sounded distant to his own ears, as if he weren’t the one speaking.
Madeline glanced at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “I don’t know. It’s possible. Lavinia didn’t go into much detail in her letter, but I am inclined to think this is not the sort of match she would have chosen for herself.”
Peter wanted to stand up, wanted to shout that it was all wrong. That Lavinia could not marry Lord Windham because… because she was meant for him.
God, he was a fool. Why had he waited so long? Why had he let her slip through his fingers?
Marriage sounded so final. So permanent. And with that came the terrifying realization that Lavinia—hisLavinia—would nolonger be his. The woman he loved, but had been too afraid to claim, would belong to someone else.
Panic rose in his chest like a tidal wave, crashing over him mercilessly. He stared at his untouched food, barely hearing the conversation around him. It felt as though the walls of the dining room were closing in on him, suffocating him with the weight of his regret.
Madeline’s voice faded, and all Peter could think was that it was too late. Too late to change anything. Too late to tell Lavinia how he really felt.
But even as despair wrapped itself around his heart, another emotion bubbled to the surface—determination.
No, it cannot end like this.
