Meg’s lips pursed. “Brother, please tell me you have not turned wooing a woman into a business contract.”
He sighed. It had taken less than thirty seconds to disappoint her. “They are all business contracts, Margaret. The wooing aspect is only there to make us feel less bloodless about it.” It was the wooing aspect he objected to most. Such inauthenticity was stomach turning.
She scowled. “I do not approve.”
“Understood.”
“I will not let this go.”
“Completely expected.”
“We will have words tomorrow.”
Peter nodded. Brilliant. One more thing on tomorrow’s agenda, along with taking care of Jac, meeting with publishers, voting on the Elementary Education Act, and discussing a marriage proposal with the Earl of Forsyth.
He needed his duchess problem solved as soon as possible, because while he might have told Meg that marriage was bloodless, it was far from the case. And all the blood involved would be his. It would be splashed across the streets of Mayfair and run riverlike down the aisle of Westminster Abbey if the marriageable young women of London had their way. They were the hunters, and he was the fox—a prize to be caught, skinned, and worn around the neck. The past eighteen years had proven that for every meek young miss too scared to speak to him, there was another who would say and do whatever she needed to in order to gain his attention.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the most determinedof his suitresses headed in his direction. Meg hadn’t noticed. Instead, she’d shifted, putting more of her weight against him.Thank you, Lord. He’d neverwanther to be unwell, but if she was going to be, then at least the timing was perfect.
“You’re tired.”
“I can keep going for another hour or so.”
Peter raised an eyebrow.
“Another fifteen minutes?”
He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and propped her up against the column they were standing near. The hunter had yet to navigate through the crush standing at the edge of the dance floor. He might just escape in time. “I’ll ask for the carriage to be brought around.”
Escape was a matter of making no eye contact with anyone and slipping quickly around the clusters of people wanting something from him, like water slips through fingers. Occasionally, he caught a half syllable as people called for his attention, but he feigned deafness and continued moving. In no time, he was striding down the hall toward the foyer, with only footmen to watch him pass, and the odd lord or lady too preoccupied with the fresh air to pay him much mind.
When he entered the foyer, the butler snapped to attention. “Your Grace. How might I be of service?”
“Please have the carriage brought around. My sister is feeling poorly.”
“At once, Your Grace.” The butler spoke with a footman, who then hurried off. Then he returned to his post by the door.
Peter should go back inside and gather his sisters, but it was nice to escape the hundreds of bodies pressed close together and the weight of all those stares. Damn his foolishness last year. He’d always attracted attention, but the scandal of hisfailed “betrothal” to Lady Cordelia had intensified it. Not only did all of London now know he was considering marriage, they wanted particulars about the debacle, details that only his family and Cordelia knew. She, at least, had remained mum. Though rumors of a fake engagement, secret identity, and an unconscious duke had swirled almost as soon as Rhett’s unexpected marriage had been announced.
The only thing protecting Peter from a grisly interrogation by the masses was his icy reputation. It was widely known that personal questions would be met with a curt dismissal. He might allow his peersnearhim—he had to work with them, after all—but he would not allow them close, no matter how hard they angled for an invitation into his inner sanctum, where only his family were welcome.
There was aswooshas the butler opened the front door and a wave of cool air crashed over him. On impulse, he turned to face it. As he did, he caught sight of someone utterly unexpected and his stomach flip-flopped.
“Eleanor. Miss Wright.”
The woman he’d met at the zoo a week earlier looked at him in surprise. She had a black shawl draped over one arm, a stark contrast to her light blue dress with tangerine lace trimmings that flounced high enough to cover her collarbone but were fine enough to lead his imagination down a salacious path.
“Peter,” she replied, oblivious to the effect she had on him. The butler’s eyes widened at her familiarity, but she didn’t see it. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Lord. She had been beautiful at the zoo. She was jaw-dropping now. Her green eyes snapped with intelligence and there was the smallest crease between her brows that his fingers itched to smooth. Her hairhad been pulled and twisted into a bouffant top knot, with small glass beads tucked between the dark strands. It would take but a moment to release it. How far would her hair fall? To her shoulder blades? To the small of her back?
Regaining his composure, he continued. “Not that it isn’t a delight to see you again. I simply wouldn’t have thought the Duchess of Wakefield’s ball would be a usual haunt for a woman of your talents.”
“A woman who works?” Her tone was tart but her smile was teasing, and he relaxed. “No, it is not my usual haunt, and the experience is somewhat surreal. But Lady Wharton needed a companion”—she lifted the arm that held the shawl—“and I had no choice in the matter.” Her gaze was direct, frank, with no fear or sign that she was concealing anything from him. It was refreshing.
“Lady Wharton is known for her ability to break a person. What crime did you commit that you must indenture yourself to the dragon?”
Behind Eleanor, the butler’s poise faltered, his surprise evident. He could hear every word, clearly, and bantering was not a trait Peter was known for.
