What if they met, andhewas a disappointment toher?
What if they met, and she recognized him for who he was and she instantly lost all the sensibility he admired about her?
He’d tossed and turned, and the lack of sleep made a long day even longer. As he sat in the House of Lords, his mind wasn’t on the bill they were currently debating; it was on what new color he might wear if she said yes, or what book he would bring, or where he would take her. The museum, perhaps, or the art gallery. She would enjoy those. There was also an excellent secondhand bookstore that specialized in rare books. Would it be strange to take a woman to a bookshop as a first encounter?
Perhaps he should consider something more traditional. But then, perhaps all this worry was for nothing, because perhaps she didn’t want to meet at all and his overture had done nothingbut ruin the easy friendship they had. Could they continue to write to each other? Or would it be too awkward? Perhaps she would find an excuse to refuse him that saved him from embarrassment. They would both say, “Maybe next time,” and then never broach the topic again.
But she would want to meet, surely? She’d responded to his letters with the same alacrity with which he had responded to hers. That must indicate some kind of affection.
He gave his coat to his butler, Dawson, and hastened to the sitting room, where Jac would be waiting for him, along with her letters, one of which would contain Booklover’s response.
He slowed when he saw his sisters, staring at the doorway with their lips pursed. As much as he’d like to think the maid had forgotten to bring them tea, he knew they were waiting for him. Those querulous expressions were saved for him alone. He girded his loins and crossed the threshold.
“Brother.”
“Brother.”
“Brother.”
“Sisters…,” he said, his inflection rising with his blood pressure. “How lovely to have the company of all of you this fine afternoon.”
His words didn’t make a dent in their indignation.
“Is there something you wish to tell us?” Winnie asked.
“Me, specifically?” The ire in Jac’s voice was usually reserved for her younger sister. Lord help him.
Peter swallowed, uneasy, slightly nauseous.Don’t be that. Don’t be her. Be some other transgression that is impossible for a man to understand but rankled them nonetheless.“There is every chance that I have forgotten to tell you something, but I’m not sure what it is.”
Winnie whipped a letter from the cushion beside her. Even from this distance, he could recognize Booklover’s hand. Panic set in, then dread—his sisters would be ruthless in their interrogation—but then dread turned to anger. Booklover washis. She was the only part of his life that his family and his estates hadn’t claimed dominion over. In fact, he would go as far as to say that she was a separate life of his entirely. Could he not have that? Could there not be one place with one person where he was not the duke—not a landlord, not a member of the lords, not a brother—just himself?
“That is private correspondence.” He crossed the room and snatched the pages. There was a sharp kick of regret, but only because he may have creased the paper, not because Winnie’s mulish countenance became utterly intransigent.
Jac thrust out her foot, catching the side of his leg rather than his shin. “It was in an envelope addressed tome.”
Damn. He should have put an end to that days ago. He and Booklover exchanged more letters than her correspondence with Jac could keep up with, anyway. There was no good reason foranyof their notes to have been included with his sister’s once that first solo missive was sent.
“Regardless, the envelope within did not have your name on it, and it should never have been opened. I have a life outside of the three of you, as I am entitled to.”
Winnie scoffed. “Since when? You have your ledgers and your machines and us.”
Up until a month ago, that would have been true. And perhaps he should have carved out his own time years earlier, but he hadn’t known that it had been an option. No one had told him that it was allowed. From the moment his father died, it had been impressed upon him that he had responsibilities, despite his youth. Everytime he’d pointed to his peers, he’d been told their time would come. They would inherit and their carefree lives would become likewise encumbered and he simply had the misfortune of taking on the responsibility early.
When he’d pointed to his father’s peers, who drank and carried on, his stewards had shaken their heads.So sad, they’d said.So shameful. You owe it to your sisters to be better than that. They no longer have a father to provide security or a mother to guide their tempers and gentle their nerves. You are all they have.
And so, he hadn’t considered that a life beyond the path he’d inherited was possible. But Booklover had shown him it was, that he could have both, and he was loath to lose it now.
He fixed his sisters with a stare that he hoped conveyed how serious he was. “The details of my personal life are not yours to know.”
“But—”
Meg put a hand on Winnie’s knee before any of them could discover if the shake in his voice was anger or something else. “Truly, brother, we did not read much. We stopped the moment I realized it was intended for you.”
Thank God she’d been here. His younger sisters would likely have read through the entire missive.
“You stole my pen pal!” Even with a bandage covering a third of her face, Jac looked indignant.
Peter took a deep breath, the familiar pall of guilt dampening his frustration. She was hurt. He’d hurt her. But damn it,hewas hurt. Almost hurt enough to let them see it. “I did not steal anyone. She is still writing to you, is she not?”
