She went silent, pressing her lips into a mutinous line. It was not an agreement, but at least she seemed wise enough not to press him now.
Andrew shot Peter a blessed look of understanding, and tucked Winnie’s hand in the crook of his elbow. “Let’s head home, shall we? Can you imagine Jac’s face when you tell her about all the things she missed out on?”
Thank God for Andrew.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Are you coming, brother?”
Peter shook his head. No. He was not in any mood for company. So, they left and he walked. He stalked north, toward St. James, toward the parts of London in which he’d lived his life, toward his duty, toward the society that would have a field day if they learned of what had transpired that night, toward the ballrooms that held his future—the same one that had always been crystal clear.
On the edge of Piccadilly—where the line blurred between the old world and the new, where centuries-old town houses shared the street with a new-world coffeehouse and a restaurant that offered a menu neither English nor French—he stopped.
One street over was where heshouldbe. It was where dukes belonged, and where the hurt was telling him to go. Booklover was not the future. His would not be a marriage of authenticityand feeling. It would be like the marriages of all the Dukes and Duchesses of Strafford before him—a business arrangement, perhaps pleasurable at times, but not driven by feeling.
But he couldn’t bring himself to step out of the shadows between the buildings. The image of her waiting for him would not budge from his mind. Whatifhe was mistaken? What if theycouldsee past the versions of each other they knew in person to the ones they knew by word and heart and thought instead?
He looked at his watch. They’d been supposed to meet forty minutes ago. Would she still be there? Did she have more faith in him than he’d had in her?
He turned, and he ran.
Chapter Twenty
With each tick of the clock, another butterfly in Eleanor’s stomach died. He was late. Not just a little late, a full hour late. If she had any pride at all, she would leave. In fact, she’d gathered her bag and her first edition ofEmmathree times now, because waiting for a man when men were completely unnecessary was foolish.
But each time there was ajingle jangle, her eyes flew to the restaurant door and her heart leapt. It had never been the Captain. As hard as it was to admit, she desperately wanted it to be him, so she’d sat back down and squared her book against the edge of the table, breathing through the urge to run. Men might be unnecessary, but he was worth sitting there, however difficult that was.
Maybe he’d been caught in traffic. Maybe he’d gotten the time wrong. Maybeshe’dgotten the time wrong. She hadn’t brought his letter along to double-check.Give him another fifteen minutes.
The bells sounded again, jerking her attention to the door.
Her leaping heart plummeted.The Duke of Strafford? Here?The restaurant was pleasant, but it was hardly the haunt of the beau monde. She should have been safe from his presence.
She slumped in her chair, hoping he wouldn’t see her. Scrambling, she opened her book. Why hadn’t she brought her larger, illustrated edition? That would have covered her entire face.
As Emma Woodhouse stared at her from the pages, judging her for her timidity, Eleanor snuck a peek.
He was heading in her direction. Dash it. She trained her eyes on the words in front of her:
Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.
“Tell me about it,” she muttered. How long would she have to sit there, hiding, before it was safe to leave?
“Miss Wright?”
The blood drained from her face.
“What a surprise to see you here,” he said. For someone whose last words to her were a condescending dismissal, his tone was oddly congenial.
She gritted her teeth. Absolutelynothingwas going right in her life, not even this. She closed the book and straightened. She would face the enemy upright, at least.
“May I join you?” He didn’t wait for a response. He pulled out the chair and sat with all the arrogance of a man who needed permission from no one for anything. It was galling, the way he smiled at her, though no doubt he intended to be charming. If the smothered giggles from the women two tables away were any indication, it was the kind of smile that would open doors and legs whether he was honest about who he was or not.
That she had initially succumbed to his brooding eyes andchiseled jaw, that her brain had taken leave at the sound of his thick and honeyed voice, that she’d equated the peppering of gray in his dark hair and the creases between his brows as signs of astute character were miscalculations she’d forever rue.
The duke was handsome, but so was Mephistopheles and she’d rather be seated across from an agent of Satan than this poor excuse for a man.
“No, you may not join me.” Other people might give him anything he wanted, but his title didn’t impress her. “That seat is taken. Shoo.” She waved at him.
“Shoo?Did you just dismiss me like a stray cat?”
