Page 50 of Ne'er Duke Well
Peter was grateful his mouth didn’t require much input from his brain in forming a response, because in truth, he had no idea how he meant to raise his siblings. Not one. “Not at all. There’s no inherent conflict between attending to my brother and sister and taking my place in the Lords.”
Eldon scoffed. “Easy words from a man who’s never had children of his own. We’ve raised four between us, Bessie and me, and there’s no sense in thinking you can do it alone.” He cast a fond look at Lady Eldon, which promptly dropped off his face when he turned back to Peter.
“Surely you know I raised my siblings as well,” Nicholas cut in smoothly. “Ten years younger than Stanhope to boot—and we survived, didn’t we, Selina?”
Selina smiled warmly at Nicholas, Eldon, and the general company, and nodded. She opened her mouth to speak, but Eldon again harrumphed, and she closed her mouth, wincing.
“I think we all know you had plenty of help, Rowland,” Eldon said, tilting his head toward Lady Judith and Thomasin. “What does Stanhope have? A pack of hired nursemaids? Or simply a fully paid tuition bill so he can get the children out of his house?”
A clamor of voices broke out at his words.
Peter stuttered a rejection—he hadn’t meant that at all when he’d mentioned Eton, surely they must realize—
Lady Eldon said gently, “Now, John, Stanhope seems to me—”
Selina’s irate voice barely bordered on polite. “Surely if His Grace meant to do nothing more than send the children off to be cared for elsewhere, he would simply leave them where they are.”
And Lady Judith, when the tumult died down, said sternly, “Come now, Eldon. Stanhope has all of us. Ravenscrofts do not abandon their friends.”
Footmen entered the room then, one for each guest, and presented tiny crystal glasses filled with raspberry ice. On each a sugar-paste flower blossomed, fragile and delicately painted in pinks and violets.
Peter ate the dessert course mechanically, barely tasting the sweetness, hardly wondering which company had imported the sugar.
Frustration and resentment swirled in him—at Eldon, yes. But also at himself. If he’d just gone along with Selina’s plan, he might have an affianced bride here tonight to answer Eldon’s queries. And for once, it seemed like it would have been a damned good idea. Howdidhe think he was going to do this all by himself?
He appreciated Lady Judith’s support, down in some bone-deep part of himself that had always wanted to be part of a family like the Ravenscrofts. But he scarcely knew what she meant. The children were his. His family, his responsibility. And somehow hewas already failing at that responsibility as he sat here, unable to tell Eldon what the man wanted to hear.
He should have listened to Selina. He should have picked a duchess from her carefully selected list. But he couldn’t. How could he, when everything he wanted was right here, beside him, and he never wanted to let her go?
The subject turned from his family to politics, and Peter let it flow past him, unheeding. When the dessert course was cleared, they made their way out of the dining room. Rowland invited Peter and Eldon for port—not cognac, which was something of a relief—in his study, and the ladies made their way back into the sitting room. Peter heard the soft sound of the pianoforte and wondered who played.
Rowland and Eldon spoke of their mutual acquaintances in Parliament, and Peter dutifully agreed with whatever they were saying. He mentioned the imminent date of the guardianship petition on the Court of Chancery schedule, and he didn’t say anything about the colonies or stains on any national character. He might not be able to marry as Selina had wanted him to do, but he was on his best bloody English prig behavior.
When they finally left the office and the port to make their way back to the ladies, Peter excused himself.
He told them he needed to piss—not quite in so many words—but in truth he needed to breathe. He needed just a moment to remember how to inhale and exhale, enough times so that he could pretend the world wouldn’t end if he cocked this all up and didn’t get the children.
He made his way past the retiring room, past the library and the sitting room to another door, partially shut, its gold handle gleaming dully in the candlelight of the hallway. He had no ideawhat sort of chamber it was or what was inside, but he needed a minute. He needed a quiet room.
He pushed open the door the rest of the way and let himself in. It was dark—his eyes adjusted slowly to the dim space, lit only by the glowing embers of a banked fire and the starlight out the window.
He half turned back to the door and started to close it, until his movement was arrested by a whispered feminine shriek.
“Wait! Don’t!”
He whirled, his shoulder clipping the side of the door and sending it careening into the jamb. “Selina?”
Her face was a pale circle in the dark room, and she leapt toward him. “Did it close?”
He blinked idiotically at her, at the door shut tightly behind him. “Yes?”
She said something that sounded vaguely like a curse, but he honestly didn’t quite recognize her words.
“I beg your pardon?”
She groaned, repeated the inexplicable oath, and put her head in her hands. “Peter. This door is broken. We’re locked in here.”
Chapter 13
