Page 111 of Stolen By the Duke of Ice
But Peter could hear nothing except the echo of his own thoughts. They were filled with moments with Dahlia, now so many that his mind raced to catch up. His superior mind that he had always counted on, the mind that told him what to do, was left reeling. It only saw Dahlia.
For him to believe that love was destructive, that its intention was to maim, felt like nothing more than bitterness now. Would Dahlia hurt him? There was no guarantee that she would not,but would she do it intentionally? No, she would not. Of that, Peter was sure.
Then why can you not give her your trust?
He answered his own question.
Because you are afraid to love. It is your fear of love that blinds you. To love means being strong, brave. Love is not a weakness, it is strength.
“I have been an idiot!”
“It is good that you finally know that,” Claire said behind him.
“What have I done? Good God, what have I done!”
Peter stood up; as if seeing his sisters for the first time, he looked at them bewildered.
“I cannot let this end this way. I cannot.”
Without another word, Mary and Claire watched their brother rush out of the room.
“Finally!” Mary exclaimed.
“I thought it would never happen!” Claire said.
They looked at each other. Hope in their eyes.
The pounding of the door was so loud that it echoed throughout the entire household. Snow fell heavily outside, covering every house and every street in London like a thick, white blanket.
Peter looked at the line of carriages outside; they suggested that Bolton House was holding a party. He thought it served him right that he should have to look for Dahlia in a house party.
If she will even let me in.
“Dahlia!” Peter called again. He looked at his poor horse; if no one answered the door soon, he swore to unsaddle it. He had been travelling non-stop since morning. The heavy snowfall had not helped either; horses had to be changed more often. In the end, when he was but ten miles outside of London, he had left his carriage and hired a horse instead to ride on ahead. Snow and cold were the least of his worries.
“Dahlia!” he called again.
The door suddenly opened to reveal an annoyed looking Mr. Tipping.
“Your Grace!” The butler’s eyes widened at unexpectedly seeing him.
“Where is she? Where is my wife?”
Mr. Tipping looked at him, indicating that his attire was less than acceptable for what was, at the moment, happening in Bolton House. Or was he, perhaps, indicating that he was not welcome there.
Peter stared him down until the butler exhaled heavily and answered, “Her Grace is with the whole family in the ballroom. They are celebrating the changing of the year, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tipping. If you can have someone see to the horse.” And without another word, he ran as fast as he could to the ballroom. It was easy to find the room, for music and chatter spilled from behind its doors.
Peter pushed the doors open; light, from numerous lighted chandeliers, and reflecting from mirrors, flooded his eyes. After hours of riding in the dark, the brightness of the room unnerved him.
He squinted until he could see properly. When he finally could, he realized that dozens—if not hundreds of eyes were on him. Even the musicians stopped playing.
Straightening to his full height, he sought to find the one pair of eyes that he so desperately needed to see.
And there they were, as green as a spring morning when hope was fresh and nature forgiving. Peter prayed as he had not done in so long a time.
“Dahlia.”
