Peter could have looked like an angel or a monster, it wouldn’t have mattered to
me. I wasn’t afraid of Peter. I’d trusted him implicitly since I’d been three
years old and he’d pulled me out of a sinking mud hole by a pond that was
dragging me under. I had worshiped him ever since, much to his disgust and
chagrin, since he’d been a strapping boy at Eton and had occasionally brought
his friends home, only to have his little cousin staring up at him with naked
adoration, her skinny arms held wide for him to pick her up.
“Tell me that it isn’t true,” he said at last.
“Is this why you came here? Is this why you’re angry?”
“Naturally. I knew nothing of this. I had to learn about it from Major Henchly,
who read it in a letter from his wife. You didn’t even have the nerve to write
me and tell me yourself what you planned to do. Tell me it’s a mistake, a bit of
unappetizing gossip, nothing more. Tell me.”
“I’m twenty-one years old. I am my own woman.
I don’t need anyone’s permission to do anything. You are not my guardian, Peter.”
“You’re wrong there. Not only am I the seventh Duke of Broughton, I am also your
guardian. You may be a grown woman, but you’re still a woman and that means that
as long as there is a male relative, it is his responsibility to see that you
come to no harm.”
“We’re not talking about protecting me from harm here, Peter, we’re talking
marriage, a simple, straightforward marriage.”
“Nothing in your life to date has been simple or straightforward. You have a
Machiavellian mind, Andy. Grandfather always told me you did. He marveled at the
way your mind worked, wrote me endlessly about how you would solve this puzzle,
come up with three options for the resolution of another problem, and dance
until dawn, all at the same time. He said you thirsted after conundrums.
“In my opinion, your mind is a woman’s mind, twisted and brilliant, all of it
mixed together, and many times you don’t realize which one is which.”
“Have you just insulted me?”
“No. You’ll know it well enough when I insult you. Like now. Prepare yourself.”
But he didn’t give me more than a second for any preparation. He shouted right
in my face, “You’re an idiot, Andy, if this nonsense is true. A blithering idiot
who needs to be locked away, something I might well consider.”
“You’re a man when it comes down to it,” I shouted back, and I heard my own deep
anger, the miserable bitterness lacing through my words. “I wouldn’t be
surprised at how low even you would stoop, if it pleased you.”
He backed up a step, reined himself in, and said more quietly, “I apologize for
yelling at you. No, we are not going to leap for each other’s throats or say
things that will do irreparable damage. I’m going to be calm about this. I am
your senior by nearly six years. I am a man filled with reason, overflowing with
common sense. I am now the Duke of Broughton. You are my responsibility now. I
love you. But now it’s time for you to tell me the truth.”
I watched, holding my tongue, fascinated at the fury I saw building up in him.
He drew in a deep breath, held it, then it burst out, and he shouted again at
the top of his lungs, “What the devil has gotten into you, you damnable twit?
And don’t try to sidetrack the issue, as you do so well. Tell me what the hell
is in that twisted mind of yours.”
I took another sip of my brandy, still silent. That caught his attention. He
frowned, then proceeded to sidetrack himself. “I gave it to you, damn me. You
shouldn’t drink that stuff. Only men drink brandy. Grandfather gave you the
taste for it. Curse him for not realizing you were just a thirteen-year-old girl
when he gave you your first snifter. Damnation, speak to me, Andy, and don’t you
dare tell me why you must needs drink brandy.”