***
The air was clear and crisp, filling Peter’s lungs as he urged his horse over the sodden fields away from Seacliff. The rain of the night before had washed clean the dust and dirt and made everything shine like a new penny. Droplets sparkled like gems on the grass, flying through the air in glorious rainbows under his mount’s hooves.
He blanched. What drivel was this, that he was likening mere drops of water to gems and rainbows? All the more proof that this solitary ride had been necessary. He focused on the feel of the horse beneath him, on the way the wind tugged on his unbound hair. Focus was needed to help him decide what it was he wanted for his future. And what he couldn’t live without.
He came to the crest of a gentle rise and pulled the horse to a stop, looking down into the low valley.
Danesford lay before him, elegant and sprawling, nestled in the valley. The dark brick exterior, the stone dressings, the windows winking in the sun, made it appear as if some lumbering mythical beast had come to slumber between the rolling hills. His eyes scoured the mansion. It was precious to the duke. Everything about this land was, from the carefully trimmed gardens to the smooth expanses of lawn. It screamed wealth and status and privilege. Everything the Duke of Dane held dear.
It had long been his desire to see it fall into ruins. But if he married Lenora, those plans would be destroyed. She loved this land, loved the duke’s family. She wouldn’t allow him to lay waste to them.
He had to choose between everything he had wanted for so long, and his love for Lenora.
He tried to dredge up the memory of Dane as he had been that day, the cool cruelty that had twisted his face as he’d turned him away. To his frustration, he saw only the abject misery of the duke as he was now, a sick, broken man begging for forgiveness.
Peter growled low in his throat. His horse stepped sideways, agitated by the sound. He quickly brought it back under control, patting its quivering neck absentmindedly. He had to remember just what it was he was doing here, and why he had to make Dane pay. His mother’s face swam up in his mind, haggard and pale, drawn with pain. He let the familiar fury settle under his skin, welcoming it like an old friend. How could he forgive that? How could he let that remain unpunished?
Yet if he didn’t, he would lose Lenora. And he wanted her, more than air in his lungs.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, he cast a furious glare at the mansion before turning his horse’s head and thundering away. He was no closer than he had been to making a decision, was even more mired in doubt. And he could see no clear path to what was right.
He had not gotten far, however, when a small, grizzled man came into view. The man whipped his hat off his nearly bald head and began to wave it cheerfully in the air.
“Mr. Ashford, so nice to see you!”
Peter groaned, his wish for solitude effectively destroyed.
“Mr. Tunley,” Peter acknowledged as he came closer, his voice cool and unwelcoming. The man would see he didn’t wish for company, surely.
But Mr. Tunley was either thick as a stump or quite the friendliest man in existence. He stopped in the middle of the path, grinning at Peter as if he could not think of a person he wanted to meet more.
“Out for a ride this morning, are you?” He breathed in deeply and peered up at the cloudless sky, replacing his worn cap back on his head. “Mighty fine day for it. That was some storm we had last night, eh?”
“Yes, it was.” Perhaps if he simply answered the fellow and didn’t engage him in conversation, he might be able to escape him the quicker.
But the man showed not the slightest hint of leaving. He seemed rather to settle more firmly into the road. “I myself love a good storm. It cleanses the earth, makes everything new again.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have storms such as these in America then?”
“Yes.”
He nodded as if Peter had imparted something interesting. “Wonderful. Always love learning about new places.”
Goodness, the man wasn’t going to stop, was he? Peter drew breath, intending to extricate himself as quickly as he was able. Mr. Tunley, however, launched on again.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to share a bit of food with me, would you?” The man held up a small bundle.
Peter blinked, utterly confused by the lightning change in topic. So much so that he quite forgot he was trying to keep the man at arm’s length and escape. “You wish me to share your breakfast?”
“Certainly. Though it’s not my breakfast I’ll be sharing with you. No, I’ve been up since long before dawn.” He brought the bundle to his nose, sniffing experimentally, before grinning. “If I’m right, and I usually am, my Mrs. Tunley has packed me some meat pasties and a quantity of early apples. And if I’ve been good, I suspect I shall find a hunk of hard cheese within as well. And I’m always good. At least as far as Mrs. Tunley is concerned.” He chuckled.
To Peter’s mortification, his stomach rumbled. Lady Tesh served up elegant food, delicious yet far too fancy for Peter’s tastes, with intricate flavors that only palates much more refined than his could appreciate. What Mr. Tunley described was good plain fare, food to nourish the body. It was food he had grown up eating, food he had preferred even in Boston.
But though his stomach cried out for sustenance, rebelling at the meager diet of black coffee he had consumed at breakfast, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t wish to take away food from your plate, Mr. Tunley.”
“Oh, ’tis no trouble at all, my boy,” the man said. “Mrs. Tunley always gives me much more than I can eat. As my girth can attest to.” Here he patted his rounded middle, letting loose a laugh that could not fail to wring an answering smile from Peter.
