But it was not to be. As the others fell into easy conversation, Lady Clara, seated at his side, turned her full attention on him. “I had hoped you might take me up on my invitation to visit Danesford,” she said, accepting a cup of tea from Margery with a smile. “My father is most eager to see you again.”
Peter didn’t think it possible for his shoulders to tense further than they were. But he felt it, the tightening of the muscles, spreading up over the back of his neck, making his head pound. “I don’t know that I will have the time,” he muttered.
Lady Clara laughed. “Not have the time? You’re here for another few days at least, are you not? I’m certain you can manage an hour or two.”
“I cannot.”
“Goodness, is our great-aunt such a taskmaster?” Again that laugh. “I must have a talk with her then.”
“It will not do any good, my lady.”
“Oh, pish. She’s not a difficult woman; she will understand it’s something you wish to do.”
“I do not wish to visit the duke,” he growled, unable to take one more minute of her rambling.
The words hung in the air between them. Lady Clara stared at him, the pleasant smile that had curved her lips faltering.
“You don’t wish to see Father?”
He should retreat. This woman had done nothing wrong, did not deserve his ire.
Yet now that the beast of his frustration and anger had been released, he couldn’t close it back up again.
“I’ve said all there is to say to your father, and if I never see him again, it will be too soon,” he snapped. “Your father is a heartless monster who deserves nothing from me.”
As Lady Clara stared at him in stunned horror, Peter gradually became aware of the silence in the room. Every eye was trained on him, with expressions running from shock to pity to anger.
A ringing started up in his ears. Good God, he had to get away from here. Rising, he strode from the room, realizing only as he reached the front hall that the glass of lemonade was still in his hand. He slammed it on a nearby table and hurried out into the bright summer day. He would ride, until the riot of his emotions was tamed, until the devil on his shoulders was appeased.
He had not gone twenty paces when a hand on his arm spun him about. Quincy stood there, his face tense with anger.
“What the devil was that about, Peter?”
He threw off his friend’s hand, continuing on the path to the stables. But Quincy’s boots sounded behind him, angry and quick on the crushed shell path.
“I’m talking to you, damn it.”
“It’s no business of yours,” Peter shot back over his shoulder.
“Isn’t it? I followed you halfway across the world. I think that makes it my business. You’re still going through with it, aren’t you? You still intend to ruin their lives.”
“Did you think I would give it up? You know me better than that.”
“You damn, idiotic fool,” Quincy spat. “Stop and face me.”
It wasn’t the insult that caused Peter to do as he was bid. It was the pain in his friend’s voice. The fury that twisted Quincy’s normally cheerful countenance, however, stunned him.
“Even after getting to know these people,” his friend said, his words low and furious, “you will still go through with your revenge?”
What could he say to that? “Yes.”
The one word, clipped and tense, hung in the air between them. “You bastard,” Quincy breathed.
Peter drew himself up. “He deserves to pay for what he did.”
“The duke?” Quincy let loose a humorless laugh. “The man is dying. Your revenge, for what it’s worth, doesn’t have to go beyond the end of his life.”
“Are you suggesting I forget it all after he’s dead?”
