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Kipper gave her one last lick, sniffed her with a wet nose, and then trotted away as though satisfied, blunt claws loud on the wooden floor in the big, silent house.
Chapter twelve
Leo
Leothankedhisdrivermechanically as he stepped out of the car and into the underground garage of his London townhouse.
He felt dazed, disoriented, as though he was severely jetlagged. As though he had left part of himself behind in Cumbria. In a bed with tangled sheets.
But he had woken early as he always did and looked down at Pea’s beautiful face, at the brown curls spilling across the white pillow and over his arm, and he had been unable to stand the evidence of his own weakness.
So now he was here. And every step he took away from the car and up into his house felt wrong.
He still felt wrong later, in the car heading to Westminster. And not just wrong, but sick, in pain.
Choking with shame. Sordid with regret.
No matter. He had endured worse. He would endure this.
Leo made his way through Westminster to the small office he sometimes used there, his draft report on the arts bill in his hand. He liked to read things through on paper. Pea would probably call him old-fashioned. Pea would—
He couldn’t think about Pea.
“Leopold!” someone hailed him. He turned to face a middle-aged man with wobbling, red cheeks. Lord Greenharrow, another member of the select committee. “Did those protesters delay you, too?”
“I hardly noticed them.”
“Terrible banners for a bunch of artists. It seems they can hardly hold a paintbrush.” The man laughed at his own wit, small as it was. “But which artists actually do art anymore, eh? Someone sticking a dirty bra in a box is hardly art, is it?”
Leo thought for a moment. “I take it you mean Tracy Emin?”
“And the man who cuts sharks in half. Someone stuck a banana to the wall and called it art. The uproar this bill has caused, you’d think we’re holding back the next Cézanne. But it’s not like depriving seven-year-olds of finger paint is going to stop anyone with true talent from coming through. Cream always rises, eh?”
Leo stared at the man long enough for him to shift uncomfortably. But Leo wasn’t actually seeing his face. It was Pea he saw and heard. “Is that what we’re doing?” he said slowly, mostly to himself. “Depriving seven-year-olds of finger paint?”
“Well, I, uh, wouldn’t really want to turn that into a soundbite. Not great optics, PR wise.”
“The thing about cream rising to the top,” said Leo in that same absent manner, “is that first you need a cow.”
Lord Greenharrow blinked. “Are you feeling quite alright? Can’t help but notice you look rather wretched, if I’m being blunt.”
Leo didn’t really hear him. He turned on his heel and strode to his office where he dumped his draft report in the wastepaper bin.
It was going to be a long day. He had a lot of catching up to do.
He didn’t make it back to Thornley until late the next day, only two hours before the first dinner guests were due to arrive. He found the house in a state of frantic activity, regular staff and hired extras bustling around with flower arrangements and trays of glasses.
Since yesterday, he had accumulated several missed calls and a slew of increasingly acerbic text messages from his aunt, the last of which said:I can’t host a ducal dinner without a damned duke!
He had heard nothing from Pea—he was trying vainly to see it as a blessing.
He found his aunt pacing her suite of rooms, wearing a dressing gown, her hair in curlers.
“Where have you been!” she demanded.
“In London, as you know. I promised I would be back in time, and I am.”
“Well, I hope whatever you were doing was important.”
