“You’re as little fun as John these days. And now you want to marry, too.” Daniel sighed. “I’ll be the lone bachelor.”
“Youaremarried. You tried to take a second wife.”
“Oh yes. I forget about them. They seem like”—he fluttered his hands in the air—“dreams. Make believe.”
“You deserve every moment of your exile.”
“Probably.” He nudged his elbow into Richard’s ribs. “How are we sneaking me into the church for the wedding? It’s only a few days away now. We need to make a plan.”
“You’re not going to the wedding. You’re going away. For good. Tomorrow.”
“I came back to see our brother married.”
“You should not have.”
“I thought…” Daniel ruffled his hair, a sure sign of his frustration. “You wrote to me.”
“Toinformyou, notinviteyou.” Richard stood. “I need to go to Slopevale.”
“To chase after the shrew.”
“Do not call her that.”
“You love her. You loved her back then, and you love her still.”
“And she thinks all men lying, disloyal, and careless. I can’t blame her for that.” Not when he considered her father. And his father. Not when he considered Daniel.
“So, you’ll let the woman you love lead you around on a leash, drop you like a hat pin when she tires of you, leaving you bleeding and brokenhearted for, knowing you, likely the rest of your life? Sounds like she’s the one who’s disloyal and careless. I would know.” Daniel pushed past him and made for the house. Before entering a back door, he yelled, “I’m attending the wedding!”
The hell he was.
Richard needed to follow Beatrice, find some way to fix this, find some way to make his heart okay with an affair instead of marriage. He’d always been able to sacrifice what he wanted for others’ needs. He could do it again.
Thirteen
Beatrice stopped writing, her quill hovering over the paper. “My lord, are you sure you’re well?”
Lord Peterson sat nearby in a small armchair, one ankle crossed over the other knee. A book lay open on his lap, but he had turned perhaps two pages in the last half hour. He’d been too busy scratching to read much. His hands roamed frantically every which way over his shoulders and neck, every bit of available skin.
He’d not asked her again to join him in his bedchamber, and he’d mostly stopped his attentions since the day Richard had interrupted their walk in the garden. A good thing. She would have had to reject him in clearer terms.
Even if Richard was being a big-hearted, stubborn donkey, he was stillherdonkey. For now. And the Petersons of the world held no interest anymore.
Beatrice set her quill down on the blotting paper. “You have seemed quite uncomfortable since sitting down, my lord.”
“I’m fine,” he grumbled. He reached for his teacup and took a sip, then rested it back on the saucer.
“Very well.” She returned to the contract she’d been translating.
“I do hope I’m not distracting you.”
He was, of course. He couldn’t seem to help it. Something about her busy at work made him wish to interrupt it. And usually with some disparaging remark. Did he think he was courting her with his warnings about work and women? She offered a noncommittal smile. Let him interpret it how he would.
He gave a tight laugh. “I think I’m allergic to something here in the country.”
“You’ll be more comfortable once you return to London.”
“Yes. Quite right. And when will you be making the journey?”
