Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (12 page)

“I want to marry your daughter.” There, he’d said it. Twice, even.

And at the very least, the earl didn’t look ready to have him killed. “This isn’t a surprise, I must say,”

the older man murmured.

“And I want you to have her dowry.”

“That, however, is.”

“I’m not a fortune hunter,” Peter said.

One corner of the earl’s lips curved—not exactly a smile, but something at least similar. “If you’re so intent to prove it, why not eliminate the dowry altogether?”

“That wouldn’t be fair to Tillie,” Peter said, standing stiffly. “My pride isn’t worth her comfort.”

Lord Canby paused for what had to be the longest three seconds in eternity, then asked, “Do you love her?”

“With everything I am.”

“Good.” The earl nodded approvingly. “She’s yours. Provided that you take the entire dowry.
And
that she says yes.”

Peter couldn’t move. He’d never dreamed it could be this easy. He’d braced for a fight, resigned himself to a possible elopement.

“Don’t look so surprised,” the earl said with a laugh. “Do you know how many times Harry wrote home of you? For all his rapscallion ways, Harry was a shrewd judge of character, and if he said there was no one he’d rather see married to Tillie, I’m inclined to believe it.”

“He wrote that?” Peter whispered. His eyes were stinging, but this time there was no smoke to take the blame. Only the memory of Harry, in one of his rare serious moments. Harry, as he’d asked for Peter’s promise to look after Tillie.

Peter had never interpreted that to mean marriage, but maybe that was what Harry had had in mind all along.

“Harry loved you, son,” Lord Canby said.

“I loved him as well. Like a brother.”

The earl smiled. “Well, then. This all seems rather fitting, don’t you think?”

They turned and began to walk again.

“You will call upon Tillie in the morning?” Lord Canby asked as they stepped off the bridge onto the north bank of the Thames.

“First thing,” Peter assured him. “The very first thing.”

Last night’s reenactment of the Battle of Waterloo was, in Prinnys words, a “splendid success,” leading one to wonder if our Regent simply did not notice that a Chinese pagoda (of which we have few in London) burned to the ground.

It is rumored that Lady Mathilda Howard and Mr. Peter Thompson were both trapped inside, although not (rather astonishingly, in This Author s opinion) at the same time.

Neither was injured, and in an intriguing turn of events, Lady Mathilda departed with her mother, and Mr. Thompson left with Lord Canby.

Could they be welcoming him into their fold? This Author does not dare to speculate but instead promises to report only the truth, just as soon as it becomes available.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,
19 JUNE 1816

There were many interpretations of “first thing,” and Peter had decided to go with the one that meant three in the morning.

He’d accepted Lord Canby’s offer of a carriage, and he’d ridden home much earlier, but once there, all he could do was pace restlessly, counting the minutes until he could present himself once again upon the Canby doorstep and formally ask Tillie to marry him.

He wasn’t nervous; he knew she would accept. But he was excited—too excited to sleep, too excited to eat, too excited to do anything but wander around his small abode, every now and then thrusting his fist in the air with a triumphant, “Yes!”

It was silly, and it was juvenile, but he couldn’t stop himself.

And it was for much the same reason he found himself standing below Tillie’s window in the middle of the night, expertly lobbing pebbles at her window.

Thwap. Thwap.

He’d always had good aim.

Thwap. Thunk.

Whoops. That one was probably too large.

Thw—
“Ow!”

Ooops. “Tillie?”

“Peter?”

“Did I hit you?”

“Was that a rock?” She was rubbing her shoulder.

“A pebble, really,” he clarified.

“What are you doing?”

He grinned. “Courting you.”

She looked around, as if someone might suddenly materialize to have him carted off to Bedlam. “Now?”

“So it seems.”

“Are you mad?”

He looked around for a trellis, a tree—anything to climb. “Come down and let me in,” he said.

“Now I know you’re mad.”

“Not mad enough to try to scale the wall,” he said. “Come to the servants’

entrance and let me in.”

“Peter, I won’t—”

“Tillie.”

“Peter, you need to go home.”

He cocked his head to the side. “I do believe I’ll stay here until the entire house wakes up.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he assured her.

Something about his tone must have impressed her, because she paused to consider that.

“Very well,” she said in a rather school teacherish voice. “I’m coming down.

But
don’t
think you’re coming in.”

Peter just saluted her before she disappeared into her room, jamming his hands into his pockets and whistling as he ambled over to the servants’ door.

Life was good. No, it was more than that.

Life was spectacular.

Tillie had almost perished with surprise when she’d seen Peter standing in her back garden. Well, perhaps that was overstating it a bit, but good heavens! What did he think he was doing?

And yet, even as she’d scolded him, even as she’d told him to go home, she hadn’t been able to quell the giddy glee she’d felt upon seeing him there. Peter was proper and conventional; he didn’t
do
things like this.

Except maybe for her. He did it for her. Could anything have been more perfect?

She pulled on a robe but left her feet bare. She wanted to move as quickly and silently as possible. Most of the servants slept in the upper reaches of the house, but the hall boy was down near the kitchens, and Tillie would have to pass directly by the housekeeper’s suite as well.

After a couple minutes of scurrying, she reached the back door and carefully turned the key. Peter was standing just outside.

“Tillie,” he said with a smile, and then, before she had the chance to even say his name, he swept her into his arms and captured her mouth with his.

“Peter,” she gasped, when he finally let her, “what are you doing here?”

His lips moved to her neck. ‘Telling you I love you.”

Her entire body tingled. He’d said it earlier that evening, but she still thrilled as if it were the first time.

And then he pulled back, his eyes serious as he said, “And hoping you will say the same.”

“I love you,” she whispered. “I do, I do. But I need to—”

“You need me to explain,” he finished for her, “why I didn’t tell you about Harry.”

It wasn’t what she’d been about to say; amazingly, she hadn’t been thinking of Harry. She hadn’t thought of him all night, not since she’d seen Peter inside the burning pagoda.

“I wish I had a better answer,” he said, “but the truth is, I don’t know why I never told you. The time was never right, I suppose.”

“We can’t talk here,” she said, suddenly aware that they were still standing in the doorway. Anyone might hear them and wake up. “Come with me,” she said, taking his hand and tugging him inside. She couldn’t take him to her room—that would never do. But there was a small salon one flight up that was far from anyone’s sleeping quarters. No one would ever hear them there.

Once they’d reached their new location, she turned to him and said, “It doesn’t matter. I understand about Harry. I overreacted.”

“No,” he said, taking her hands in his, “you didn’t.”

“I did. It was the shock of it, I suppose.”

He lifted her hands to his lips.

“But I have to ask,” she whispered. “Would you have told me?”

He stilled, her hands still in his, hovering between their bodies. “I don’t know,”

he said quietly.

“I suppose I would have had to, eventually.”

Had to. It wasn’t quite the wording she’d thought to hear.

“Fifty years is a long time to keep a secret,” he added.

Fifty years? She looked up. He was smiling.

“Peter?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Will you marry me?”

Her lips parted. She tried to nod, but she couldn’t seem to make anything work.

“I already asked your father.”

“You—”

Peter tugged her closer. “He said yes.”

“People will call you a fortune hunter,” she whispered. She had to say it; she knew it was important to him.

“Will you?”

She shook her head.

He shrugged. “Then nothing else matters.” And then, as if the moment weren’t perfect enough, he dropped to one knee, never letting go of her hands. “Tillie Howard,” he said, his voice solemn and true, “will you marry me?”

She nodded. Through her tears, she nodded, and somehow she managed to say, “Yes. Oh, yes!”

His hands tightened on hers, and then he stood, and then she was in his arms. ‘Tillie,” he murmured, his lips warm against her ears, “I will make you happy. I promise you, with everything I am, I will make you happy.”

“You already do.” She smiled, gazing up at his face, wondering how it had become so familiar, so precious. “Kiss me,” she said impulsively.

He leaned down, dropping a light kiss on her lips. “I should go,” he said.

“No,
kiss
me.”

He drew a haggard breath. “You don’t know what you ask.”

“Kiss me,” she said again. “Please.”

And he did. He didn’t think he should; she saw that in his eyes. But he couldn’t help himself. Tillie shivered with a thrill of feminine power as his lips found hers, hungry and possessive, promising love, promising passion.

Promising everything.

There was no turning back now; she knew this. He was like a man possessed, his hands roaming over her with breathtaking intimacy. There was little between her skin and his; she was clad only in her silk nightdress and robe, and every touch brought thrilling pressure and heat.

“Turn me away now,” Peter begged. ‘Turn me away now and make me do the right thing.” But his grip tightened as he said it, and his hands found the curve of her bottom and pressed her shockingly against him.

Tillie just shook her head. She wanted this too much. She wanted him. He’d awakened something within her, something powerful and primitive, a need that was impossible to explain or deny.

“Kiss me, Peter,” she whispered. “And more.”

He did, with a passion that stole her very soul. But when he pulled away, he said, “I won’t take you now. Not here. Not like this.”

“I don’t care,” she nearly wailed.

“Not until you’re my wife,” he vowed.

“Then for God’s sake, get a special license
tomorrow,”
she snapped.

He pressed one finger to her lips, and when she looked at his face, she realized he was smiling. Quite devilishly. “I won’t make love to you,” he reiterated, his eyes turning wicked. “But I’ll do everything else.”

“Peter?” she whispered.

He swept her into his arms and deposited her on the sofa.

“Peter, what are you—?”

“Nothing you’ve ever heard of,” he said with a chuckle.

“But—” She gasped. “Oh my heavens! What are you doing?”

His lips were on the inside of her knee, and they were moving up.

“Rather what you think, I imagine,” he murmured, his mouth hot against her thigh.

“But—”

He looked up suddenly, and the loss of his lips on her skin was devastating.

“Will anyone notice if I ruin this gown?”

“My … no,” she said, too dazed to put together anything more complete.

“Good,” he said, and then he gave it a yank, ignoring Tillie’s gasp when the left strap separated from the bodice.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been dreaming of this moment?” he murmured, moving his body up along hers until his mouth found her breast.

“I… ah … ah …” She hoped he didn’t really expect an answer. His lips had found her nipple, and she had no idea how it was possible, but she swore she felt it between her legs.

Or maybe that was his hand, which was tickling her in the most wicked way possible. “Peter?” she gasped.

He lifted his head, just long enough to look at her face and drawl, “I’ve been distracted.”

“You’ve…”

If she’d meant to say more, it was lost as” he moved back down, his lips replacing his fingers in her most intimate place. Dozens of words flooded her mind, most involving his name and phrases like
You shouldn’t, You can’t,
but she could seem to do was moan and mewl and let out the “Oh!” of delight.

“Oh!”

“Oh!”

And then once, when his tongue did something particularly wicked, “Oh, Peter!”

He must have heard the squeak in her voice, because he did it again. And then again and again until something very strange happened, and she quite simply exploded beneath him. She gasped, she arched, she saw stars.

And as for Peter, he just lifted himself up and smiled down at her face, licked his lips, and said, “Oh, Tillie.”

Triumph!

For This Author, that is.

Was it not hinted right in these pages that a match might be made between Lady Mathilda Howard and Mr. Thompson?

A notice appeared in yesterday’s Times, announcing their betrothal. And at last night’s Frobisher Ball, Lord and Lady Canby declared themselves delighted with the match. Lady Mathilda was positively radiant, and as for Mr.

Thompson
—
This Author is gleefully pleased to report that he was heard to mutter, “It shall be a short engagement.”

Now then, if only This Author could solve the Neeley mystery…

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,
21 JUNE 1816

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

When Julia Quinn created Lady Whistledown in her groundbreaking novel, The Duke and I, she never dreamed that the character would take on a life of her own. Readers everywhere were fascinated by the mystery of her identity, and Julia’s Korean publisher was even forced to put up an internet bulletin board so that her fans in that country could discuss her books.