went with his rank.
It was time, in other words, to grow up and be the man he had been educated to be-and actually the man he had always dreamed of being, even if the dream had been interrupted for rather too long. He had grown up loving Sidley and the knowledge that it was his and had been since the death of his father when he was three.
Aimless pleasure was not really for him, he had decided during the Season in London this year. Neither were wild oats, though he had sown a few. He had wasted five years of his life. Though they had not been wholly wasted, he supposed. He
They had let him down badly five years ago, those guardians-not to mention his mother. But basically, he had come to realize, they had given him a sound upbringing. It was time to stop feeling sorry for himself and punishing himself as well as them-it was time to become the person he wanted to be. No one else could do that but him after all.
It had felt enormously satisfying to put himself finally in charge of his own life.
Of course, he
Now his mother’s letter had put a dent in his dreams. It appalled him that she appeared to have been so little affected by the events of five years ago. Or perhaps she was merely trying to make amends in the only way she knew how. It was
They were interrupted before he could reply to Raycroft’s invitation by the arrival in the breakfast parlor of Miss Rosamond Raycroft, John’s young sister, who was looking rosy-cheeked and bright- eyed and remarkably pretty after an hour spent out in the garden gathering flowers with her mama. Peter looked at her with affectionate appreciation as she kissed her brother’s cheek and then turned a deliberately pouting face toward him. He stood to draw back a chair for her.
“I am quite out of charity with
“You break my heart,” Peter said, resuming his own place. “But I am not at all out of charity with
The mock pout disappeared, to be replaced with a look of youthful eagerness. “You are staying after all?” she asked him. “For the
“How can I resist?” He set his right hand over his heart and regarded her soulfully. “You ought not to have gone out into the sunshine and fresh air this morning and improved upon your already perfect complexion. You ought to have appeared here pale and wan and dressed in your oldest rags. Ah, but even then I fear I would have found the sight of you irresistible.”
She laughed.
“Oh, you
“It probably would, Ros,” her brother said. “It is a strenuous thing, dancing.”
“The Calverts will positively
Peter grinned.
“I’ll come with you and ask her now,” John said cheerfully. “Finn is a farmer and a dashed good one too, Ros. And he could shoot a wren between the eyes at a hundred paces. One cannot expect him to be an accomplished dancer too.”
“Shoot a
“It was merely a figurative way of speaking,” her brother told her. “What would be the use of shooting wrens? Nobody would eat them anyway.”
“Nobody would shoot a wren for any reason at all,” Peter assured the girl as he got to his feet. “They are gentle, beautiful birds. I shall accompany you on the walk too, if I may, Miss Raycroft. The weather and the countryside alone would tempt me, but even if it were raining and cold and blowing a gale, the company would be quite irresistible.”
She acknowledged the blatant flattery with a bright smile and eyes that still twinkled. She was seventeen years old, not yet officially “out,” and she knew as well as anyone that he was not seriously smitten with her charms-or with anyone else’s of her acquaintance for that matter. He would not have dared flatter and flirt with her if there were any likelihood that she might misunderstand-her brother was his closest friend and he was staying in their parents’ home.
“I shall go up and change my clothes and wash my hands and face,” she said, getting to her feet again, the toast forgotten. “I shall be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“Make it ten, Ros,” her brother said with a sigh. “You look perfectly decent to me as you are.”
Peter, meeting her pained glance, winked at her.
“Go and improve further upon perfection if it is possible,” he said. “We will wait for you even if you take twenty minutes.”
It seemed, he thought ruefully, that his decision had been made. He was not going home after all. Not yet, anyway.
An hour later Viscount Whitleaf was reflecting upon the singular handicap of possessing only two arms when three or four would have been far more convenient. He had Miss Raycroft on his right arm and the eldest Miss Calvert on his left, while Miss Jane Calvert and Miss Mary Calvert flittered and twittered about them like dainty, colorful birds, chattering and laughing, and John Raycroft walked nearby, swinging his arms and lifting his face to the sun and the sky when he was not beaming genially about him at the late summer countryside and remarking that the harvest was sure to be an excellent one this year.
Peter certainly hoped it would be good on his own farms at Sidley Park too. Having once thought about it, he ached to be there for the harvest, to be able to tramp the fields in old breeches and top boots, to be with his laborers, to shed his coat and roll up his shirtsleeves and work alongside them, to feel the