Page 55 of Winter's Waltz
She surveyed the hastily restored kitchens. The room still smelled of smoke, but the ash and destruction had been cleared away. Walls had been repaired. Furniture had been replaced. It was not perfect, but it would do.
She turned back to Peter, who was watching her expectantly. “Almost back to its old self. Thank you for overseeing all the repairs this past week.”
Peter had been working day and night to undo the damage which had been done to Lady Fortune. And for the last sennight, there hadn’t been any other incidents. It seemed as if the troubles which had been plaguing her had disappeared, along with the Marquess of Sundenbury.
Max.
She missed him. How she missed him. More than she was willing to admit. More than she had ever believed possible. But they had always been doomed to part, and his absence was for the best.
Peter nodded. “It’s my duty. Least I can do to see Lady Fortune open ’er doors tomorrow as planned.”
Tomorrow.
A shiver of anticipation cut through her at the reminder. The culmination of all her efforts. The word had been spread far and wide. A new, secret gaming hell for ladies. Reputations would be protected—all patrons would be masked. Even Gen herself would be masked as she made her way through the tables.
She could not deny, however, that her excitement was tempered by the sadness which had been her constant companion since Max had gone. She did not like this bloody inclination towardfeelinghe had created in her. Try as she might, she could not find a means of banishing it.
“I am thankful to you, Peter,” she said softly.
Aside from the heated words they had exchanged concerning the marquess, her friendship with Peter had remained unshaken. She was especially grateful she had not needed to ask her brothers for aid. Lady Fortune, and all its problems, was hers. Solving them was her duty. Running it was, as well.
This place was in her blood and bones.
It was where she was meant to be, what she was intended to do, from birth. She wasn’t a fine lady, never would be, and she’d do best to stop mooning over the memories of a handsome lord and his dimples and trudge on.
“I’m pleased to ’elp, Gen.” Peter stepped forward.
He was crowding her. They were alone in the kitchens, which was not out of the ordinary, but he was standing near enough to her that the scent of him—the sharpness of male sweat—intruded.
She took a step back. “I should find Arthur and head for the land of nod.”
Arthur had been spending each night guarding her faithfully. His presence comforted her and made her feel less lonely and vulnerable in the wake of Max’s departure. Not that she would admit as much aloud to a soul.
“There’s somethin’ I’d like to talk to you about,” Peter said. “We make a good team. I’ll do anything for you and for Lady Fortune.”
A knot formed in her belly. “Peter—”
“I want to marry you, Gen,” he interrupted. Whatever ’appened between you and ’isnabs, I don’t care. All I want is you.”
“But…” Dismayed, she searched his intimidating countenance, hoping this was all a lark. “You said you think of me as a sister.”
“It’s more’n that. I love you.”
The knot tightened. This was not what she wanted to hear. Or mayhap it was, but from the wrong man. Ruthlessly, she quashed all thoughts of the Marquess of Sundenbury. He was not here now, and nor would he likely be again. She had to accept that hard fact and look to her future.
A future that did not, no matter how fond she was of him, include becoming Peter’s wife.
“You pay me a great honor, Peter,” she said gently. “But you know I’ll not marry any man. I’d never surrender my independence and everything I’ve worked for. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
You would for one man, whispered a wicked voice inside her mind.
A voice she promptly dashed away.
“I wouldn’t take anything from you,” Peter countered, apparently unmoved by her polite refusal.
“You would, whether you wished it or not. The laws aren’t on the side of women. I marry a man, and he owns my hell and me.”
And that was the truth. Though, there was also the plain truth that she did not want to marry Peter. He didn’t make sparks kindle into uncontrollable flames inside her the way the Marquess of Sundenbury did by merely walking into a room. She did not long for him, his touch, his scent. She had not spent the last week tossing about in her empty bed, wishing he were there. Wishing she had not sent him away.
