Chapter 25

The drive to the airport was silent. Da at the wheel, using his prosthetic arm to man the right-hand controls, looked grim, as usual. Peter tried to ignore the tension thickening the air and studied the late-afternoon traffic. He could’ve had a limo company pick him up, but his mother had insisted he let his father do this for him. Though she thought it made him feel useful, Peter knew it’d only widen the rift between them. He was a reminder of everything bad that had ever befallen his family, especially his male parent.

“You have your toiletry kit?”

“Sure, Da.” Peter frowned at the odd question.

“You left it that one time, you know.”

That had been over ten years ago. What an odd thing to remember. He supposed it was his father’s way of bridging the awkward silence, and in a strange sort of way the idea was touching.

“Happens,” Peter said, playing the consummate Yankee with his one-word response. He wanted to say more though. So much more.

So why don’t you?

Strangely, it was Sid’s voice he heard asking the question. Given their conversations over the past two days, he supposed that was only natural.

“Da…” He opened his mouth and shut it a few times, wondering, now that he’d begun, what to say next.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Peter’s chest tightened. Heat permeated his cheeks, and moisture stung his eyes. His reply came out on a wave of breath suggestive of a punch. “Jesus, God. Yes it was.”

“You were too young. I knew better.” Ronan shook his head, his lips thinning. “I was trying to save some money. I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

“But…” All these years. All this time. The stares and glares. The anger and cold emotion. Where had it all come from? He couldn’t have imagined it all, could he? If so, he needed a shrink. Fast. Because he’d lost his mind a long time ago.

“I know we don’t get on that well,” Ronan continued. “I suppose it’s only natural. Considering we’re so alike.”

Clutching the door rest, Peter tried to navigate the surreal turn his reality had taken.

“I thought you hated me.” He knew the words weren’t kind, but he had nowhere else to go with this conversation. There was no place left for him to hide. Not after Georgia and Niall and Carl. “For what I did to you. To the family.”

“I hate myself.”

Peter stared at his father’s too-stolid expression and knew the man had found a much better engineer for his own internal walls than Peter had hired to construct his. He wasn’t sure if he could breach that solid fortress, but he forced himself to try.

“I want to build my schooner, Da.” Clearing his throat, he blinked away tears he didn’t want to shed. Not yet. “Will you help me?”

Ronan’s face flushed, and his left hand gripped the wheel a little tighter as he pulled up to the British Airways terminal. “Do you have time for all that?”

“I’ll make time,” Peter said, and he meant it.

He got out of the truck, and his father followed to open the door on the cap. Peter pulled his luggage out and turned. Rather than escaping back to the cab, his father still stood there. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say the man looked lost. With great care, as if he approached a sleeping bear, Peter moved closer and wrapped his arms around his father’s shoulders for a hug. Ronan jerked but didn’t try to pull away. After a moment, he raised his arm to complete the embrace.

For the first time in his adult life, Peter knew he was his father’s son. He knew he’d been forgiven.

* * *

“You’re too tall.” Georgia stood behind Sid in front of the mirror and attempted once again to tie his bow tie.

He smirked at her. “You’re too short.”

She’d helped Sid dress in his tux—the first he’d ever worn—before the full-length mirror in one of the guest suites. If she hadn’t given the staff the rest of the week off after the funeral, she would’ve called in her father’s valet.

“Let me do it facing you then.” She made to move in front of Sid, but he sidestepped to prevent her frontal attack.

“Then I won’t be able to see what you’re doing.” Lifting the ends of the tie, Sid waggled his brows—which he’d, thank God, returned to a normal shade of blonde-brown—and twirled the fabric. “What we need is a step stool.”

A tufted bench caught her eye, and she dragged it in front of the mirror. Pointing at it, she said, “Sit.”

Sid sat. “Good idea.”

As she reached over his shoulders to attempt once more to secure the bow tie, Carl walked into the room. Impeccably dressed, he paused in the doorway, a lightness of being surrounding him until he met her gaze in the mirror. Reacting as if he’d been shocked, he darted a glance at Sid and stepped forward.

“Here,” he said, brushing Georgia aside. “I can do that.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Be my guest.”

On the vanity rested two black-and-silver embroidered demimasks. The New Year’s ball at Houghton House was always a classic, yet lighthearted masked ball that allowed the aristocratic crowd to mingle and let their hair down without necessarily revealing their identities. She recalled her parents going when she was a child, and they’d always seemed happy when they’d returned. Out of all the invitations she received, or rather her father had received, to holiday events, this was the only one she’d had any desire to attend. Still, they didn’t have to go out tonight. Watching a film in the screening room with a big bowl of popcorn and her pajamas sounded much nicer.

“Why don’t we just stay in tonight?” She whirled to face the men.

Tie perfectly tied, Sid perched on the bench. Carl rested his hands on Sid’s shoulders, lightly massaging. The men’s eyes met in the mirror, and something unspoken passed between them.

“No way. We’re going.” Sid pasted on a pout and looked her way. “I did not let you truss me up in this monkey suit so I could stay in. Besides? If you don’t take me, I’ll think you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“Well, you’d better behave. Don’t think I don’t remember the spiked punch at the Fourth of July office picnic.” She made a sour face and pressed two fingers between her brows. “I can still feel that hangover. Right here.”

“I promise to be on my best behavior,” Sid said, standing so he was shoulder to shoulder with Carl.

Neither of the men had dark hair, but tuxedos would always and forever remind her of Peter. And tonight she’d be in a room of virtually faceless men, all of them wearing the classically handsome attire. She’d either be a shaking mess by the end or would need to come home and use her vibrator, provided she imbibed enough champagne to dull the pain of loss lurking in her middle.

“Let’s get it over with then,” she grumbled and made for the door.

“Are we going in a glass coach? Or a pumpkin?” Sid asked, he and Carl trailing behind her. “You kind of look like a princess.”

Feigned annoyance dropped from her face at the last part of Sid’s statement, and she blushed.

Without turning around, she said, “I assure you, Sid, I’m only a countess. You’ll recognize the princess when you see her. Mask or no mask.”

Royalty always had a palpable aura. It leaked from every gesture, movement, and word. Clothing too. A few movie stars like Helen Mirren and Cate Blanchett managed to translate that aura to the screen, but Georgia hadn’t met a person in real life who hadn’t grown up royal who could exude the natural power and influence of an HRH. Once in the presence of someone that high on the aristocratic food chain, a person would never forget that feeling, and God help the charlatan who tried to take them in, because the interloper would be sunk even before the first act opened.

Stopping at the front hall table, she swept up her own demimask—a light and airy confection, it was made of white satin painted with gold-leaf flourishes in the style of Marie Antoinette. With her hair piled high and two curls bouncing at her shoulders, Georgia had to admit that, while she wasn’t royalty, she felt pretty damned special.

If only Peter—

No!

Stomping on the thought, she opened the front door and stepped into the frigid December night. Her heels clacked on stone as she and the men descended to the waiting limo. The driver opened the door and ushered them inside the warm, plushly appointed interior. As they settled, Carl popped the champagne, and Sid held three glasses out in turn for each of them.

Settled in, Carl’s arm around his shoulders, Sid smiled at Georgia and raised his glass. “Out with the old, crappy year and in with the new!”

Georgia cracked a smile. “I’ll drink to that.”

“To the new year,” Carl said, his toast more that of a gentleman.

By the time they turned onto Kensington Palace Gardens, they’d polished off the bottle, and a nice buzz had set up residence in Georgia’s extremities. Inside, there would undoubtedly be more champagne and a crush of guests to rival a description out of an Austen novel.

“So, do I bow to the princess?” Sid asked as they strode up the steps. “Or kneel?”

Laughter bubbled from Georgia’s throat, a little maniacal for so early in the night, and she stopped to clear her throat.

“You only kneel if you want to get under her gown, Sid,” she mock whispered, then gave him a faux frown.

“He’d better not,” Carl said forbiddingly.

Sid blanched, and Georgia grinned and tossed her head. “That’s what I thought.”

The receiving line took forever. Then Sid swept her into the ballroom and into a sea of dancers to the strains of a waltz. Remembering the last time she’d danced in three-quarter time in the arms of a man, she pulled away.

“You okay?” Sid looked over her shoulder, distracted, and stepped on her toes.

“I’ll be fine if you don’t maim me before the dance finishes.”

“Stop pulling away from me. Relax.”

“That just sounds wrong coming from my best friend.” Glancing up at Sid’s full lips beneath the black-and-silver mask, the roundness of his chin struck her as handsome. She’d never really thought of Sid as handsome before. “God,” she said, shaking herself. “I think I’ve had too much champagne already.”

Sid stood a little straighter, ignoring her, and the air around her and the other couples suddenly seemed supercharged. Ah. The prince had undoubtedly arrived. Sure enough, when Sid swung her around, she caught a glimpse of his regal posture, unerring steps, and the without-a-flaw drape of his tux. A redhead laughed in his arms, tossing her head in flirtation. Georgia snorted quietly in disgust. The man was married. The least the woman could do was be discreet.

Grip tightening, Sid whirled her around a little ahead of the beat, and she stumbled, nearly crashing into the prince and his companion of the moment.

“Sid,” Georgia hissed under her breath.

The prince turned his head, his glittering blue gaze sweeping her for only a moment before he turned away to murmur something to his partner. She nodded, and he swung them both around to deftly cut off Sid. Both men stopped, and Georgia took a step back out of Sid’s arms.

“I think he wants to dance with you,” Sid said.

Georgia resisted the urge to close her eyes at the social blunder.

“I am sorry, sir,” she murmured. “Please forgive us for the intrusion.”

Rather than step away, the prince held one hand, palm up, in invitation. Startled, Georgia blinked at him for a second before placing her fingertips hesitantly onto his palm. As the two men exchanged partners, Georgia heard Sid say, “Thank God. One more heel trod, and she was going to cripple me.”

Before she could comment—as if she would have said a word against Sid while in the prince’s company—her new partner swept her into the dance. One hand lightly on his shoulder, the other palm to palm with his, she stared at his lapel and wondered at the precise creases of his pocket handkerchief. Protocol demanded she wait for him to speak, so she remained quiet.

When the next dance began and he showed no sign of releasing her hand, Georgia looked up into his face, quizzical. The simple black satin mask he wore hid all but the sensual curve of his lips and regal angle of his jaw. Dark stubble would shadow his skin before the night was through, lending him a rakish, dangerous air. She shuddered, imagining another man in his place. About the prince’s height and build, Peter would press her to him, his barely leashed power turning her limbs to butter before his lips met hers.

Blue eyes regarded her with an intensity she couldn’t fathom. Not from this man. A strange combination of arousal and sadness snaked around her ankles and up her legs as intense longing threatened to pull her under. She stumbled, but his arm tensed, and his grip tightened, keeping her upright and forcing her to maintain the rhythm of the step.

“Thank you. I’m sorry,” she said, breaking protocol.

“You seem sad,” he said, his observation a mere murmur above the din of voices and the fluid strains of the London Philharmonic’s principal chairs. “Why?”

Gaze wide, she looked up at the prince, wondering what to say.

“You miss him?” he asked.

She frowned. “How did you…”

There was no way Sid or Carl could have made the prince’s acquaintance without her knowing. Even she had never met the man.

“He misses you too.” The prince’s words were spoken into her ear, a quiet rumble that brought his lips and his scent close.

Spicy. Brisk. Clean.

Adrenaline surged. Her chin shot up. “Peter?”

He pulled back and looked down at her, his mouth curving into a hesitant smile. “Yes.”

She stumbled to a standstill, her legs refusing to move as her limbs froze with her shock. Only his quick thinking got them out of the ballroom before they disrupted the flow of the dancing couples altogether. In a dimly lit anteroom, he held her. Fingers hesitant, she explored his face—first his jaw and lips, then the edges of the mask—before reaching around to the back of his head to untie the silk ribbons. The mask fell away into her hands, and she stared up into Peter’s searching eyes and handsome face.

Tears threatened to cut off her vision, and Peter’s sure fingers removed her mask and swiped the drops from her cheeks.

“Don’t cry,” he said. “I’m sorry. So damned sorry. You’d be right to hate me. I was unfair to you. So unfair.”

His apology made the deluge inevitable. She’d never cried so much in her entire life as she’d cried over the past week, and tonight was no exception. Lowering to a wingback chair, Peter pulled her onto his lap, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

With soothing sounds and motions, he comforted her. He’d shaved recently, she thought dimly, because his stubble didn’t catch in her hair, but he rubbed his cheek against the top of her head as he cradled her. Just as she’d imagined.

“I’m dreaming,” she said after a long while. “Please don’t let me wake up yet.”

“You’re not dreaming.” He tipped her face up and dried her lingering tears with his handkerchief. “I’m not going anywhere. Unless”—his gaze shifted away before meeting hers once more—“you don’t want me here?”

“Are you mad?” She shook her head. “I just can’t believe you’re real.” She laughed. “I thought you were the prince.”

He frowned. “Do you have a date with him?”

“What? God, no!” Bringing her fingers to his lips, she traced them. So soft, yet so firm. “He’s married and…” She met his eyes. “I think you’re enough of a handful.”

A relieved smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. As it faded, a surge of sexual heat arced, ensnaring Georgia’s attention as Peter lowered his lips to hers. His kiss was soft and tentative, filled with all the forgiveness and apology she’d craved. She knew they had so much more to discuss, but she could only think of holding him. Touching him. She needed to know he was real and not the figment she’d conjured in her dreams so many times over the past week.

She moved in, tilting her head so he could deepen the kiss, and he brought his hand up to grip the base of her skull, massaging and manipulating until he had her positioned just so. Tongue delving, he swept away logic and replaced it with longing—a need for him so intense she knew they wouldn’t make it back to her house before they both demanded satisfaction.