“And I saw my error a while ago, but then I did not dare to return, and the longer I stayed away the more difficult a return seemed to become.”
“Quite a conundrum.” Montgomery nodded without sympathy.
“But then I came upon Miss Archer today,” Peregrin said, “and she seemed . . . in distress . . . over you.”
Blimey, he could not remember now why it had seemed a good and righteous idea to go there.
Montgomery was oddly frozen in his chair, a disconcerting flicker in his eyes.
“There is just no escaping her, is there,” he muttered, “no having her, no getting away.”
“Sir?”
His brother’s metallic glare made Peregrin shrink back.
“Have you come to defend her honor?” Montgomery demanded, “or to ask an explanation from me? Bold of you. Mad, even. But then I know what her green eyes can do to a man, so I’m inclined to let this go.”
“Thank you,” Peregrin stammered. Her green eyes?
Montgomery frowned. “I proposed to her,” he said. “I proposed and she rejected me, so I do not see how she can be the one in distress.”
For a minute, Peregrin was speechless. “You proposed to Miss Archer,” he said faintly.
“Yes.”
“Proposed . . . marriage.”
“Correct.”
“Are you . . . sure?”
Montgomery’s lips twisted impatiently. “I’m drunk, not demented. I’m certain I uttered the words ‘Marry me,’ and, paraphrasing, she replied, ‘Not a chance in hell.’”
“Good God,” Peregrin said, and a long moment later, “Good God.”
“She wants to marry an Oxford don instead,” Montgomery said grimly.
“You proposed,” Peregrin yelped. “Whatever made you do such a thing?”
“I received a blow to the head when I fell off the horse earlier,” Montgomery replied, “and it made everything perfectly clear.”
Peregrin felt more confused by the moment.
“But I had to propose to the one woman in England who would turn down a dukedom—because she does not love the duke,” Montgomery continued. “But then, she doesn’t love the Oxford don, either.” He stared at Peregrin accusingly. “It makes no sense.”
Hell.
Peregrin sagged back in his chair.
His brother had it bad. He was head-over-heels obsessed, and he knew what happened when Montgomery became obsessed: he wouldn’t stop until he had whatever he was obsessing about. But a commoner? Impossible! And after what he had witnessed today, Peregrin was cautiously certain that a lack of love hadn’t been behind Miss Archer’s—very sensible—rejection. On the contrary.
It dawned on him that right now, he might be the one person manning the switch on the tracks of the House of Montgomery. One way lay almighty scandal. The other, the continuation of things as they should be.
Gooseflesh spread down his back.
“I’m sorry,” he managed. “I hear such . . . afflictions do pass.”
Montgomery nodded. “Of course they do.”
And then he did something Peregrin had never imagined he’d see his brother do.
He dropped his head and buried his face in his palms.
And stayed that way.
Oh, bloody hell.
“She may have rejected you because of the dukedom, not despite,” Peregrin blurted. There. Let him piece it together himself.
Montgomery lowered his hands. “What do you mean?” There was a quivering spark of hope in his eyes.
Perhaps he wasn’t obsessed. Perhaps . . . it was much worse. Perhaps he was in love.
Christ. If this was what love did to the least sentimental man in Britain, Peregrin wanted none of it.
“It’s just that I spent more than a month in hiding because I did not feel equipped to inherit one of the largest dukedoms in the country,” he said. “I can see why Miss Archer would have reservations about being officially the reason for plunging that dukedom into scandal.”
Montgomery made an impatient sound. “She wouldn’t be responsible.”
“There are people who always feel responsible.” Peregrin shrugged. “They can’t quite help themselves.”
The duke’s expression turned suspicious. “When did you become wise?” he asked. “Where were you hiding? Some cloister Scotland Yard overlooked?”
Peregrin grimaced. “Almost. I was in the wine cellar of St. John’s.”
Montgomery blinked. “You were underground for near six weeks?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Montgomery studied him with an unreadable expression. “Tell me,” he said softly, “am I such a tyrant that hiding in a cellar is preferable to following my orders?”
Peregrin’s eyes widened. “A . . . tyrant? No.”
To his surprise, Montgomery seemed to be waiting. Waiting for more.
Since when was he interested in explanations?
“I want to follow your orders,” he said slowly, “it’s just . . . daunting. When I was a boy, I couldn’t wait to grow up and be like you. And then one day I understood that one does not simply become like you.” It had been a terrible day, he remembered, fraught with existential angst. “I began to understand the magnitude of what you do, and how effortless you make it look. For a while, I thought you were simply better made than most men, but then I understood that you were that and still working morning till night in all these offices. And it felt like someone was choking me, thinking of myself in an office until sunset every day, with thousands of people relying on me . . . I will always come up short as duke, even if I did my best, while you do everything perfectly.”
“Perfectly?” Montgomery echoed. “Ah, Peregrin. The first temptation of its kind, and I fell like a house of cards.” He swayed a little in his chair. “And in case it has escaped your notice, I’m roaringly drunk and I’ve been contemplating various ways to destroy an Oxford University professor.”
“I did that every other day, up at Oxford,” Peregrin murmured.
“I’m aware,” Montgomery said. “I sent you to the Royal Navy for that reason.”
Peregrin froze. Was that where they would begin talking about his fate? If he was lucky, he’d only be escorted all the way to Plymouth and be stuck in the Royal Navy for a few years. If he were to get what he deserved, he’d receive the whipping of a lifetime first, not that his brother had ever had him whipped before, but there was always a first. Almost certainly, he’d have his allowance cut forever, or perhaps Montgomery would disown him and never speak to him again . . .