A Bluestocking's Vice: Dukes of the Demi-Monde: Book Four by Greene Felicia

Author:Greene, Felicia [Greene, Felicia]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2020-04-20T16:00:00+00:00

Clothes didn’t make the man, but they certainly made up a large portion. Peterson chose his garments with particular care the next day, delegating boot-blacking duties to an underling at the Knight’s Circle property in order to escape to his rooms ten streets away. Looking in the mirror at his own face with a suspicious glance, he found himself already ruing his unaccustomed bravery.

He was too old for games like this. Not old enough to make the appointment sordid, but too old to be this nervous. Nervousness was for boys still wet behind the ears, not men nearing forty—and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t already made quite an impression.

Perhaps it was the wrong impression. He’d presented himself as a cocky fly-by-night, talking of serious things while presenting himself as anything but. She was frightened enough as it was—it wouldn’t have done any good to start speaking of intentions, decisions, the future…

‘How desperate are you?’ He examined his reflection with a grunt of weary disappointment. ‘You barely even know the woman.’

His reflection, smugly silent, said everything with a glance. You’re not desperate. That’s the frightening thing. You simply know that Rebecca Westbrook is special—and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

Instead of conducting an honest assessment of his character and motivations, Peterson decided to glower. He glowered through the rest of his preparations, glowered as he stepped out of his modest bedroom, glowered as he walked out into the street—and almost growled when a gentleman nearly ran into him.

For goodness’ sake. He glared at the stranger’s retreating back. Control yourself.

He managed to control himself for the entire journey to Vauxhall Gardens. He controlled himself with relative ease as he walked to the pavilion, standing by the elegant structure. He controlled himself as a passing flower-seller offered him a paper cone of tulips—yes, tulips would be an acceptable gift for Rebecca. He would buy only one bunch, ignoring the temptation to buy an armful.

He controlled himself as the first thirty minutes went by. It was only as thirty minutes became sixty, slowly approaching ninety, that his shoulders slumped.

No point being worried. No use being angry. It was coldly evident that he had polished his fragile hopes for something that wasn’t going to occur.

Had he really thought they would walk together through this park as if they had met in a normal way? Ridiculous.

The first thing to do was get rid of these stupid flowers. Peterson found an obliging patch of earth, putting the tulips down as an unassuming voice came from nearby.

‘Mr Peterson? My goodness! Mr. Peterson!’

Of all the people to meet at this particular moment. Reverend Calcourt, the priest at St. Peter’s Church. A church that Peterson didn’t visit often enough—a fact that Calcourt often reminded him of, if he was ever unlucky enough to catch the man in passing.

‘What are you doing here? I’ve never thought of you as a Vauxhall Gardens man.’

‘I’m not.’ Peterson spoke shortly, hoping he didn’t have any flower petals clinging to his fingers.

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