by Julia Quinn
“Eh?” Robbie was too busy staring up at the sky.
“Forget it,” Peter snapped. He had to find Tillie. He knew she didn’t want to see him, and ordinarily he would have respected her wishes, but damn it all, this was Vauxhall Gardens, and there were thousands of people milling about, some to be entertained and some with more malicious intentions.
It was no place for a lady alone, especially one as obviously distraught as Tillie.
He followed her through the clearing, mumbling an apology as he bumped into one of Prinny’s guards. Tillie’s dress was a pale, pale green, almost ethereal in the gaslight, and once she’d been slowed down by the crowds, she was easy to follow. He couldn’t catch up with her, but at least he could see her.
She moved quickly through the throng, at least more quickly than he was able. She was small and could squeeze into spaces through which he could only bludgeon his way. The distance between them grew, but Peter could still see her, thanks to the slight incline they were both trying to make their way down.
And then—“Ah, damn,” he sighed. She was heading for the Chinese pagoda. Why the hell would she do that? He had no idea who else was inside, if anyone. Not to mention the fact that there were probably multiple exits. It’d be fiendishly difficult to keep track of her once she ran inside.
“Tillie,” he grumbled, redoubling his efforts to close the space between them. He didn’t even think she knew he was chasing her, and still she’d chosen the one surefire way to lose him.
BOOM!
Peter flinched. Another firework, for certain, but this one sounded odd, whistling just overhead, as if it had been pointed too low. He looked back up, trying to figure out what had happened, when—
“Oh my God.” The words fell unbidden from his lips, low and shaking with terror. The entire east side of the Chinese pagoda had exploded into flames.
“Tillie!” he screamed, and if he’d thought he was trying hard to get through the crowds before, he knew better now. He moved like a madman, knocking people over, trampling feet and elbowing ribs, shoulders, even faces, as he fought to reach the pagoda.
Around him people were laughing, pointing to the fiery pagoda, obviously thinking that it was part of the spectacle.
At last he reached the pagoda, but when he attempted to run up the steps, he was blocked by two burly guards.
“Y’can’t go in there,” one of them said. “Too dangerous.”
“There’s a woman in there,” Peter snarled, struggling to free himself from their grasp.
“No, there—”
“I saw her,” he nearly screamed. “Let me go!”
The two men looked at one another, and then one of them muttered, “It’s yer own head,” and let him go.
He burst into the building, holding a handkerchief over his mouth against the smoke. Did Tillie have a handkerchief? Was she even alive?
He searched the bottom floor; it was filling with smoke, but so far the fire seemed to be contained to the upper levels. Tillie was nowhere to be found.
The air was filling with crackles and pops, and beside him a piece of timber fell to the floor. Peter looked up; the ceiling seemed to be disintegrating before his eyes. Another minute and he would be dead. If he was going to save Tillie he was going to have to pray that she was conscious and hanging from an upstairs window, because he didn’t think the stairs would hold him for an ascent.
Choking on the acrid smoke, he stumbled out the back door, frantically scanning the upper windows, all the while looking for a route up the west side of the building, which was still entirely intact. “Tillie!” he screamed, one last time, even though he doubted she could hear him over the roar of the flames.
“Peter!”
His heart slammed in his chest as he whirled toward the sound of her voice, only to find her standing outside, struggling against two large men who were trying to keep her from running to him.
“Tillie?” he whispered.
Somehow she broke free, and she ran to him, and it was only then that he emerged from his trance, because he was still too close to the burning building, and in about ten seconds, she would be as well. He scooped her up before she could throw her arms around him, not breaking his stride until they were both a safe distance from the pagoda.
“What were you doing?” she cried out, still clutching his shoulders. “Why were you in the pagoda?”
“Saving you! I saw you run in—”
“But I ran right back out—”
“But I didn’t know that!”
They ran out of words, and for a moment no one spoke, and then Tillie whispered, “I almost died when I saw you inside. I saw you through the window.”
His eyes were still stinging and watery from the smoke, but somehow, when he looked at her, everything was crystal clear. “I have never been so scared in my entire life as when I saw that rocket hit the pagoda,” he said, and he realized it was true. Two years of war, of death, of destruction, and yet nothing had had the power to terrify him like the thought of losing her.
And he knew—right then and there he knew to the tips of his toes that he could not wait a year to marry her. He had no idea how he’d make her parents agree, but he would find a way. And if he didn’t…Well, a Scottish wedding had been good enough for plenty of couples before them.
But one thing was certain. He couldn’t face the thought of a life without her.
“Tillie, I…” There were so many things he wanted to say. He didn’t know where to start, how to begin. He hoped she could see it in his eyes, because the words just weren’t there. The words didn’t exist to express what was in his heart.
“I love you,” he whispered, and even that didn’t seem enough. “I love you, and—”
“Tillie!” someone shrieked, and they both turned to see her mother racing toward them with more speed than anyone—including Lady Canby herself—would have ever dreamed she possessed.
“Tillie Tillie Tillie,” the countess kept repeating, once she’d reached their sides and was smothering her daughter with hugs. “Someone told me you were in the pagoda. Someone said—”
“I’m all right, Mama,” Tillie assured her. “I’m fine.”
Lady Canby stopped, blinked, then turned to Peter, taking in his sooty and disheveled appearance. “Did you save her?” she asked.
“She saved herself,” Peter admitted.
“But he tried,” Tillie said. “He went in to find me.”
“I…” The countess looked lost for words and then finally she just said, “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Peter said.
“I think you did,” Lady Canby replied, yanking a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbing at her eyes. “I…” She looked back at Tillie. “I can’t lose another one, Tillie. I can’t lose you.”
“I know, Mama,” Tillie said, her voice soothing. “I’m all right. You can see that I am.”
“I know, I know, I—” And then something seemed to snap in her, because she lurched back, jammed her hands on Tillie’s shoulders, and started to shake. “What did you think you were doing?” she yelled. “Running off by yourself!”
“I didn’t know it was going to catch fire,” Tillie gasped.
“In Vauxhall Gardens! Do you know what happens to young women in places like these! I’m going to—”
“Lady Canby,” Peter said, laying a calm hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps now is not the time…”
Lady Canby stopped and nodded, glancing around them to see if anyone had witnessed her loss of composure. Amazingly, they didn’t seem to have attracted a crowd; most everyone was still too busy watching the pagoda’s grand finale. And indeed, even the three of them were unable to take their eyes off the structure as it finally imploded, collapsing to the ground in a fiery inferno.
“Good God,” Peter whispered, sucking in his breath.
“Peter,” Tillie said, choking on his name. It was just one word, but he understood perfectly.
“You’re goi
ng home,” Lady Canby said sternly, yanking on Tillie’s hand. “Our carriage is just through that gate.”
“Mama, I need to speak with Mr.—”
“You can say whatever you need to say tomorrow.” Lady Canby gave Peter a sharp look. “Isn’t that true, Mr. Thompson?”
“Of course,” he said. “But I will escort you to your carriage.”
“That is not—”
“It’s necessary,” Peter stated.
Lady Canby blinked at his firm tone, and then she said, “I suppose it is.” Her voice was soft, and just a little bit thoughtful, and Peter wondered if she’d only just realized how deeply he cared for her daughter.
He took them to their carriage, then watched as it rolled from sight, wondering how he would wait until the morrow. It was ludicrous, really. He’d asked Tillie to wait a year for him, maybe even two, and now he couldn’t contain himself for fourteen hours.
He turned back to the Gardens, then sighed. He didn’t want to go back in there, even if it meant taking the long way around to where the hackney cabs were queuing for customers.
“Mr. Thompson! Peter!”
He turned to see Tillie’s father dashing through the gate. “Lord Canby,” he said. “I—”
“Have you seen my wife?” the earl interrupted frantically. “Or Tillie?”
Peter quickly related the events of the evening and assured him of their safety, noting how the older man sagged with relief. “They left not two minutes ago,” he told the earl.
Tillie’s father smiled wryly. “Completely forgetting about me,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve a carriage around the corner.”
Peter shook his head ruefully. “I came in a hack,” he admitted. It revealed his shocking lack of funds, but if the earl wasn’t already aware of the state of Peter’s purse, he would be soon. No man would consider a marriage proposal for his daughter without investigating the suitor’s financial situation.
The earl sighed, shaking his head at the situation. “Well,” he said, planting his hands on his hips as he glanced up the street. “I suppose there’s nothing for it but to walk.”
“Walk, my lord?”
Lord Canby gave him an assessing sort of glance. “Are you up for it?”
“Of course,” Peter said quickly. It would be a hike to Mayfair, where the Canbys lived, and then some to his apartments in Portman Square, but it was nothing compared to what he’d done on the peninsula.
“Good. I’ll put you in my carriage once we reach Canby House.”
They walked quickly but quietly across the bridge, pausing only to admire the occasional firework still exploding in the sky.
“One would think they’d have shot them all off by now,” Lord Canby said, leaning against the side.
“Or stopped altogether,” Peter said sharply. “After what happened with the pagoda…”
“Indeed.”
Peter intended to resume walking—he was quite sure that he did—but somehow, instead, he blurted out, “I want to marry Tillie.”
The earl turned and looked him squarely in the eye. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want to marry your daughter.” There, he’d said it. Twice, even.
And at the very least, the earl didn’t look ready to have him killed. “This isn’t a surprise, I must say,” the older man murmured.
“And I want you to halve her dowry.”
“That, however, is.”
“I’m not a fortune hunter,” Peter said.
One corner of the earl’s lips curved—not exactly a smile, but something at least similar. “If you’re so intent to prove it, why not eliminate the dowry altogether?”
“That wouldn’t be fair to Tillie,” Peter said, standing stiffly. “My pride isn’t worth her comfort.”
Lord Canby paused for what had to be the longest three seconds in eternity, then asked, “Do you love her?”
“With everything I am.”
“Good.” The earl nodded approvingly. “She’s yours. Provided that you take the entire dowry. And that she says yes.”
Peter couldn’t move. He’d never dreamed it could be this easy. He’d braced for a fight, resigned himself to a possible elopement.
“Don’t look so surprised,” the earl said with a laugh. “Do you know how many times Harry wrote home of you? For all his rapscallion ways, Harry was a shrewd judge of character, and if he said there was no one he’d rather see married to Tillie, I’m inclined to believe it.”
“He wrote that?” Peter whispered. His eyes were stinging, but this time there was no smoke to take the blame. Only the memory of Harry, in one of his rare serious moments. Harry, as he’d asked for Peter’s promise to look after Tillie. Peter had never interpreted that to mean marriage, but maybe that was what Harry had had in mind all along.
“Harry loved you, son,” Lord Canby said.
“I loved him as well. Like a brother.”
The earl smiled. “Well, then. This all seems rather fitting, don’t you think?”
They turned and began to walk again.
“You will call upon Tillie in the morning?” Lord Canby asked as they stepped off the bridge onto the north bank of the Thames.
“First thing,” Peter assured him. “The very first thing.”
Chapter 7
Last night’s reenactment of the Battle of Waterloo was, in Prinny’s words, a “splendid success,” leading one to wonder if our Regent simply did not notice that a Chinese pagoda (of which we have few in London) burned to the ground.
It is rumored that Lady Mathilda Howard and Mr. Peter Thompson were both trapped inside, although not (rather astonishingly, in This Author’s opinion) at the same time.
Neither was injured, and in an intriguing turn of events, Lady Mathilda departed with her mother, and Mr. Thompson left with Lord Canby.
Could they be welcoming him into their fold? This Author does not dare to speculate but instead promises to report only the truth, just as soon as it becomes available.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 19 JUNE 1816
There were many interpretations of “first thing,” and Peter had decided to go with the one that meant three in the morning.
He’d accepted Lord Canby’s offer of a carriage, and he’d ridden home much earlier, but once there, all he could do was pace restlessly, counting the minutes until he could present himself once again upon the Canby doorstep and formally ask Tillie to marry him.
He wasn’t nervous; he knew she would accept. But he was excited—too excited to sleep, too excited to eat, too excited to do anything but wander around his small abode, every now and then thrusting his fist in the air with a triumphant, “Yes!”
It was silly, and it was juvenile, but he couldn’t stop himself.
And it was for much the same reason he found himself standing below Tillie’s window in the middle of the night, expertly lobbing pebbles at her window.
Thwap. Thwap.
He’d always had good aim.
Thwap. Thunk.
Whoops. That one was probably too large.
Thw—“Ow!”
Ooops. “Tillie?”
“Peter?”
“Did I hit you?”
“Was that a rock?” She was rubbing her shoulder.
“A pebble, really,” he clarified.
“What are you doing?”
He grinned. “Courting you.”
She looked around, as if someone might suddenly materialize to have him carted off to Bedlam. “Now?”
“So it seems.”
“Are you mad?”
He looked around for a trellis, a tree—anything to climb. “Come down and let me in,” he said.
“Now I know you’re mad.”
“Not mad enough to try to scale the wall,” he said. “Come to the servants’ entrance and let me in.”
“Peter, I won’t—”
“Til-lie.”
“Peter, you need to go home.”
He cocked his head to the side. �
�I do believe I’ll stay here until the entire house wakes up.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” he assured her.
Something about his tone must have impressed her, because she paused to consider that. “Very well,” she said in a rather schoolteacherish voice. “I’m coming down. But don’t think you’re coming in.”
Peter just saluted her before she disappeared into her room, jamming his hands into his pockets and whistling as he ambled over to the servants’ door.
Life was good. No, it was more than that.
Life was spectacular.
Tillie had almost perished with surprise when she’d seen Peter standing in her back garden. Well, perhaps that was overstating it a bit, but good heavens! What did he think he was doing?
And yet, even as she’d scolded him, even as she’d told him to go home, she hadn’t been able to quell the giddy glee she’d felt upon seeing him there. Peter was proper and conventional; he didn’t do things like this.
Except maybe for her. He did it for her. Could anything have been more perfect?
She pulled on a robe but left her feet bare. She wanted to move as quickly and silently as possible. Most of the servants slept in the upper reaches of the house, but the hall boy was down near the kitchens, and Tillie would have to pass directly by the housekeeper’s suite as well.
After a couple minutes of scurrying, she reached the back door and carefully turned the key. Peter was standing just outside.
“Tillie,” he said with a smile, and then, before she had the chance to even say his name, he swept her into his arms and captured her mouth with his.
“Peter,” she gasped, when he finally let her, “what are you doing here?”
His lips moved to her neck. “Telling you I love you.”
Her entire body tingled. He’d said it earlier that evening, but she still thrilled as if it were the first time.
And then he pulled back, his eyes serious as he said, “And hoping you will say the same.”
“I love you,” she whispered. “I do, I do. But I need to—”
“You need me to explain,” he finished for her, “why I didn’t tell you about Harry.”
It wasn’t what she’d been about to say; amazingly, she hadn’t been thinking of Harry. She hadn’t thought of him all night, not since she’d seen Peter inside the burning pagoda.
