The butler stopped before a closed door. Instead of opening it, however, he looked at Quincy with a healthy dose of uncertainty. “Sir, if you would only let me introduce you—”
In answer, Quincy clapped the man on the shoulder, winked, and threw open the door. It hit the wall with a resounding thud as he strode within. “His Grace, the Duke of Dane, I presume,” he bellowed into the silence.
Peter, seated behind the desk, jumped a foot, nearly falling out of his chair before catching himself on the edge of his desk. “What the ever-loving…Quincy?”
He grinned. “Surprised to see me, old man?”
When Peter only sat there, mouth hanging comically open, eyes like saucers, Quincy laughed. “Damn, but that expression is worth delaying my travels. Now come and give me a proper greeting. I’ve missed you like the devil.”
Peter, it seemed, needed no further encouragement. He surged from his chair, a grin breaking over his face. Quincy barely had time to brace for impact before his friend’s bulk hit him like a veritable wave. The breath was knocked from his body, meaty arms surrounding him in a crushing embrace.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Peter exclaimed.
“Air!” Quincy managed.
Peter merely chuckled, squeezing a bit tighter—how was that even possible?—before releasing him. “When last I heard from you, you had just sold off the remaining business and were setting sail. What are you doing in England, man?”
Quincy grinned, the restlessness of the past year—no, he had been restless for much longer than that, hadn’t he?—beginning to ease. “I thought I’d visit with my dearest friend before starting my travels in earnest.”
Though Peter rolled his eyes, Quincy couldn’t fail to see the smile tugging on his lips. “I’m sure my charms pale in comparison with the wonders you’ll see. You must be ecstatic to finally be setting off.”
“You’ve no idea. If only my father had been alive to join me.” A vision of his father’s face swam up in his mind, that long-ago grief tempered by the distance of time, and by the knowledge that he was finally realizing their shared dream. He had worked hard over the years, surviving, building an empire to be proud of with Peter. Now, however, it was time to return to that promise he had made so long ago when leaving his family’s house.
He gave Peter a considering look. “You made a pretty penny in the liquidation of our assets. I don’t suppose I could ever tempt you into joining me, even for a short while?”
Peter grinned. “Not on your life. But I do plan on enjoying your company while you’re in town. How long before you start off?”
Quincy smiled, satisfaction coiling within him. “I’ve booked passage for Spain a fortnight from now.”
“You will stay here at Dane House, of course.”
“Certainly not,” he said in mock horror before grinning. “I’m a bachelor in London. If you think I’m going to miss out on cavorting to my heart’s content, you’re sorely mistaken.” He laughed as Peter rolled his eyes heavenward. “But Mivart’s is just a street away, so you may see me much more often than you’d like. Though”—he cast a glance about him, taking in the richly carved bookcases, the deep-blue-silk-covered walls, the towering windows looking out onto a verdant garden—“I admit to feeling more than a bit of regret now that I’ve seen your London residence. The place is amazing, man. Is Danesford even half as incredible?”
“Even more so.” A quiet pride shone from Peter’s eyes. “I thought I would forever despise the place, that I would be glad to see it fall to ruins. Yet now my feelings could not be more different.”
“And I suppose having Lenora by your side has not aided in that about-face,” Quincy murmured with humor.
“Laugh all you want. I don’t mind telling you that she’s had everything to do with it.” Peter chuckled.
Quincy shook his head, grinning. “I cannot believe the change in you, man. When last I was here, you were in the throes of despair for love of Lenora. And now look at you, happily married, master of all this.” He swept his arm out. “And a damnduke. Don’t tell me I have to start calling youYour Gracenow.”
“Arse,” Peter muttered. “If I hear those words from your lips, I’ll gladly trounce you. Sit, while I pour us something to celebrate this visit.”
As Quincy settled himself into an overstuffed chair, his friend went to the small cabinet in the corner. “Never tell me you’re drinking strong spirits now.”
Peter chuckled. “I’ve not changed that much. Though,” he added, his tone turning rueful as the sound of clinking glass echoed about the room, “there are times I wish for a small dose of something stronger than lemonade or wine.”
“Has it been much of an adjustment then, taking over the dukedom?” Quincy asked, stretching out his long legs.
Peter’s lips twisted as he turned and made his way to his friend, a glass of whiskey in one hand and something that looked suspiciously like ratafia in the other. “Transitioning from commoner and self-made man to a duke has been…difficult,” he said. “There are so many people’s well-beings and livelihoods I’m responsible for. It boggles my mind. Without Lenora by my side, I don’t know that I would have taken to the position with any grace.”
Quincy snorted as he accepted his glass and Peter settled across from him. “Grace. That is one word I would have never associated with you. But how is our dear Lenora? I look forward to seeing her again after so long.”
At the mention of his bride, Peter’s face lit up. That was the only phrase to describe it. It was an expression Quincy had never witnessed before in his normally stoic friend, a softening of features typically held tight against the rest of the world.
“Lenora is wonderful. She’s out with Clara and Phoebe just now.”
Ah, yes, the Ladies Clara and Phoebe, Peter’s cousins, daughters of the previous Duke of Dane and now under Peter’s protection. Lovely girls, both of them. Or rather, Lady Phoebe was a lovely girl. Lady Clara, on the other hand, was most definitely a woman, and a stunning one at that.