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when men lay down their arms, agree to a cease-fire, attempt to live peacefully amongst each other,” he said rather sardonically.
    She raised an eyebrow. “I know what a truce is. But apparently, you do not know how to broker one.”
    He leaned slightly toward her, his full lips lifting up to one side, a wavy lock of hair falling down over his forehead somewhat rakishly.
    “Show me.”
    Kate sucked in her breath.
    She had heard stories about Peter in London. Before his father’s death, when he’d still been simply the Earl of Bonhill. Apparently he’d cut quite a swath through the town, developed a reputation for being anything but the honorable, earnest man who had earned his honors as a war hero. Then he’d inherited the duchy and for the most part, that reputation had been put to bed. But before her now, he seemed like the man who would place a bet on White’s books simply for the sake of betting.
    “Why?”
    His lips curved up more and he moved infinitesimally away, but just enough that she could breathe normally again.
    “Because this antagonism is pointless. Amusing, in its way, but it achieves nothing.”
    “No one forces you to follow me about.”
    “I hardly—”
    “You most certainly do. Take Brighton, for example.”
    “Yes, well.”
    “Exactly.”
    He smiled. “Then forgive me.”
    She studied him for a long moment but she couldn’t discern the expression on his face.
    “You are . . . apologizing . . . for everything?”
    “I most abjectly regret anything I have done to cause you misery.”
    Ooh. There he went, being a sneaky wordsmith. But to what purpose? Was he merely bored? Spent so much time in London that he’d developed ennui?
    “I’ll shan’t forgive you, Your Grace,” she said. “But I’ll accept a truce.”
    “Excellent!” he said, seemingly unperturbed by her lack of forgiveness. He took her arm and slid it over his. She was too surprised to object and when he started walking, she tripped along beside him. “Now then, let us discuss the terms.”
    W hen she’d stepped out onto the bank of the stream, Peter had felt the strongest sense of déjà vu. He hadn’t expected for her to be present, though he had thought of her as he’d walked there. But the memory of that day ten years earlier when she’d broken through the thicket and let out her primal cry still haunted him. Of course, he didn’t remember every detail anymore. Mostly he remembered how she looked kneeling on the ground, tear-stained face skyward, agonized. He also remembered that she’d had a sharp tongue, though what she had said exactly now eluded him.
    But something else had stayed with him, some sense that she might understand him, the way he suspected he understood her. It was likely a foolish fancy, but it was the one that drew him to her again and again, that made him nearly willing to agree to Reggie’s stupid plan, that made him offer a truce. Because of necessity a man, no, a duke, must be an island—people always wanted something of him, whether it be funds, political favors, or social cachet. But every once in a while, he wished to feel not quite so alone, to know that his title did not define him entirely.
    In some way Kate’s antagonism made him feel . . . like just a man.
    Which was why, even if he had no intention of marrying anytime soon, he wanted to delve beneath Kate’s cool exterior and discover if what he suspected was true.
    Thus his ridiculous terms. And the painful disapprobation of his mother and brother as they waited for the butler to show the Mansfield women into the sitting room.
    His terms. Join me for dinner this evening at Fairview .
    She’d considered saying no. He’d seen the hesitation in her face and chided her for her cowardice, which naturally was exactly the sort of thing that would get her to agree.
    “Mrs. Mansfield and Miss Mansfield,” the butler intoned a moment before the pair stepped into the room. He rose instantly, as did his brother.
    As usual