The men were gone the next morning, having taken an early leave for the exhibition, which was a few hours’ drive away, so Clara and I headed for the stables after breakfast. We’d not had more than a few minutes together in days.
We stopped by the stalls first so I could check on Winter, who was feasting on a pile of oats in a small bucket.
This time I rode Grace. Her gray coat was smooth with hints of black, and I could not help but think of Peter as I settled atop her saddle. Was it only yesterday we rode together through the mud?
Clara rode a mare of equal hands, and together we set out. Mr. Beckett rode with us, leading us around the estate a few paces ahead.
“Tell me everything,” I said to Clara when I was certain Mr. Beckett was out of earshot. “How are things faring with Sir Ronald?”
Clara’s happy grin was immediate. “Oh, Amelia. I never want to leave. I do not know what I shall do if I must.”
“Has he said anything to you? Hinted at all of his feelings?”
Clara’s eyes met mine shyly. “Not exactly. But he said last evening how he’d missed me since London.”
My jaw slacked. “Clara. What did you say?”
She shrugged and laughed. “I agreed. I told him that the Season was the happiest I have been in some time. And not for the balls or society, but for his company. He seemed encouraged, but that was that. I hope I did not scare him away. If the men do not come back soon, I shall go mad with worry.”
Grace huffed as we climbed a hill, and I scratched her mane soothingly. Staring at my sister, her open smile and kind heart so vulnerable and free, my own heart blanched and fought for its freedom. But only one of us could have that opportunity. One of us had to be realistic, practical. And love was not practical; it was the biggest gamble of all. Clara could take that risk, as long as I developed a plan should she fail.
“And what of Georgiana? How does he behave toward her?”
“Friendly. I can tell he cares for her, but I’m not sure how seriously.” Clara brushed away a loose strand of golden hair. “Is it very wrong of me to feel pleased at her jealousy? Georgiana’s eyes were raging at me all of yesterday.”
I could not help but smile. “Not at all. She will have to get used to the sight, I daresay.”
Clara scrunched her nose. “I should hope not. If Sir Ronald and I marry, Georgiana will not be invited to an event for years if I have anything to say about it. I’ve quite had my fill of her. Haven’t you?”
I swallowed. I could not blame Clara for desiring a separation of the two families. As much as I admired Peter, Clara was my sister, and I would do anything for her. “I would not blame you in the least.”
We rode a few paces, alone in our thoughts, when Clara sucked in a small breath. “Oh, look! There it is.”
Mr. Beckett had led us to a beautiful greenish-blue pond, a hidden gem in the middle of an expanse. We dismounted, and he pulled a large bag from his saddlebag.
“Would you like to feed them?” he asked in his gruff voice. “The fish.”
Clara’s eyes sparkled, and she tugged off her gloves. “Yes, thank you.”
He opened the bag, filling our hands with bread crumbs, and we threw out handfuls as far as we could, laughing when Clara’s farthest throw barely exceeded three feet.
“You must work on your arm, Clara, if you plan to marry a countryman,” I teased.
“Hush. I am merely encouraging the fish to swim closer to land. For visual purposes.”
Mr. Beckett laughed politely beside us, filling our hands again and again as we ventured around the perimeter of the pond. The fish bubbled up to the surface of the water, flicking their tails as they fought for a bite.
We spent the afternoon along the bank watching the fish until Mr. Beckett’s bag was empty and the water stilled. Birds chirped in the trees, dipping down to steal worms and bugs from the earth. Being with Clara like this reminded me of Father. I could almost believe he would pull up on his steed, fishing poles in hand, and join us on our afternoon adventures.
Nothing about Brighton reminded me of Father or Mother. Brighton was filled with sickness and chaos. A house that had never been a home. A shell of a life that kept us living.
Sitting beside Clara, I considered telling her about Lord Gray, to share the burden of his inevitable death and of my plan to save us with Mr. Pendleton. Would she be angry with me for keeping these secrets? If all went as planned and Sir Ronald declared himself, none of it would matter to her anyway.
Clara watched the clouds pass by slowly in the sky, her gaze contemplative and serene. I studied the curve of her nose, the blue in her eyes, and the soft, natural curls that framed her face. My little sister. She deserved the world.
“I love him,” Clara said softly, arms around her knees. “I love him, Amelia.”
“I know you do.” I pulled her close, kissing her hair. “And he’s a fool if he does not love you back.”
That night, we gathered in the drawing room, and Beatrice played the pianoforte while we waited for the men to descend for dinner. Lieutenant Rawles was first to enter, then Mr. Bratten, followed shortly by Sir Ronald, who walked straight to Clara, beaming to tell her the news of the exhibition.
“The fencing was incredible. You would not believe how fast their footwork was, how powerful their swordsmanship.”
Clara matched his enthusiasm with ease. I left them alone on the window seat, watching the door.
Where was Peter? And why was I looking for him? His was the only company I should not be seeking. The afternoon was long past, which meant I owed him none of my time, but still my thoughts were filled with nothing but him.
I smoothed my skirts as I paced the room, feeling my hair for any loose pins. Last evening had been different. His attention felt personal and more . . . meaningful. What exactly had he meant by that phrase “all is more bright”?
Just then, Lady Demsworth stood. “Good, we are all here. Shall we, Ronald?”
I looked to the door and found Peter’s eyes waiting for mine, curious and warm. Crossing the room, he bowed to me, offering his arm. “Might I escort you in, Miss Moore?”
I bit back a smile, remembering our conversation about trying to be honorable. Perhaps Peter had taken it a touch too seriously. “Why, thank you, Mr. Wood. How dashing you are this evening.”
His grin grew full then, on the brink of laughter. “If I’d known good manners granted me your flattery, I would have long since abandoned my ill repute.”
I took his arm and freed my smile, acutely aware of Peter tightening his hold and slowing our steps behind the others. My heart was much too happy to be near him, thrashing around in my chest like a long-abandoned puppy.
Dinner was casual and brief, though at one point, Beatrice giggled so hard at Mr. Bratten’s reenactment of a winning fencing blow, she tipped her cup over, spilling her drink over my dress. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice, and I patted down the worst of it with a linen napkin.
We finished eating, and as Lady Demsworth rose to lead the ladies to the drawing room, I snuck away to my bedchamber to change. As I turned up the stairs, I heard Sir Ronald ask the gentlemen if they minded skipping port.
Mary helped me change into a pink evening gown, and I quickly returned to the drawing room.
Lady Demsworth and Mrs. Turnball greeted me as I entered. The rest of our company was clustered together in the back corner around a small table and two chairs. The men stood on one side and the ladies on the other, and they appeared to be rivaling teams. Laughter filled the air.
“Miss Moore!” Beatrice broke away and grasped my arm, pulling me to the table. “Thank goodness, we need you.”
“Amelia!” Clara clapped her hands. “We’ve found her. Gentlemen, we have one more player.”
“Who are we missing?” Mr. Bratten eagerly searched the faces of the men.
“Wood,” Sir Ronald announced loudly, and everyone craned their necks to look for him.
“Yes?” Peter looked up lazily from his seat near the hearth, book in hand. He looked warm and comfortable, and I’d have much preferred to join him there instead of playing whatever game I was now caught in the middle of. Peter’s eyes met mine, and he closed his book, standing.
“We need you,” Lieutenant Rawles called as Peter strode toward us.
“We’re at a standoff,” Sir Ronald added.
Peter tilted his head. “How so?”
“We each have two points,” Georgiana said to me. “Men versus women. Mr. Bratten and Miss Turnball tied on the third round.”
“What is the game?” A new nervousness heightened my senses.
Peter sided with the men, who encompassed him in what looked like a huddle. A very secretive huddle.
“The first one to smile loses. You must win, Amelia. For all women.” Clara shot me a hopeful expression.
I broke a smile then, and three serious faces chided me. Apparently smiling at all was unacceptable.
“What must I do? I do not know how to make Mr. Wood smile on my best day.”
“Pishposh,” Georgiana said. “I’ve seen you with my brother. Now is not the time for modesty. Now is the time to pull out your best weapons.”
“Which are?”
The ladies stared at me, and I realized we were in just as close a huddle as the men were.
Beatrice leaned in. “Flirt.”
“Flirt? With Mr. Wood?” I almost laughed outright but caught myself before anyone could reprimand me.
Georgiana’s face grew serious, and she stepped forward. “He is good, Miss Moore. I’ve seen him turn the heads of women who live like queens. You cannot let him flatter you, or it will be over before it even begins. You must take charge and dominate the conversation, turn it back on him. Use body language to intimidate him.”
“You are serious.” My voice came out shocked, horrified. Flirting with Peter would be the grandest embarrassment of all.
“Yes,” Beatrice added. “But you cannot smile. If you feel the urge, you must look away immediately and clench your teeth together. Bite your tongue, anything. We cannot lose!”
“Thirty seconds,” Mr. Bratten called.
Georgiana stepped forward, eyes focused on mine. “He is wickedly ticklish on his neck, near his collarbone. Get close to him and . . . fiddle with his cravat or something. Whatever comes to mind.”
“His cravat? That is terribly improper.” My chest tightened, nerves seizing my breath at the mere thought of intentionally being so close to Peter. There had to be a way out of this.
“That is the name of the game, apparently.” Beatrice pursed her lips. “Besides, they are surely telling him to do worse to you.”
“Please, Amelia,” Clara begged. “This cannot be worse than how you fashioned a guess at blindman’s bluff. Mr. Wood knows it is only in jest.”
“All right.” I felt a terrible urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of this game, but the girls were already adjusting my dress, smoothing my hair and pinching my cheeks.
“Are you ready?” Sir Ronald asked.
“Just,” Clara responded.
All I had to do was make Peter smile. And quickly. Except I could not so much as twitch in the attempt for fear of smiling myself. Perhaps if I thought back on how irksome and infuriating he’d been among the first days of our acquaintance, I could maintain a frown. His confidence, the way he threw his money at me, and how he schemed so arrogantly to oust my sister from the party. Oh, yes, he would lose this game. And I would make him miserable for every time he’d ever teased me.
Peter sat at the table, facing me. He had a look of forced contempt on his face, not unlike my own I was sure. But I did not sit. Smoothly, I held his gaze as I moved around the table toward him. He took a steady breath through his nose as I leaned back against the table in front of him.
“What are you up to, Miss Moore?” He raised a brow, tightening his lips.
I had to look away for a moment, clearing my throat of the tickling urge to laugh. Could I do this? Flirting was not my forte. I did not even know how to properly bat my lashes.
“Mr. Wood,” I said tantalizingly, as though casting a net for prey. “My, don’t you look handsome tonight.”
Clara giggled behind me, and Beatrice hushed her.
Peter straightened in his chair. “That is the second time you’ve told me so tonight. I am beginning to think you are in earnest. Tell me, Miss Moore. What is it about me that you find so attractive?”
Heat rose into my cheeks, and Peter swallowed back his own humor. He was making fun of me, I knew it, but I had to stay serious. I would have the last laugh. Not the first.
“Without question, I am most affected by your smile.” And he almost gave it to me. Heart pounding in my chest, I reached for his cravat, tugging it loose. “But you really should teach your man to tie better. This knot is atrocious.”
Peter stole my blush, lifting a hand to his neck. “I knot my own cravat, thank you.”
“Perhaps you’d like a woman’s touch.” I reached out again, but Peter took my hand, stopping me.
“You’ve told her, haven’t you, Georgiana?” His eyes flashed amused daggers to his sister behind me.
“Oh, no, I’d never,” Georgiana said. “Just like you’d never tell Lieutenant Rawles of my ticklish wrists.”
Peter looked to me, shaking his head and releasing my hand. “I’ve outgrown it anyway.”
“Have you?” I wanted to smile so badly, but I couldn’t, not yet. I lifted my hands to the sides of his neck, surprised when he let me touch his skin. He stayed painfully still, breathing through his nose steadily, like a guard standing at attention. Loosening his cravat further, I studied his jaw, set and determined, and his eyes that searched mine with more seriousness than humor.
As I retied the knot in an ugly oversized bow, he raised his chin to aid my view and handling of the cloth, though his eyes never left mine. Puffing out the loops, I let my fingers linger near his collarbone. His skin was smooth, warmth radiating through my fingers and sending tickling waves to my chest. Peter’s shoulders twitched, and his jaw tightened. I wondered if he’d bitten down hard on his tongue.
“Well done.” I grumbled. The bow was done, and it had been a glorious failure on my part. Apparently, Georgiana had been wrong about his ticklishness. What next? What other weakness did Peter Wood possess?
“Don’t pout, Miss Moore. It is maddeningly attractive.” Peter’s eyes were teasing, smiling when his lips couldn’t.
I cast him a scowl, drawing a heavy breath. I’d played my best card too early.
“You’ve changed your dress,” he said, leaning in and resting his elbow on the table inches from my skirts. Much too close.
“I fell victim to an unattended drink at dinner.”
“You were gone quite a long time,” he said, tilting his head at me. His eyes were searching, questioning, but for what I could not tell.
Why did Peter care? What kind of cards were up his sleeve? Perhaps I could turn the conversation on him. I rested my hand on the table even closer to his elbow, leaning in. “Are you counting the minutes we are apart, Mr. Wood?”
I swore I saw a twitch in his cheek, a deepening of the crease just to the left of his mouth. Peter cleared his throat loudly, sitting up from his relaxed position.
“He smiled!” Georgiana shrieked.
“No, no, no, he recovered,” Sir Ronald argued, followed by voices in varying degrees of agreement.
“Keep going, this is getting good,” Beatrice said with a hint of pleasure in her voice.
Blast it all, I’d nearly had him. Now it seemed we were at a stalemate. I racked my brain trying to remember anything Georgiana might have said that could help me outwit Peter. She’d said to compliment him, to get closer. To intimidate him. What more could I do?
Peter fiddled with his newly tied cravat. “You have quite the talent, Miss Moore.”
Why did he sound so sincere? He looked like an overgrown child, proud at having just tied his first neckcloth. “Thank you, sir. I shall charge by the minute, should you need my services in the future.”
“The future, hmm?” Peter studied me, an idea forming clearly in his eyes. “Since you have so openly displayed your talents, perhaps it is my turn. Shall I read your palm? Discover the secrets of what is to come?”
Palmistry? Like a vagabond on the streets of London? “You want me to give you my palm for a reading?” My voice was unconvinced.
Peter’s lips parted. He nodded. “May I?”
My hands tingled at the thought of his touch. Any other time I would’ve laughed and walked away, but the gentlemen behind Peter bore enthusiastic grins, confident of victory. This game meant something to Clara and to the other girls, so I needed to put my own feelings aside. I would not forfeit. Somehow, Peter managed to skim by without smiling during my attempt. Maybe I could turn his fortune-telling against him.
I cast Peter a hard stare. What was I so afraid of? “As you wish, Mr. Wood.”
I slid off my gloves, placing them on the table. My heart fluttered in my chest, and I crossed my arms tightly.
“Are you right- or left-handed?” Peter asked. He was playing the part, looking serious and professional.
“Right,” I said.
“Your hand, please.”
I took a calming breath, then exhaled slowly. Where had Peter gotten this idea anyway? Palmistry was even more ridiculous than a woman tying a man’s cravat. I held out my right hand, palm up, looking away to the dark window across the room.
Before he’d even touched me, I felt a tingling in my skin. Was that why Peter had taken such steady breaths through his nose? Because he felt the same way? This dizzy, this excited, this . . . affected?
His warm hand took mine, and immediately my senses came alive. This was unlike the time we’d held hands in the stalls, or even in the pasture. The way his fingers brushed against my skin as they felt every groove in my palm was mesmerizing. I felt the sensation all the way to my toes.
“And?” I said in an effort to hurry him.
“This is most interesting, Miss Moore. Most interesting, indeed.” Peter pulled my hand closer, and I leaned in. “You have a very square hand,” he said, pressing my hand between both of his, as though measuring its size. “That tells me you are a practical thinker. Stubborn, perhaps, and strong-willed.”
I squinted at Peter. “Tread carefully, Mr. Wood.”
He pressed his lips together, staring at my palm. “This line here”—he drew his pointer finger along the center of my palm—“is long, indicating that you are an inward thinker. Smart and sensible, but perhaps not as good at sharing?”
“Has he studied this art?” Clara asked from behind me. The answer was no, but Peter had apparently been studying me.
“Both hands, if you will, Miss Moore.” I lifted my left hand, and Peter held them side by side, searching.
“Ah, here it is. The love line.”
My eyes widened. “The what?”
“Your future, of course. It all begins with marriage, does it not?”
Someone snorted, and a man blew out a laugh.
Peter brushed his fingers across my palms, circling, tracing, and likely formulating more ridiculous things to say. Watching his resolve crack under pressure was worth my embarrassment. He would not last, I was sure of it.
He sniffed, looking up at me and feigning serious concern. “You will be disappointed, I’m afraid. As I know you are anything but a romantic.”
I nearly pulled my hands away, but he caught them, lifting them higher.
“This line here”—he traced a curvy, longer line—“is strong and determined. Just like the man in your future. I see happiness here and prosperity. And a very clever, very handsome man to share it with.” Peter looked up at me. “That stubborn, practical side of you will not stand a chance against his charms.”
I bit down on my tongue hard, making my eyes water. He was teasing me. And it hurt so bad not to smile. I had to say something. Anything. “And how will I know when I’ve met him?”
Peter scrunched his nose. “I am a palmist, Miss Moore, not Cupid. But I might suggest encouraging him when you find him. So he knows his intentions will be well-received.”
“Men do not need encouragement,” I argued.
“Oh, yes. Especially when the lady is particularly wonderful and intimidating.” He raised his eyebrows playfully. “It does not have to be a grand gesture. Just enough to prove your affection matches his. That is, if you wish for his proposal.”
Something was coming. I knew he prepared to humiliate me in some form. I needed to take control, so I said, “I shall need a demonstration.”
The men behind him were shaking with silent laughter.
“Oh, there are many ways to encourage a man, Miss Moore. You could flutter your lashes, for example.” Peter’s cheeks dimpled but not with a full smile. He batted his lashes up at me.
I pressed my lips hard together. My chin was quivering, but so was his. “That is not enough. I’d want him to really know.” My voice was shaking, eyes filling with tears at holding it all in.
“Then after you’ve fluttered your lashes at him, warmed him up, so to speak, you should . . .” Peter cleared his throat. “You should wink at him, so he knows how dearly you wish for his proposal.”
“Wink at him?” I repeated in astonishment, nearly on a laugh. “That is the worst advice I have ever been given. You are a terrible fortune-teller.”
“Try it.” He folded his arms and stood. “You will have every man in this room at your feet.”
“I will do no such thing.” I stared at him. His chin wavered at the terrified sound in my voice.
“Then do you concede?”
“Of course not.”
Peter waited. As did everyone in the room.
I turned to the girls, who nodded in encouragement.
Huffing, I mimicked Peter’s folded arms, shaking my head. If I was going to do this, I would do it right. I stepped around him, and Peter mirrored my movement until we had switched places. I was sitting in his chair, and he was leaning against the table.
My cheeks flushed. I’d never been so embarrassed in all my life. Tilting my head, I looked up at him and fluttered my lashes ridiculously.
The men stepped closer. Peter’s lips twitched. How was he not smiling?
I licked my lips, and Peter’s gaze dropped. He was suddenly still, watching. This was utterly absurd. Completely mortifying. I thought to wink, but my lips started to curl—oh, how it hurt to force my mouth into a line!—and Peter was as near to smiling as I. A small breath escaped me, and I thought of Clara.
It is only a wink, Amelia, for heaven’s sake.
Chin raised, I met Peter’s gaze and winked.
Peter’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushed scarlet, and his own lips parted as though he had never been so surprised. Desperately, I released my smile, it broke across my face, and I bent over, laughing.
“Champions!” Sir Ronald yelled, pumping a fist into the air as Mr. Bratten punched Lieutenant Rawles in the arm.
Peter smiled fully then, breathing hard.
As the men cheered, we huffed, the anger of four women intensifying with each happy smile from the opposing team.
Beatrice frowned. “Georgiana, I think I would like to see your dress for the ball after all.”
“As would I.” Clara took Beatrice’s arm.
“Amelia?” Georgiana raised a brow, beckoning me to follow suit. “Shall we?”
I seized on the opportunity to leave Peter and this ridiculous game behind me. “I am dying to see it.”
“Wait, no.” Sir Ronald lifted a hand. “It is not even eleven. You cannot retire just yet. Let’s play another round of blindman’s bluff.”
“Come, ladies,” Georgiana called as she moved toward the door, ignoring Sir Ronald’s pleas. I had to give her credit for holding a decent grudge for once. We followed after her, despite complaining and calling from the men behind us.
I’d reached the doorway when Peter called, “A moment, Miss Moore?”
I thought to run from him, that man whose dimpled cheeks had been my undoing, but his strides were too quick. Peter crossed to me, out of earshot from the rest of the party, and I glanced toward the stairs where the other ladies had reached the top.
“I won fair and square,” he whispered.
I poked his chest with my finger. “You are a horrible flirt, and I shall never forgive you. And you absolutely smiled before I did.”
“I did not,” he said only half seriously. “But I’d be willing to play again if you’d like.”
I scowled at his teasing, and he chuckled. “Go to bed, Peter Wood.”
“One thing more, and I shall. Did you decipher your French like a good pupil?”
I crossed my arms confidently, “I did. It is ‘all is more bright.’ Though I am not sure what it means.”
“Yes. More succinctly in English, ‘everything is brighter.’”
“And what does it mean?” I searched his face for an answer.
Peter hesitated, shifting his weight. “Have you ever met someone who enters a room and the whole of the atmosphere changes? The feel, the temperature, the very air you breathe? An angry person could silence a room, intensifying the energy there, while a soft-spoken person could set that same room entirely at ease in the next moment.” He rested a hand on the doorframe as he took a slow, long breath. “With you, Amelia, everything is brighter.”
I’d forgotten to breathe, my heart slowing from its earlier excitement. Peter was not teasing me. Not now. He was quite serious, quite honest. And that was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me.
“I will see you tomorrow afternoon. Do not think I will go easy on you just because your pride was wounded tonight.” He winked and turned away.
What a teasing, irritating man. Wasn’t he? My words were beginning to feel insincere in my head, as though they smiled in their own knowing way. Even I wasn’t so sure I meant them anymore.