Lakeshire Park

by Megan Walker

  He continued his questioning. “What is your life like in Brighton? What do you do with your days?”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my saddle. He likely thought I spent my days on the shore, meeting tourists and entertaining company. What would he think of me if I told him the truth of my situation? No one knew how we really lived. No one ever asked. But what would it hurt to be honest with him? At the very worst he’d think less of me, and then perhaps he’d be tempted to release me from his company.

  I cleared my throat. “I play the pianoforte in the mornings, because that is when Lord Gray bathes in the sea, and it would otherwise disturb him. When he arrives home, I see to his comfort, get him his paper, his cigar, his tea. He expects me to stitch and manage the house while he rests. If I am lucky enough for a bit of leisure, I like to read or walk along the shore with Clara.”

  “I imagine you meet many people there.” He stared ahead, and a wave of self-consciousness blew through me. I’d been right. His opinion of me changed in an instant.

  “No, actually. We rarely take visitors at Gray House. Though it is fun to watch the beachgoers and imagine their lives and where they are from.”

  “Careful, Amelia. That is a very romantic sentiment.” Peter gave me a half-smile, which I did not return.

  “Hardly. What about you? What do you do with all of your leisure?”

  “All of my leisure?” He coughed. “You think I mull around taking tea and making calls to all the eligible ladies in Hampshire?”

  I imagined Peter with his pinky in the air and suppressed a grin.

  “Not that you care, as my money is of little consequence to your highbrow.” He sat straighter in his saddle. “But I do have a decent holding, and I manage my tenants and see to their needs. When I am not seeing to the estate, Georgiana is on my heels with a notion or need that she cannot live without and so I see to that as well.”

  Turning my head away, I pursed my lips. I did not believe for a second that Peter had any idea what Georgiana could or could not live without. Perhaps he required as much extravagance as she did.

  “I know you think I overindulge her.” Peter’s voice had softened, and I met his eyes, surprised at how kind and almost sad they seemed. “But she is my greatest friend. Her happiness means the world to me. What she has suffered from our mother’s lack of care, I try to make up for her now. But you may judge me as you wish.”

  I studied his profile and the confident way he presented himself. Whatever his parents had done or not done, Peter carried much of the consequence. And I could not judge him for how he carried it. If I had the means to spoil Clara as he did Georgiana, I could not say that I would not do the same.

  “Regardless of what I think, you have done well in your care of her,” I offered, and he looked at me questioningly, as though waiting for me to follow my compliment with censure. “I hope the same can be said of Clara, as I feel I have failed her in many ways.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I doubted any woman at the Season had caught Sir Ronald’s attention until you and your sister arrived. Then again, I am surprised he saw her and not you.”

  What had he just said? Did he mean to compliment me? The cool breeze brushed against my suddenly hot cheeks. “Save your flattery, Mr. Wood. It is lost on me.”

  “Ah, but your blush says otherwise.” Amusement bubbled in his words as he spoke, and I wanted to reach across the space between our horses and shove him straight off. Heavens, he was frustrating.

  “Come on, old girl,” I said to Summer in a feeble attempt to abandon Peter once and for all. We were nearing the edge of the hill. I leaned forward, and Summer grunted under my weight. “Am I really putting you out so dearly? I cannot be the heaviest load you’ve carried.”

  Though she was maddeningly slow, Summer was by far the sweetest, gentlest mare I’d ever met. She would not even bat a fly from her back. In the process of one ride, I had already grown to adore her.

  Peter chided her with a tsk, drawing near to me and slapping Summer’s rump. She pulled forward in a dash, and I lost my balance, recovering only just in time.

  “Peter!” I shrieked as he drew even with me. Every vein in my body pulsed with a lively exhilaration.

  Peter laughed unabashedly. “I’ve been wondering how to convince you to use my Christian name.”

  I swatted the air at him playfully. “Thank heavens your Christian name will not be the last word out of me.” And that no one else was around to have heard my slip.

  He bit his lip. “Forgive me, I had no idea she would do that. But you aren’t supposed to be having fun anyway, remember?”

  “I assure you, I am not having fun,” I lied, forcing down a smile.

  When we reached the foot of the hill, Peter dismounted first. Summer stopped beside him, and he grasped her reins with one hand, holding her still while I dismounted, and offering his other hand to me for support.

  “Where are we?” I asked slowly as I dropped to the soft earth dotted with emerald green bushes.

  “A far field.” Peter motioned to the groom behind us, who was unlatching two large woven baskets from his horse. “For berry picking. Cook needs two basketfuls to make birthday pies for Mr. Gregory, the butler. Unfortunately, with the house party, no one has had time for the picking. So here we are.”

  Could Peter see the surprise I felt upon realizing that his intentions had indeed been charitable?

  Upon closer observation, the bushes around us sagged with blackberries. Just as we’d had at my childhood home in Kent. My stomach rumbled.

  “I imagine you will be very miserable,” Peter said, his voice almost a question, handing me a basket. “The bushes are thorny, so—”

  “I have experience.” I pulled off my gloves without a second thought, reaching into a bush and plucking a plump, ripened berry. I had no need to observe strict propriety out here with only Peter as my companion. His opinion mattered less to me than that of the groom. I popped the berry into my mouth, the tart juice tickling my tongue, and immediately wanted more.

  Peter went to work beside me, filling his own basket. For every half dozen berries I picked, I popped another in my mouth. I could not resist.

  “If you don’t start filling your basket instead of your stomach, we shall be here all day,” Peter called from a few bushes down, but I pretended not to hear him. Instead, I sat down in a comfortable, grassy spot at the base of the bush. My basket was fairly full, and my stomach was heavy. Leaning back on my palms, I looked up at the bright blue sky dotted with a few pillowy clouds. Relaxed, I closed my eyes and breathed in fresh air. I let the sun wash over my eyelids, brightening my muted vision with red, and reclined further onto my elbows.

  “You are decidedly the worst berry-picker I have ever met,” Peter said, much closer than I thought him to be.

  My eyes popped open. “Do you meet many? Up there with all your money and prospects?” I withheld a grin.

  “Ha ha,” he said, frowning half-heartedly. “You are one to talk. The daughter of a baron.”

  “Stepdaughter. And I see little to none of his money,” I said, willing my nerves to remain unaffected by Peter’s nearness.

  “He gave you a Season, did he not?”

  “I am nineteen, and this was my first.”

  “Oh.” Peter cleared his throat. “Did you . . . meet anyone in particular?”

  I cast him a glance, before facing the warm sunlight again. Had I even met a dozen different men? Danced more than half a dozen times? “Hardly.”

  Peter said nothing for a few moments, finishing filling his basket with berries. Then he pulled my basket toward him. I sighed as my guilt compelled me to join him.

  “Back for more?” he teased, reaching deeper into the bush beside mine.

  I licked my fingers and squinted angrily at him, plucking a few berries for the basket.

  “Ouch.�
� Peter recoiled, drawing back his hand.

  “Do be careful, Peter,” I said lazily through another bite.

  He grumbled, eyeing his palm. A thorn.

  “Is it stuck?” I straightened, moving closer beside him.

  “Quite.”

  “Here, let me see.” I reached for his hand, but he hesitated. “Trust me.”

  Peter extended his hand, and I took it in mine, surprised by the roughness of his fingers. I bent over his palm, carefully searching for the source of his pain.

  “There. Look away, and you won’t expect it.” I smiled, thinking of how often I had fixed Clara’s ailments. Much more often than our mother had.

  Peter looked heavenward, and, holding my breath, I pinched the thorn, which was larger and more deeply set than I’d first thought. He grunted, and I quickly kissed the spot, only realizing what I’d done when he froze.

  My wide eyes met his, which were taken aback, and my neck and cheeks burned. This was Peter, not Clara. And he did not require a kiss to seal his wound.

  “Pardon me.” I cleared my throat, shaking my head as I turned away from him. “Usually when Clara . . . I was not thinking.”

  He chuckled and continued his harvest. “I appreciate the added touch, nonetheless. I’m quite healed, thank you.”

  Had I actually just kissed his hand? This had to be a terrible dream. I squeezed my eyes shut, groaning internally. I could never look at Peter again.

  After what seemed like an eternity, I picked my bush clean, and together we filled my basket.

  “Have you lost your appetite?” he asked when I stood. I willed myself to look at him despite my growing embarrassment. Why had I been so impulsive? “Would it help if I kissed your hand before we go?” he said. “Even things up?”

  I furrowed my brow at his wicked grin. “You know I was thinking of Clara. Please do not tease me so.”

  “Were you? Then I swear I shall think of Georgiana the whole time.” He tried to wipe away his smile and waited beside me.

  I sucked in a breath, pushing my basket into his chest and heading off toward Summer. Except she was not there. A new, taller horse stood in her stead, and I wondered where she’d been taken. Was something wrong with her?

  “Wait,” he called, catching up. “I am sorry. Here, have another blackberry.”

  I took the berry from his outstretched palm as meekly as I could, then turned and threw it right at his perfectly straight nose.

  He said nothing as I walked away, but his infuriating chuckle followed behind me.

  He’d had his afternoon. And I was quite miserable after all.

  Chapter Eight

  When the house finally came back into view, Sir Ronald’s carriage sat at its front. We’d been gone longer than I expected. Since I’d stubbornly refused to engage Peter in conversation during our return journey, he took it upon himself to detail his recent investments and upcoming tenant house expansion. As much as I tried to be annoyed by him, I found his business well thought out and intelligent. I kept that thought to myself.

  I left Peter in the stables, all but running toward the house to find Clara.

  She was not in the drawing room, where I found Mr. Bratten and the Turnballs in lazy conversation at the window. Nor in the library, where Lieutenant Rawles paced the shelves. Georgiana and Sir Ronald were nowhere to be found either. Perhaps they’d stayed behind in town? Peter’s voice carried from the entryway, and I snuck up the marble stairs to my right, heading for my bedchamber. A muffled cry startled me as I burst through the door.

  “Clara?” I ran to her and knelt down by her bed. “What is wrong, my darling?” Had Sir Ronald refused her already?

  “Oh, Amelia.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “It was awful.”

  “Tell me at once,” I pleaded, sitting beside her on the bed and pulling her hands into mine.

  Clara shook her head, holding my hands tightly. “She was on his arm all afternoon, making him laugh with old memories. I tried to interject, but she belittled me at every turn. My adorably antique dress, how easily excitable I am, what a great complexion I have for mourning colors.”

  “How dare she—” I started, but Clara shook her head.

  “Georgiana’s words were so painted in sugar, Sir Ronald did not catch her true meaning, but I did. She made it perfectly clear that I do not belong with him.” Clara buried her face in her hands. “I’ve been so ridiculous, Amelia. So foolish. How could he ever love me? I am nothing compared to her. You should’ve seen them together. I do not know what I am doing here.”

  I wanted to admit that I could relate, that I too felt confused and incapable of staying afloat since we arrived. What were we doing here? And what had I been thinking, dealing with a man like Peter Wood? Inept as I was at socializing, I’d sentenced myself to a fortnight of misery in Peter’s company. He was proving more intelligent and clever than I first assumed. Huffing, I shook my head. Why had I kissed his hand? Talk about foolish. He’d never take me seriously now. Instead of posing a threat, I’d made Clara and myself a joke.

  But feeling sorry for ourselves would not fix our problems. The truth was we were different from this company. We had neither wealth nor social experience, with hardly enough refinement to suit an average gentleman, let alone a baronet. And yet we were here. Why? Sir Ronald must’ve had a motive to invite us. And unless I was truly daft, that motive was to court Clara. She could not give up.

  “You are neither ridiculous nor foolish, Clara. In fact, you are the most intelligent, kind woman I know.” I pulled her to my shoulder, kissing her head. “And you underestimate your hold on Sir Ronald by miles. He adores you. We need only give him more time to address his feelings.”

  “They are friends. Close friends. She knows more about him than I—”

  “And? Where is the rule that states one must marry a childhood friend?”

  Clara stifled a laugh, lifting her head from my shoulder. “Do you believe he cares for me, then?”

  “Very much,” I said with fervor. “And Georgiana must see it too if she worked so hard to steal him from you this afternoon.”

  “What shall I do, Amelia?”

  Her voice was soft, afraid, so I strengthened mine.

  “We shall have to help him see what he is lacking.”

  Mary helped Clara into her salmon-colored silk evening dress, which Lord Gray had fumed over for a week when he learned its cost, and I rosied Clara’s cheeks and lips with the slightest touch of Liquid Bloom of Roses. Simple, but elegant. Her appearance alone was sure to catch Sir Ronald’s attention tonight.

  In accordance with my plan, we were the last to arrive for dinner. Clara offered Sir Ronald only a small smile and brief nod as we entered the candlelit drawing room, and we crossed directly toward Mr. Bratten and Lieutenant Rawles, who received us with enthusiasm. Before we’d had time to finish polite greetings to one another, Lady Demsworth called for dinner, and Mr. Bratten offered his arm to Clara without hesitation. To my grand satisfaction, Lieutenant Rawles escorted me into the dining room behind them. Undoubtedly, Sir Ronald would feel Clara’s absence now.

  I tried not to notice Peter, dressed handsomely in an earthy brown jacket, pulling out a chair for Beatrice. His eyes met mine, and I quickly dropped my gaze. But not before catching Sir Ronald’s hesitant glance at Clara.

  As I’d hoped, Mr. Bratten set up a card table after dinner, inviting Lieutenant Rawles and me to join him and Clara. The game was uninspiring, but we laughed all the same, teasing each other and praising the winners round after round.

  “Three to one,” Lieutenant Rawles declared miserably, though perhaps exaggeratedly, when we lost the final game. “They have slaughtered us, have they not, Miss Moore?”

  “They have indeed,” I answered loudly enough for the room to hear. “Clara and Mr. Bratten are quite the pair.”

  Mr. Bratten sh
uffled the cards with enthusiasm. “Your sister is a remarkably skilled player. I am surprised. After our first night here when I witnessed her play, I confess I thought she was the weaker player. But I see now it was Wood all along.”

  Smirking, I glanced at Peter, but to my grand irritation, he was lost in his book, sitting alone by the fire, minding his own business for once in his life. Exactly as he’d promised. Could Peter’s word actually be trusted?

  “Miss Clara, if I may,” Sir Ronald said, starting toward our table with a half-smile. Clara raised her chin as he approached. “There is a picture I think you’d appreciate in my new book on architecture from the bookshop today. Would you care to see it?”

  Clara threw me a glance before smiling shyly at him. “I do love architecture.”

  Sir Ronald helped her from the table and directed her to a nearby settee. Mr. Bratten and Lieutenant Rawles began a conversation about whist strategy, but my focus stayed with Clara. She blossomed under Sir Ronald’s attentions.

  The entire room seemed to notice them sitting together, sharing their book under the light of a candle. But only I noticed Georgiana stride to Peter, her eyes fuming and determined. I could not hear their conversation, but he rubbed the back of his neck as she whispered fiercely at him, hovering over his chair.

  “What do you think, Miss Moore?” Mr. Bratten asked.

  “I’m sorry?” I drew my attention back to the men in front of me. They stared at me, waiting for my response. “Forgive me, gentlemen, the only strategy I entertain in gaming is in chess. Perhaps you should start a match. I’d love to watch.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Bratten, who apparently never turned down a good game, looked hopefully to Lieutenant Rawles.

  “Miss Moore, if you are finished, please come and join us,” Lady Demsworth called from across the room. She and the Turnballs sat near the hearth, close to where Peter had been, though his chair was now empty.