Lakeshire Park

by Megan Walker

  “Here. Your stubborn, audacious friend has recovered your fob watch.”

  “Have you really?” He straightened up, hurrying toward me.

  I placed the watch in his outstretched hand. “You’re welcome. But if you call me audacious again, you’ll have this to answer to.” Holding my muddy palms up for him to see, I gave him a serious look. “If you were an honorable gentleman, you’d offer me a napkin.”

  “It is occupied,” he said as he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his watch clean. Honestly? Did his watch take precedence over me? First gloves, and now this? “Is that so?”

  He grunted, clearly too busy in his examination to bother with my current need. Perhaps I should make my problems more of his. I moved beside him, then hesitated. How would Peter react to my aggravating him? Would he be angry with me? This was my chance to find out.

  “Peter, you’ve something on your cheek,” I said nonchalantly.

  “Hmm? Where?” His brow constricted, and he looked to me.

  Before he could blink, I swiped my muddy fingertips along his cheek. It was hardly more than a few streaks of mud; still, I had to suppress a laugh as his face registered shock.

  I could see his mind working behind his eyes. Slowly, he tucked his watch back into his fob pocket. My instincts told me to run.

  Before I could turn around, Peter had my wrist and forced my other hand to my face, smearing mud along my ear. I whipped my head around and yanked my wrist from his grasp, but Peter merely grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

  This wouldn’t do. But I was out of mud.

  Dipping low, I let my hands sink just far enough into the muck for one last coating.

  “Amelia . . .” Peter straightened as I stood to meet him, his face suddenly fearful. “We are square now. An eye for an eye, you know.”

  “Did you not say only moments ago that you wanted this, Peter? What was it you said? You did not mind trouble as long as it was with me?”

  Peter stepped sideways, eyeing my hands. “Let’s have a truce, shall we? I will give you your ransom, whatever it may be.”

  I took a step closer, and Peter dashed behind Summer, pulling her along with him.

  “Are you really hiding behind a horse?” I jested.

  “Name your price, I beg of you.” Peter’s voice was laughing, terrified.

  “Anything I want?”

  “Anything. I swear it.”

  “All right, Peter. Come out.”

  His eyes peeked above Summer’s back.

  Hands held innocently in the air—though I remained undecided as to whether or not I would relent—I moved with effort around Summer to meet Peter. Just as I reached out to him, my right foot got stuck in the mud, and before I could find my balance, I was falling, face first. I grasped the lapel of his coat in an effort to save myself. But it wasn’t enough. I shrieked as we fell, a splattering sound welcoming us. Peter was laughing, breathless, as I tried to use his neck to pull myself up out of the sinkhole.

  “Let me help you,” he said, and for a moment, I thought he meant it. But staring into those clear, bright eyes meant I paid little attention to his hand digging beside me. He coated his fingers with mud and drew lines along my cheek, dabbing my nose for a final touch.

  I sucked in a breath.

  “Shall I continue? Or do you officially forfeit?” He laughed, dimpling his cheeks.

  I felt a sudden urge to pull him toward me and kiss that smiling face. I steadied my voice. “I will accept your payment,” I said, a bit breathless.

  “Agreed. Anything you want. I wish you could see yourself. I’m afraid my handkerchief cannot fix you now.” He rocked himself onto his heels. He wrapped my arms around his neck and lifted me effortlessly from the muck. My dress, my boots, and especially my hat were caked in heavy mud. Mary was going to murder me.

  “What are you doing?” Never had a gentleman carried me before, or been so close to me. With shallow breaths, I tried not to notice the feel of Peter’s strong arms wrapped around me, nor the smell of his freshly shaved jaw despite the mud.

  “I am rescuing you.” He winked. “Should we visit the creek next? I think you’re in need of a little washing up before Demsworth throws me out of the house for ruining you.”

  “Good idea.” I agreed as he lowered me to my feet on dry ground.

  Peter turned to Mr. Beckett, who’d continued ahead before circling back to us. “Winter will be missing his mother. Miss Moore and I shall return on foot directly.”

  “Of course, Mr. Wood.” With a nod, Mr. Beckett moved toward Summer.

  Peter tucked my arm into his, muddy and filthy as we both were, and we headed toward the trees.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The cool water rose to my calves as I stepped in it. Mud dissolved from my boots and the hem of my dress into the flow of the creek that rushed over its rocky path down the bend. Low branches from sagging trees hung over, mirrored by the water, shading us in a great canopy of green. I bent down, glancing at my reflection. Sure enough, Peter had painted my cheeks and dotted my nose with mud.

  “Perhaps I shall try my hand with a brush and paints next. I have talent, do I not?” Peter stepped toward me, grinning.

  I splashed him with a flick of water before untying my hat and tossing it onto the bank. Lifting a handful of water to my face, I washed away the dried mud.

  After helping me pick off the thickest coating of mud from the back of my dress and hair, Peter pulled out his watch and carefully wet the silver cover. There was a gentleness to his touch that signified value and worth.

  “It’s lovely.” I stepped out along the bank of the creek and retrieved my hat.

  “It was my father’s,” he answered solemnly, following me onto land. “He gave it to me a few weeks before his chest pains started. I’d just returned from Paris. And I’ve worn it every day since.”

  My heart swelled for him, knowing loss as I did. Except I had none of my parents’ belongings. Not even a string of pearls from my mother. Lord Gray kept a box of her things locked away; I could only hope to recover the items after his death.

  “It is a very handsome watch.”

  “There is an inscription on the back. My father had it done.” He turned the watch over in his hand. “It says, ‘Time is not guaranteed.’”

  We looked at each other, and I had a distinct feeling that something was indeed growing between us, a pull that grew stronger cords, tying knots that would not easily come undone. “How very true.”

  “Before he died, he told me to remember that some things aren’t worth being angry over, but plenty of things are worth fighting for. It is a motto I try to live by.” A look of sadness briefly crossed his face.

  “I love it.” I leaned in, peering at the watch. That explained both Peter’s carefree nature and his loyalty to his sister. “Your father’s words are beautiful. It’s something my father would have said.”

  “Forgive me, but did you lose your father as suddenly as I lost mine?” Curiosity laced his voice, though his eyes were filled with compassion.

  “Pneumonia,” I said before I lost the nerve. I had not spoken of Father’s death in a long while. Why did I want Peter to know? It was as though my heart needed to tell him everything. We’d shared so much with each other already. “Sometimes I fear I am forgetting his face.”

  Peter interlocked my hand in his, sending a tingling sensation through me. His gaze was serious and sweet. “I am so sorry, Amelia.”

  “Thank you.” I nodded, swallowing back my rising emotion. “I miss him very much. As I’m sure you miss your father.”

  “What is this wretched lot we’ve been cast? There must be happiness ahead.” Peter offered a gentle, easy smile.

  I thought of Lord Gray and my impending engagement, how everything would be changing soon. In Peter’s presence, I’d nearly forgotten what aw
aited me. “There must.”

  Peter walked me to the clearing, our hands locked together.

  “What would you choose for your future?” I asked. “If you could create your own happiness.”

  Peter stopped his pace as though he was surprised by my question, but he did not hesitate. He hardly blinked. He simply said, “Time. I want those moments where time stands still, where you’re aching from laughter and everything is right in the world and you are surrounded by the people you love. That is happiness to me. I refuse to work as hard as my father did. I refuse to sacrifice time for the sake of greater wealth or status. For at the end of the day, what I wish for now is not his money, but his time.”

  Peter’s words filled me like new breath, and my fingers tightened around his. His thumb traced mine, and he pulled me alongside him, forward.

  In truth, I felt a similar desire for my future, especially since meeting Peter, and I envied the ease with which he admitted his hopes. Time was not something I had control over. Would I find such happiness with Mr. Pendleton?

  Walking back to the house must’ve taken hours, for our clothes were nearly dried, but I found myself wanting more time, more conversation, and more of Peter’s hand holding mine.

  As we stepped around the tree line, Peter pulled my arm through his, and I peeked up at him. Though the creek had washed away much of the mud on our clothes, there were traces of our adventure evident in every crease of us.

  “Perhaps we can sneak through the servants’ quarters,” I suggested as we approached.

  “I think it is too late for that.” Peter gestured to the terrace.

  “Miss Moore, what on earth has happened to you?” Lady Demsworth stood in the entryway with Georgiana.

  “Peter!” Georgiana said aghast, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. “What have you done?”

  I racked my mind for an explanation. We’d been so caught up in conversation, neither of us had come up with a story that might soften the blow of our muddied clothes and hair. We were surely a sight to behold. Perhaps I could tell them the truth—while somehow omitting the fact I’d started a mud fight that ended with me wanting to kiss Peter Wood.

  “Miss Moore was bucked from her horse, and I managed to save her from getting trampled,” Peter lied. “Unfortunately, the dirt in the pastures was soaked from rainwater, so we stand before you alive, but very much filthy.”

  “Is that true, Miss Moore?” Lady Demsworth asked, aghast.

  I glared at Peter’s smug expression. Some nerve he had, painting me as a damsel in distress. If he thought I would agree to his story, he was entirely mistaken. Even if the tale had been spun in my favor, I could not lie to Lady Demsworth.

  “You are every bit the tease,” Georgiana said to Peter, then whispered something to Lady Demsworth.

  “Miss Moore?” Lady Demsworth pressed, suppressing a smile.

  “Peter lost his watch in the mud trying to prove he could ride Grace. He couldn’t find the watch on his own, but with my help, we found it.” It was mostly true, with a few omissions.

  “Fortunately, Miss Moore has the eyes of a hawk,” Peter said.

  Nudging him in the ribs for that last remark, I moved toward Lady Demsworth. “I am sorry, Lady Demsworth. Please forgive me. I swear it will not happen again.”

  “You are forgiven. But it is nearly five o’clock. You must be famished. Dinner will be ready in the dining room in an hour.”

  “Thank you, Lady Demsworth.” Shrinking as I passed into the foyer, I winced as my footsteps echoed across her immaculate marble floors, my boots spreading mud and creek filth behind me.

  Mary managed to draw me a bath, though she scowled the entire time. I did not complain about the biting cold water, nor the roughness as she brushed dried mud from my hair. Instead I thought of Peter and this new, blazing feeling in my chest that warmed every bit of me. What did it mean? And did he feel it too?

  After drying off, I chose a blue silk gown, and Mary salvaged my hair, pinning it into a loose bun at the base of my neck. Before leaving my room, I retreated to my trunk, pulling out a small, secondhand vial of perfume my cousin Caroline had given me in London. It smelled like lilacs, and I rubbed a few drops along my neck and in my hair before descending the stairs for the evening.

  At dinner, Sir Ronald announced that the men would be attending a fencing exhibition the following day. Beatrice swooned at the mere thought of it, likely imagining Mr. Bratten with a sword, until Lady Demsworth demanded that none of the four men fight but only attend as spectators. Peter grimaced, clearly put out by the request.

  For some reason, the gentlemen took longer than usual with their port. Clara picked at her gloves beside me on the settee, eyeing the open doors twice a minute.

  When she stiffened beside me, I looked to the door.

  “No cards for me tonight,” Sir Ronald said to Mr. Bratten, but his eyes found Clara.

  I squeezed her hand, and she stood, walking toward him. His happy smile was effortless, and she followed him to the pianoforte.

  That was easy enough.

  Until Georgiana swooped in, curls bouncing as she placed her hand lightly on Sir Ronald’s arm. Perfectly in the way. How could I get rid of her? I could steal her attention with private conversation like Peter had done with Clara. Ugh, I was no better than he.

  “That’s a scowl if I’ve ever seen one,” Peter said, taking Clara’s vacated spot beside me on the settee. “What is wrong?”

  Glancing again to Clara, I frowned. Admitting my frustration to Peter would not do, though he knew the feeling as well as I. “Nothing at all.”

  Peter traced the path of my gaze. “Georgiana?”

  I flicked my eyes to his. He couldn’t truly want me to answer.

  His eyes took on a pained expression, like he was torn between paths and didn’t know which to choose. “I am afraid I cannot intervene.”

  Clara was lifting sheets of music, while Sir Ronald opened the keys. Was she going to play? Had he asked to hear her?

  “Could you not invite her to join us? Just for the evening?”

  Peter crossed his arms. “Would you do the same for Georgiana tomorrow?”

  “Perhaps if the occasion presented itself.”

  “And if it didn’t? Would you remove Clara just for the sake of creating time for Georgiana?”

  I could barely entertain the idea. “No. I would not.”

  “You have my answer.”

  I sighed, neither angry nor content. I understood him completely, actually. Peter, who I’d once thought to be the greatest schemer of all, was more of an honest player than I.

  “You were quiet at dinner,” I said. In truth, he had hardly spoken two words of conversation.

  Peter shifted his knees toward me, relaxing. “I am exhausted from chasing after you all day.”

  I chose to ignore his baiting, for surely he only sought to aggravate me. “You should go to bed,” I said matter-of-factly, and he smiled.

  “If I did, then how would you bear to be without me tomorrow? I shall be gone all day at the fencing exhibition.” He raised his chin, and his eyes brightened. “You will owe me an extra afternoon for missing tomorrow.”

  Did Peter truly care to miss one? I turned my shoulder, facing him. “We made no arrangements for such a circumstance. You lose your afternoon by choice.”

  Peter pursed his lips playfully, leaning his elbow alongside the back of the settee and resting his head on his hand lazily. “That is mean.”

  I grinned at his displeasure. “It is fair. You look like you could fall asleep. Go to bed this instant.”

  “You shall have to take me. I am too tired to climb the stairs alone.” He leaned in, a smug smile on his lips.

  “Peter Wood,” I chided, pinching his arm. “Where is your honor?”

  “I have none. But you keep insisting tha
t I acquire it.”

  “Why do you say that so often? It is very derogatory to claim one has no honor. Surely it is untrue.”

  My question seemed to sober him, as he took a deep breath and rubbed his face with his palm. “What does it even mean to be honorable? I think it is ridiculous to claim a word that no one in his right mind can live up to.”

  How could I refute that? No person was perfect, nor would they ever be. Yet many claimed the word. “I suppose it means you are trying, and succeeding more often than not. Do you have principles? Are you virtuous? When one is honest, trustworthy, loyal, and acts with compassion, then I think the word is deserved.”

  Peter shrugged contemplatively. “Then perhaps I shall try a bit harder. When you ask me next, I’ll have made up my mind if I am capable of distinguishing myself.”

  “You are capable.” I shot him a sideways glance. “It is very admirable to be honorable, you know.”

  Peter sat up straighter. “Admirable to you?”

  “Loyalty and trust are very important to me.” I glanced to Clara, who’d just finished playing a Mozart piece rather beautifully.

  “I can see why they would be.” Peter smiled kindly. “I hope you do not think I take any of this lightly. I do consider myself an honest man. Perhaps only a little more selfish than the rest.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I only want what will make me happy. I do not care enough for the rest of the world like you do. Still, when I think of how you journeyed out alone to save Winter . . .” Peter shook his head. “You acted out of compassion. I cannot think of the last time I did something solely for another person, without thought of myself.”

  “Peter, you are here with your sister right now. Is that not solely for her?”

  “I suppose. But I want her to be happy. And Demsworth is a good friend, so the visit is not at all a sacrifice.”

  “Just because you are getting something good in return does not mean you are not sacrificing a great deal in the effort. My racing out to find Winter was not solely for Summer. Her heartache would have been mine also had we lost him.”