by Megan Walker
“That is because your heart is so good.” Peter’s eyes softened.
I looked down. I did not want to talk about my heart, or his for that matter. I’d be better off remaining as impartial as possible with Peter. My heart would thank me for it when I took Mr. Pendleton’s hand in a few days’ time.
“I think I shall find a book to pass the evening before I retire.” I stood, heading to the small bookshelf by the hearth. Most of the books were poems or academics, and I chose an English and French dictionary. Never had I been allowed such an extensive education with more than the proper English language, and I wanted to take every advantage possible.
Peter gave me an easy smile when I returned, though I refused to give him more than a quick glance.
“French, hmm? Interesting choice. Êtes-vous couramment?”
I did not understand his words, but I would not admit as much to him. I opened the book to a page, skimming until I found what I needed. Completely unaware of how to enunciate beyond having heard tourists use their native tongue, I practiced in my head before saying, “Couchez-vous.” Go to bed.
Peter laughed out loud, and I grinned. Eyes looked our direction, and I blushed feverishly to have drawn such attention over nothing more than a joke.
“Well done,” Peter praised, glowing. “Though I think what you meant to say in English was ‘teach me French,’ and I would love to.”
“That is not—” I started, but Peter raised a finger to stop me.
“Just a simple phrase tonight, I think. And then I shall retire and leave you be.” His eyes were as green as the sea, their depths just as intriguing.
“Fair enough,” I agreed, closing my book on my lap. “Go ahead.”
“Watch my lips,” he said, staring at my own. He waited only a moment before saying, “Tout est plus lumineux.”
Peter’s full lips were as inviting as the depths of his eyes, so much so that I hardly heard the sentence. He watched me, waiting, but I was frozen to my seat.
“A-again. Please.”
Peter smiled, and this time I looked into his eyes as he spoke. “Tout est plus lumineux.”
“Tout est plus lumineux,” I repeated. “What does it mean?” My neck flushed at his nearness and the serious gaze he gave me from underneath his lashes.
Peter dipped his head toward mine. “Look it up.” He stood to bid our company good night and, after one last glance, sauntered away.
I lifted my book, flipping through pages to translate the phrase. I was both excited and hesitant to know what Peter had said. I scanned the papers slowly, running my finger down the lines, then up to the next page and halfway down again until I found what I was looking for.
Tout. All, everything. Everything est plus lumineux.
What on earth had he said? This was going to take me all night. My eyes were heavy, but my mind was curious.
“Mr. Bratten, do you know French? Could you translate something simple for me?”
“Of course, Miss Moore, what is it?” He raised his brow in anticipation.
I repeated the phrase, hoping he would forgive my pronunciation.
“Ah. To what are we referring?” he asked, serious. “As in, what is the subject?”
“Oh, I . . . I am not sure.” My cheeks grew warm, and I felt rather foolish. I hadn’t considered that I was asking Mr. Bratten to repeat something completely foreign to me. What was I making him say aloud?
“It matters not. I was merely curious. The phrase translated literally is ‘all is more bright.’”
Offering my gratitude, I sank back into my chair, warmth spreading through me like melting butter on bread. There was depth, beauty in the sentiment, but the phrase itself was a bit mysterious. I was sure tonight Peter’s voice had betrayed a note of seriousness, of kindness. Whatever could he mean with such a phrase? I could hardly wait to ask.
Which, I was sure, was precisely what Peter wanted.
Chapter Sixteen
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 thi
s 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.