But they still had tonight.
Chapter 7
Shifting Hearts
Miranda had convinced herself that her life could go back to normal before Peter Spencer came along. She could not have been more wrong.
Because she had changed. Before knowing Peter, she hadn’t believed there was goodness in the world—not in her world anyway. And even though she was mourning the loss of him, something had shifted in her heart, allowing her to view everything in a subtly different light.
Seeing all of it thusly was encouraging but it was also slightly terrifying. Because feeling hope that her life could be different than she’d imagined left her open to the possibility of great disappointment.
Now, when she received invitations to a few various ton events, she wasn’t quite as suspicious as she’d been before. Until, that was, exactly ten days after she’d kissed him goodbye, she received an invitation to tea from Lady Ravensdale.
Earlier in the season, weeks before Miranda accepted Peter’s invitation to walk with him in the garden, the countess had mentioned a desire to meet with her. But the timing felt ominous. Did she intend to question Miranda about her association with her angelic son? That would be humiliating, indeed.
Staring at herself in the mirror, contemplating the gowns her maid had laid out for her to select from for the visit, she shivered.
In the past, she would have erected invisible barriers around herself before meeting with another lady like this. She would have gone prepared with sarcasm and rebuffs.
But this was Peter’s mother. She wanted the woman to… like her.
Not because she needed to impress Lady Ravensdale, but because Miranda was tired.
And because in seeing the good in the world, she also sensed that there might be some goodness in her.
She was a worthwhile person. And she thought she might even be able to be a good friend. Perhaps putting Peter’s needs before hers had something to do with it. Perhaps the change came from knowing she wasn’t completely broken.
She could love.
She settled on a simple mauve muslin with an embroidered bodice and puffed three-quarter sleeves. And of course, she wore the matching hat with silk roses, even though she’d have to remove it once she got there. No lady would deny that an elegant ensemble could do wonders in dispelling a little nervous trepidation.
“Welcome, Lady Starling! That gown is positively lovely!” Lady Hawthorne, The Countess’ daughter, gushed before Miranda was even all the way into the room.
From the moment she’d stepped inside, the visit proved to be most enjoyable and not at all uncomfortable. She was not Lady Ravensdale’s only guest. In addition to Lady Hawthorne, Lady Darlington—the countess’ daughter-in-law—sat prettily beside their hostess. Lady Hawthorne immediately demanded Miranda address her as Natalie, and the other woman insisted she be called Rose. The two ladies’ appearances contrasted in all ways except for their inviting smiles. Whereas Natalie had golden locks pinned atop her head and an upturned nose, Rose, who, before marrying Lord Darlington had been a lady’s maid, wore her sable hair in an elegant chignon.
Initially, they discussed the latest on dit but quickly became bored with the gossip and moved to discussing gardening and shopping and their favorite recipes.
And when they’d tired those subjects, Natalie shared the latest exploit of her oldest son. “Brody tried not to cry but I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was frightened. And Garrett and I were besides ourselves!” Apparently, the Sunday before, their six-year-old son had gotten a small toy soldier stuck in his nose. “And that child insisted he hadn’t placed it up there himself, but that he’d thrown it into the air and it landed in his nostril.“ Natalie rolled her eyes while she complained but it was obvious that she doted on all her children. “After hours of poking around up there, Garrett finally got it out by using a pinching device he’d devised with two of my crochet hooks.”
“My poor Brody,” Lady Ravensdale commiserated for her grandson.
“I doubt he’ll do that again.” Rose shook her head in sympathy.
Miranda bit her lip. This family loved children.
“You are welcome to laugh. And honestly, he truly expected me to believe the toy just fell into his tiny, barely-there nostril. The imp is lucky we got it out.”
“You’ll have to warn Benjamin. My poor little Brody,” Lady Ravensdale inserted yet again. She obviously doted on all of her grandchildren. “In fact, you need to have Nurse remove any other similarly sized toys from the nursery.”
Miranda met Lady Hawthorne’s gaze, and they both smiled. The children, it seemed, could do no wrong in the eyes of their grandmother…
Miranda glanced at the clock on the mantle. “I’ve had a wonderful time, and I refuse to outstay my welcome.”
“You could never do that, Miranda,” Natalie said.
Miranda smoothed her skirts but before she could stand to leave, the countess’ next words caused her to all but freeze.
“I understand you became acquainted with my middle child, my Peter, before he abandoned us to enrich his musical talents in Brighton.”
Miranda inhaled and then nearly stopped breathing altogether while she fumbled for a response.
My Peter. The countess doted on her grown children as well.
“He taught me how to drive.” The words tumbled past Miranda’s lips before she could consider them. “We are friends.”
“I’d anticipated that he’d lock himself away with his cello until the very moment he had to leave London, but he hardly practiced at all that week.” Lady Ravensdale wasn’t criticizing, but she seemed to be fishing for information.
“I had the music room all to myself,” offered Rose, whom Miranda had learned played the pianoforte.
“He wasn’t all sensitive and broody, either, like he was before the audition,” Natalie said.
Miranda swallowed hard. She could hardly confess to spending most of that time alone with him, nor could she tell them half of what they’d been up to.
Or that she missed him even more than she’d expected and craved to hear how he was faring in Brighton.
Miranda had to tamp down all the questions she wanted to ask about him. About his childhood, what he’d been like growing up… And although both his sister and his mother were fair-haired, Miranda recognized similarities in their features and some of their gestures.
Lady Ravensdale reached inside of one of her sleeves and withdrew a folded sheet of parchment. “He’s written already. I hadn’t expected to hear from him so soon.”
“What does he say? Is Sir Bickford-Crowden a dragon?” Natalie leaned forward.
“He says the schedule is rigorous. But assures me he is eating sufficiently.” Peter’s mother donned a pair of spectacles and settled them onto her nose. “And oddly enough…” She stared over the glasses at Miranda. “He requested me to deliver this to you.”
Miranda wondered if they could actually hear her heart beating as she reached out and accepted the envelope. Both the two younger ladies’ eyes had widened in surprise—along with a healthy dose of curiosity.
There was no way Miranda would attempt to read the missive in their presence, despite the thousands of questions behind the three pairs of eyes gazing at her.
“Thank you.” Her voice shook as she tucked it into her own sleeve and rose. “And thank you for tea.” She knew they were hoping for some sort of explanation and part of her wanted to strangle Peter for putting her in this position.
At the same time, she was dying to read what he’d written. Did he wish to dissolve the bargain he’d made? Had he met someone else?
By the time she was home, she could barely contain herself and, after handing off her hat and reticule, locked herself in her favorite drawing room and rushed to the window, drawing the drapes and flooding the room with the late afternoon sunlight.
She broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and nearly swooned when she caught a whiff of his scent.
&nbs
p; Dear Miranda,
You never gave me the direction to your residence but I knew my mother would ensure you received this. Stop glaring, sweetheart. She guessed I had feelings for you the morning after our ‘walk’ through the garden.
And yes, in case you were wondering. I still have feelings for you. Feelings I never expected or comprehended. You’ve invaded my heart with your smile and the memory of pleasuring you tortures me at night.
I know you believed my proposal an impulsive one, but I meant it with all my heart. I still mean it. And if at any time you change your mind, all you need do is send word. Send word anyway. Tell me what you are doing—what you are thinking—what you had for breakfast and the color of gown you wear each day. I am starved for missing you.
I haven’t time to write more now. Sir Bickford is a ruthless taskmaster, and it sounds as though I’m complaining but he has a good deal of knowledge to impart.
I will anxiously await any snippet you are willing to share with me.
All my love and affection,
Yours most sincerely,
Peter Metcalf Spencer
Reading the letter, she experienced the most painful longing—just to see him, to touch him, to talk with him. She could travel down to Brighton, surprise him…
But no. She would be a distraction. He’d admitted that his teacher was a demanding one. He needed to make the most of his time under the man’s tutelage.
She glanced across the room to where parchment, a jar of ink, and her favorite pen beckoned. Would it be unwise to write him? Would it undo the most selfless thing she’d ever done?
She crossed the rug and grazed her hand along the wooden surface of the desk. It couldn’t hurt to write him once. Assure him she was doing well and not languishing in despair.
She wouldn’t admit that she hadn’t truly smiled until reading his letter. Because that would pass soon enough.
It had to.
Chapter 8
Brighton
Driving down to Brighton, Peter experienced a gamut of emotions. Frustration, anger, embarrassment… all of which had some legitimacy and gave him cause to down a considerable amount of spirits the night before he was to present himself at Sir Bickford-Crowden’s studio. But sure enough, as the days passed, the confidence he’d felt when he’d declared his love never wavered.
Telling her had not been foolish, and his emotions were not fleeting. Whereas she excelled at being honest with him physically, he’d never had any difficulty expressing his feelings.
Having played for her in that hotel room where they’d shared more than he ever could have expected, he had wanted it all. And in that moment, he’d believed it was possible.
She had not been ready. He’d seen it in her eyes and been disappointed, but that did not mean she never would be.
After composing more than one letter in his mind while practicing mundane scales as demanded by his lofty tutor, Peter had finally committed one of them to paper and mailed it. It had been short, to the point, and honest.
One week later, a cream-colored envelope had arrived with his name written in delicate, not quite child-like handwriting.
Peter,
My directions are written at the bottom of this page. Please do not send any more missives to your mother, not if you want me to ever speak to you again. (Not really, but I’ll freely admit to wanting to strangle you when she handed it over with a suspicious look in her eyes.)
Should I admit that I miss you? I don’t know if telling you that is wise. Nor am I certain that writing you is wise. I’m not sure I will even post this letter.
In answer to your questions in order, firstly, I am sitting in my drawing-room, writing a letter I’m not certain that I should write. And secondly, I am thinking that I have never laughed as much as when you forced me to taste every single flavor of ice that afternoon we stopped at Gunter's. Number three: I had toast and marmalade for breakfast with coffee. Number four: I am wearing a rose-colored gown, with sleeves that boast puffs large enough for me to never have to carry a reticule again.
I am glad you are devoting yourself to your passion. Already, I realize I distracted you from practicing before you left.
Although it’s difficult to be sorry for that.
Yours, affectionately,
Miranda
He wrote her back the next day, and they corresponded back and forth regularly for the first two months of the summer. He’d been pleased with the connection, pleased to come to know more about her without the distraction of the explosive physical desire between the two of them.
He’d been growing confident they could share a future together until her last letter arrived.
We must stop writing to one another. This is undermining your focus, she’d written. If any more letters arrived from him, she wouldn’t open them. and she wouldn’t be writing him back.
Since processing the contents of her letter, he’d gone from disbelief, to anger, to despair and was now at the place where he was contemplating saddling a horse and riding up to London, not caring that doing so would likely get him kicked out of the apprenticeship.
He drew his bow across Rosa’s strings eliciting a loud discordant note.
Did she think that not writing to her would stop him from thinking about her?
“A gentleman is here to see you, Mr. Spencer.” Sir Bickford-Crowden’s assistant opened the door and then stepped aside.
“Stone!” The dark-haired man standing in the doorway, slightly taller and stockier, but with the same colored eyes and nearly identical features as his own, was a welcome sight indeed. Peter set Rosa aside and all but burst across the room to welcome his brother.
“This is what you missed my nuptials for?” Stone slapped him on the back, glancing around the stark room.
“More than a few weeks’ notice would have been helpful.” Not that Peter didn’t still feel guilty for not being able to attend, but he hadn’t had much choice. “Don’t tell me you left your newlywed wife in London.”
Stone smiled, a ridiculously lovesick expression Peter couldn’t’ remember ever seeing on his brother’s face before. “We’re taking a wedding trip. You, little brother, are apparently important enough to have been added to our honeymoon agenda. Tabetha is settling in at the inn this very moment but expects you to join us for dinner later this evening.”
“Tabetha Fitzwilliams.” Peter shook his head. “I still can’t conceive how you pulled that off. What did you do, clobber her over the head and drag her to the nearest anvil priest?”
Stone’s eyes danced. “Something like that. I’ll tell you everything later. But for now…” Stone planted his feet wide. “I’ve heard… interesting things about you and Lady Starling.”
“From who?” And what could anyone possibly have to say? He’d taken all the necessary steps to keep their meetings private. Not for his sake but for hers.
“Mother. Greys. Mantis. Blackheart.” Stone cleared his throat. “Natalie told Tabetha the widow is pining over you. She visited with her and mother a few times before they left for Ravens Park.”
Pining for him? His heart all but leapt. Peter had always been inclined to respect his younger sister’s opinion on these types of matters. So why was Miranda insisting they stop writing one another?
“I’m in love with her.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “I asked her to marry me.”
“She is that good, eh?” The corners of Stone’s mouth tipped up even as he held out a defensive hand and stepped back.
“Watch yourself.” Peter stiffened, clenching his fists. Even knowing that a single punch from Stone would knock him out cold, Peter was determined that no one disparage her reputation. Especially his brother.
Why the hell should she be disrespected for taking lovers when gentlemen did it all the time with no censure whatsoever? Not that Peter could change that, but he’d be damned if he’d allow it in his hearing.
“My apologies.” His brother was watching him curiously now. “I wondered, but h
ave to admit that I did not see that coming.”
Peter’s shoulders slumped. “She’s refused me—twice now—I think.”
“Refused you? As in marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that was awfully quick.” Stone rubbed his chin. “At the risk of drawing more of your wrath, I asked Chaswick about her.”
“Chase?” Miranda’s former lover? “Why in the hell would you do that?”
“He is my brother-in-law now.” Stone shrugged as though the new relationship provided all the explanation required. “It’s notable that Lady Starling allowed you to take her driving and shopping. There are even rumors that you took her to Gunters.”
“What of it?” Peter didn’t require a recitation of the best memories of his life right now. He’d have plenty of time to mull over them over the course of his long and lonely future.
“Chase admitted, in confidence, might I add, that… in the course of his… association with her, she was not inclined to spend time with him… outside of the boudoir.”
Peter knew this. She’d all but demanded the same of him… initially. But he’d forced his way into the other aspects of her life.
“She’s not like that. She may have been before. It’s because she was…” He couldn’t explain it, and talking about her, even to Stone, felt like a betrayal.
“She’s changed since you’ve left London.” Stone shoved his hands in his pockets and pretended to be examining the room’s sparse furnishings. “You are the last gentleman she’s been seen with. Rumor has it, she’s… reformed.”
“People would do well to pay more heed to their own lives and less attention to things they can’t possibly understand.”
“I didn’t come here to harass you.” Stone exhaled. “But our mother said you hardly set foot in the music room while you were seeing her, and I couldn’t leave that alone. That just simply isn’t like you. And now you admit to having fallen in love with her.”
Mayfair Maiden: Eighth Day of Christmas: A Lord Love A Lady Novella (Regency Cocky Gents Book 4) Page 6