Lakeshire Park

by Megan Walker

  Fortunately, the company was in raptures over the view, so no one noticed my plight. I found Clara walking along the front of the hill with Sir Ronald and Georgiana, but she tore away from them when she saw me.

  Clara led me to the back edge of the hill, far away from the others. We appreciated the low-lying farmlands, rich and lush with life, the shades of green changing where the sun hit, and the tiniest hints of color from budding flowers and weeds.

  “Thank you,” she said, lacing her arm through mine. “That picnic was perfect. And this view. Is it not the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  “It is,” I replied, heart calming with my sister’s enthusiasm.

  “I could see it every day for all of my life and never tire of it.” Clara’s eyes grew hopeful, full of longing, but she quickly caught herself and blinked the dream away.

  “Were you able to offer such compliments to Sir Ronald?” I asked slyly.

  Clara smiled. “We spoke openly about his estate, yes, and of my admiration for it. I think he was pleased.”

  “Good. Then my time with Mr. Wood was not spent in vain.”

  “The way Georgiana describes him, he is quite generous and kind.” Clara’s voice rose in pitch.

  “Conceited and pompous are more accurate descriptions,” I muttered.

  “Amelia, hush. He will hear us.” Clara laughed behind a gloved hand. “To think we’ve hardly been here a full day—”

  “And already he irks me.” I stretched my neck, rubbing it between my hands. If Clara knew Peter was the man from the shop, she likely would not keep quiet about her opinion.

  “If he really is so terrible, I do not want you to sacrifice for me,” Clara said in a firm voice.

  “Come, ladies!” Sir Ronald called. “Shall we stop by the gardens before returning to the house?”

  I pulled Clara close as we moved toward the group. “Nothing for you is a sacrifice. I can manage Mr. Wood.” Though even I was not convinced. Peter Wood was different than any other man I’d ever met. In everything he did, he gave too much. He was too bold, too aware. And entirely too handsome.

  Chapter Six

  Dressed for dinner, I tugged on my evening gloves and pinched my cheeks for a final touch of color. Clara had already descended to the drawing room after I insisted she not wait for Mary to finish my hair. The delicate curls she fashioned atop my head had taken longer than I’d wanted, and I hated to be late.

  No one seemed to notice me slide in, condensed together as they were, conversing merrily in the center of the room. I kept to the side wall, searching for a view between heads. Surely Clara was in the middle of the group.

  Crackling from the nearby hearth drew my attention, where Peter sat with his back toward me. My nerves ignited, pulsing through my body, when I realized Clara sat opposite him.

  “Amelia.” Clara waved me over, a desperate look in her countenance.

  Peter rose to greet me, bowing as I approached. His wavy hair was tamed, and I could smell the freshness of soap from his shaved jaw.

  “Good evening, Miss Moore,” he said innocently.

  “Mr. Wood.” I curtsied ever so slightly. “I see you have found my sister.”

  “Georgiana admires her. I thought it only fitting that I come to know her better as well.”

  Did he? That seemed an unlikely motive.

  Clara looked questioningly to me, and I nodded toward Sir Ronald. With even the slightest of gestures, Clara could read my mind.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I think I will join Sir Ronald and see what all the men are laughing about just now.”

  Once she had retreated, Peter relaxed, sinking into his chair like a thief giving up his mask.

  “You seem a bit too interested in my sister. Perhaps you would be better suited to Miss Turnball.” I hovered over him, arms folded across my chest.

  “Bratten has set his sights on her. Not that I disagree with you, though, about your sister. She is too sweet.”

  “Right, you need someone as cunning and as overconfident as you.” The words slipped from my tongue like water flowing in a stream. Why could he not just leave Clara be?

  Peter reared back slightly. “You are as brash as you are beautiful this evening, Amelia.”

  I raised a hand to my neck, glancing around the room, though no one was in earshot of us. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

  “Shall we go in, Ronald?” Lady Demsworth called from the settee.

  “Of course, Mother.” The men stood, and without hesitation, Sir Ronald offered his arm to Clara.

  “Well done,” Peter muttered under his breath. “She left me just in time. Georgiana could learn a thing or two by watching your sister.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Did Peter believe that everyone schemed as he did? That he and Clara were compatible in their attempts? The thought was insulting.

  I anticipated Peter would offer his arm to me, willed it almost, as it would give me a chance to reject him. But the words spoken were not his.

  “Might I escort you inside, Miss Moore?” Lieutenant Rawles asked from behind.

  “I would like that.” I took the lieutenant’s arm, narrowing my eyes at Peter. His lips were pursed, eyes set at Lieutenant Rawles as we turned toward the doors. Never had I been so pleased to attend a small, more informal dinner party where the guests could choose their own seats. If I played my cards right, I would not have to sit by Peter Wood for the duration of the fortnight here.

  “How are you this evening?” Lieutenant Rawles asked, his voice kind and low.

  “Very well, thank you. And you?”

  “I am exhausted,” he admitted with a laugh, his posture slumping as we passed into the dining room and toward the mirrored, candlelit table. “Demsworth’s little tour turned into quite the trek, did it not?”

  “To be sure,” I agreed, taking the seat he offered me. What a gentleman. From his gruff exterior, I’d half expected him to behave more like he looked.

  “Are you comfortable?” Lieutenant Rawles stopped above me, waiting.

  “Yes, thank you.” My face must have registered surprise at his gentleness for when I met Clara’s eyes, she exaggerated a smile for me to emulate. Were all gentleman supposed to be this amiable? This thoughtful and caring? Peter’s chair scratched loudly as he pulled it from under the table. He sat, scowling at his plate. No. Some gentlemen were brooding and self-involved.

  Lady Demsworth directed the course of the dinner, asking general questions to each member of our company.

  When it was my turn, I sipped from my glass, waiting for her question, as a servant placed a sweet-smelling pudding in front of me.

  “Miss Moore, how is your stepfather faring? There are rumors his illness has worsened, heightened by a lack of his presence during the Season. But surely they are untrue?”

  I stilled, unable to meet Clara’s gaze. Lord Gray’s secret itched in the back of my throat, choking me. Clara knew our stepfather was sick, guessed he likely would not recover, but she did not know with certainty as I did.

  “His doctors have unfortunately been unable to find a diagnosis, nor any useful treatment,” I said.

  “What is it that ails him?” Sir Ronald asked, dipping his spoon in his own dessert.

  “An illness of the lungs.” I tucked my hands under the table, looking up to find Peter’s eyes. They were curious and almost sad.

  “How very unfortunate,” Lady Demsworth continued. “First the loss of your father, then your dear mother, and now . . . He is smart to have relocated to Brighton. Medicine is advancing there.”

  That I doubted, though I would not say as much. The mention of my parents stung, but it always did.

  “He is well taken care of,” I said, which was not a lie in the least. Lord Gray hired more help than he needed.

  “And Lieutenant Rawles,
how are you enjoying your time away? We did not find you in the Season this year.”

  I let out a breath, happy to escape further questioning, and picked up my spoon. Our story was still unfolding, and the present company would learn of our destitution soon enough. When I raised my head, Peter was still staring at me, but this time he quickly looked away, busying himself with stirring his pudding.

  Lady Demsworth rose from her chair before I’d finished my dessert, and I snuck one last sweet bite before politely wiping my lips and following her into the drawing room with the other ladies.

  Before I could speak to Clara, Sir Ronald entered the room with all four men behind him. “Shall we play a game? A bit of blindman’s bluff?”

  Voices mounted in approval as the group gathered around.

  “I haven’t played since we were children,” Clara whispered from behind me. “I will embarrass myself.”

  I turned to face her, finding fear and worry in her brown eyes. “It is only a game, Clara. You will not have to go first, and if you hide yourself well, not at all. I shall help you. Stay beside me.”

  “Mrs. Turnball and I will be in the corner conversing. Do see that you maintain propriety, Ronald.” Lady Demsworth pursed her lips.

  “Of course, Mother, of course. None shall lose her reputation in my house,” he joked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “Who should like to go first?”

  “Georgiana,” Peter called with a smirk.

  “I couldn’t,” Georgiana demurred in a voice that wasn’t at all convincing.

  But perhaps if Georgiana made herself a fool, Clara would feel less ridiculous to play in Sir Ronald’s company.

  “Come, Miss Wood, let us start out with a lady and make the men look all the more foolish,” I prodded.

  Georgiana smiled. “Oh, all right. But I do not wish to guess names. I am terrible at guessing.”

  “But you must.” Sir Ronald tied the yellow handkerchief over Georgiana’s eyes as the rest of us scattered about the room. “That is my favorite part.”

  “Don’t forget to spin her,” Beatrice called, an edge of competition in her voice.

  Georgiana smiled as she reached out her hand to Sir Ronald. He took it and lifted their joined hands above her head. She twirled under the arch of his arm, giggling as she spun. At the count of ten, he released her, then darted across the room to find his own spot. Clara sucked at her teeth, glaring at Georgiana’s aimless steps.

  “You should’ve volunteered,” I whispered into her ear on a breath, but Clara only rolled her eyes.

  Georgiana giggled with outstretched arms, turning on a heel in pursuit of any sound. She walked dangerously close by Mr. Bratten, who stood straight as a board.

  As she neared Peter, he jumped a chair, knocking over Lieutenant Rawles’s stack of military books in his wake.

  “Who was that?” Georgiana asked.

  “He’s to your left!” Peter called breathless, and Georgiana hurled herself leftward directly into Sir Ronald’s chest.

  “Who do you have?” Beatrice called. “She must guess! It’s the rule of the game!”

  “Oh, let her be. She’s uncomfortable,” Lieutenant Rawles grumbled admirably.

  But Georgiana simply grasped Sir Ronald by the arms to examine him. He stood perfectly still as she traced up his coat with her fingers, further up to his neck and then to his face. She giggled as she thumbed his smooth jaw, ran her hands over his nose, and tugged at his hair. “Sir Ronald?”

  He took off her blindfold, gazing at her with mirth, and she shrieked in delight, hugging him around his neck. Surprise rippled through the company. Even Peter, whose frown and raised brow were in contrast to his usual smile, seemed taken aback by Georgiana’s forwardness. Everyone relaxed in the next moment, though, save Clara, who looked as though she wanted to pop Georgiana on the nose with her clenched fist.

  “Well done,” Peter clapped. “Demsworth’s turn.”

  “I think I am ready to retire,” Clara whispered softly, pulling my arm into hers. I could not blame her. We were certainly the odd ones out in the room, knowing no one beyond our host, while they all knew each other so well. But then, why had we been invited? There must be something here for Clara.

  “One more round,” I whispered. “Let us watch Sir Ronald make a fool of himself.”

  While Georgiana twirled Sir Ronald, I distracted Clara by pointing out Mr. Bratten, who was smoothing his hair in a mirror along the wall.

  “Ten,” Georgiana called, racing behind a nearby chair. Sir Ronald was neither slow nor timid, taking long strides toward walls, tables, and chairs. He barely missed Lieutenant Rawles, who leaped backward behind the pianoforte just in time.

  “Where are you, Rawles? I can hear your breathing every time you move.” Sir Ronald tilted his head, waiting.

  “Trying to pin me?” the lieutenant said, poking Sir Ronald in the back before flying to his left. “There is nothing like a sea of bullets flying at your rear to make you learn how to dodge rather quickly in war, Demsworth.”

  Just then, Peter pushed Georgiana straight at Sir Ronald. He was mere moments from reaching out and grasping her again. She feigned terror, backtracking slowly. Clara pursed her lips, shaking her head slightly. Not again. Clara could not be subject to this again.

  Thinking fast, I tipped over the chair beside me, but I hadn’t considered my own proximity to Sir Ronald, and he whipped around, grasping a handful of my skirts.

  “There you are!” he laughed. “But wait. Who are you?”

  Georgiana’s smile held disappointment, but Clara beamed. Whether at my intervention or my being caught I could not know, but her brightened countenance was worth it all.

  “Hmm.” Sir Ronald found my hands, tracing them with his thumbs, then up my arms with a half nervous smile upon his face. I blushed to be touched so freely, and by the man my sister hoped to marry. His hands reached my face, where he felt my cheeks, my eyebrows, and the curve of my nose. Then to my hair, where he tugged on a curl, chewing his lip in thought. After a moment, he ventured, “Miss Clara?”

  The room waited in silence as I lifted his blindfold, peeking under it at him. The hope in his eyes dissipated when he saw me, replaced by humor and embarrassment.

  “Ah, Miss Moore! You bear a likeness to your sister. A fool, I am!”

  “We are nearly the same size, though I am older. You should have felt for wrinkles and gray hair, Sir Ronald.”

  Everyone laughed, and I looked to Clara. Her smile had faded, but she reclaimed it when she caught my stare. If only she could be standing in my position. I was not interested in the least in playing the blind man.

  But I had no choice. Sightless and wobbly with the blindfold in place, I followed the sounds of light footsteps which seemed to come from every direction.

  “This is the worst sort of game,” I said, feeling blindly in front of me. “Clara, tell me where you are at once and save me from this.”

  “Never,” Mr. Bratten called, but his voice was too far away.

  A hushed whispering turned into laughter on my left, and I moved toward it, arms flailing like kites in the wind.

  Rustling sounds from all around tempted me, then I felt a sudden movement behind me and heard a man’s easy laugh. I whirled around, leaping toward the sound, and bumped hard into the figure of a man. I grasped his arms, and he held me steady in an embrace. The most awkward embrace imaginable.

  “I’ve caught you,” I said. It was impossible not to smile, though I knew I looked ridiculous with a handkerchief covering my eyes.

  “Who did you catch?” Beatrice called.

  My fingers searched nervously to decipher the identity of my prey. If only I’d paid better attention to the men tonight. This man’s coat was thick and smooth. Expensive. Except . . .

  “No medallion, so not the lieutenant.” Though the figure was ind
eed a fine form, strong and broad and tall. He stood as still as a statue as I traced lines over his chest, which rose and fell with even breaths. My hands reached his shoulders, and the man drew a deeper breath.

  “Am I taking too long?” I asked.

  A rough hand took mine and placed it on his face. He shook his head mutely as though to answer “no” to my question.

  “He is having too much fun,” Beatrice said with humor.

  “Or perhaps he is ticklish.” Georgiana laughed.

  I blushed, imagining what I must look like. How improper the entire situation was. Moving my hands quickly to his neck, I grazed upward to his smooth, strong jawline. “Not Mr. Bratten, who I believe neglected a shave tonight.”

  “She is not wrong,” Mr. Bratten chortled from across the room, and I smiled. That left Sir Ronald and Peter.

  As I traced his face, I felt a distinct crease in his cheek, a dimple from a smile he likely bore as I humiliated myself trying to discover him. My heart jumped. This had to be Peter. I raised onto my tiptoes to run my fingers through his hair. It was wavy and smooth, unlike Sir Ronald’s coarse tufts. I ruffled it up before huffing and taking a step back.

  “Mr. Wood?” Please say it isn’t you.

  As my handkerchief lifted, green eyes pierced into mine, twinkling above a wicked grin. “Miss Moore. I did not expect to be so fully scoured this evening with your lingering touches.”

  Laughter filled the room, and I pushed Peter away with a scoff, decidedly through with blindman’s bluff. Why did Peter Wood always ruin everything?

  “Would anyone like their tea?” Lady Demsworth stood, motioning to the butler. “How flushed you are, Beatrice. Do come sit for a moment. And you, Miss Moore, do join me.”

  Anything to escape what I’d just endured. Had Peter been laughing at me the entire time? Likely so. He’d made me a fool. And yet, my fingertips still tingled from his touch.

  The tray was brought in, cups and saucers clinking. I followed Lady Demsworth’s direction and took my cup from her after she poured. The company followed suit, and I was soon surrounded in activity. To my left, Mrs. Turnball and Lady Demsworth conversed about the upcoming ball, while Lieutenant Rawles sat on my right, restacking his pile of books. Neither drew my interest, and I placed my empty teacup on the tray before turning around in my seat to examine the room.