by Megan Walker
As I retied the knot in an ugly oversized bow, he raised his chin to aid my view and handling of the cloth, though his eyes never left mine. Puffing out the loops, I let my fingers linger near his collarbone. His skin was smooth, warmth radiating through my fingers and sending tickling waves to my chest. Peter’s shoulders twitched, and his jaw tightened. I wondered if he’d bitten down hard on his tongue.
“Well done.” I grumbled. The bow was done, and it had been a glorious failure on my part. Apparently, Georgiana had been wrong about his ticklishness. What next? What other weakness did Peter Wood possess?
“Don’t pout, Miss Moore. It is maddeningly attractive.” Peter’s eyes were teasing, smiling when his lips couldn’t.
I cast him a scowl, drawing a heavy breath. I’d played my best card too early.
“You’ve changed your dress,” he said, leaning in and resting his elbow on the table inches from my skirts. Much too close.
“I fell victim to an unattended drink at dinner.”
“You were gone quite a long time,” he said, tilting his head at me. His eyes were searching, questioning, but for what I could not tell.
Why did Peter care? What kind of cards were up his sleeve? Perhaps I could turn the conversation on him. I rested my hand on the table even closer to his elbow, leaning in. “Are you counting the minutes we are apart, Mr. Wood?”
I swore I saw a twitch in his cheek, a deepening of the crease just to the left of his mouth. Peter cleared his throat loudly, sitting up from his relaxed position.
“He smiled!” Georgiana shrieked.
“No, no, no, he recovered,” Sir Ronald argued, followed by voices in varying degrees of agreement.
“Keep going, this is getting good,” Beatrice said with a hint of pleasure in her voice.
Blast it all, I’d nearly had him. Now it seemed we were at a stalemate. I racked my brain trying to remember anything Georgiana might have said that could help me outwit Peter. She’d said to compliment him, to get closer. To intimidate him. What more could I do?
Peter fiddled with his newly tied cravat. “You have quite the talent, Miss Moore.”
Why did he sound so sincere? He looked like an overgrown child, proud at having just tied his first neckcloth. “Thank you, sir. I shall charge by the minute, should you need my services in the future.”
“The future, hmm?” Peter studied me, an idea forming clearly in his eyes. “Since you have so openly displayed your talents, perhaps it is my turn. Shall I read your palm? Discover the secrets of what is to come?”
Palmistry? Like a vagabond on the streets of London? “You want me to give you my palm for a reading?” My voice was unconvinced.
Peter’s lips parted. He nodded. “May I?”
My hands tingled at the thought of his touch. Any other time I would’ve laughed and walked away, but the gentlemen behind Peter bore enthusiastic grins, confident of victory. This game meant something to Clara and to the other girls, so I needed to put my own feelings aside. I would not forfeit. Somehow, Peter managed to skim by without smiling during my attempt. Maybe I could turn his fortune-telling against him.
I cast Peter a hard stare. What was I so afraid of? “As you wish, Mr. Wood.”
I slid off my gloves, placing them on the table. My heart fluttered in my chest, and I crossed my arms tightly.
“Are you right- or left-handed?” Peter asked. He was playing the part, looking serious and professional.
“Right,” I said.
“Your hand, please.”
I took a calming breath, then exhaled slowly. Where had Peter gotten this idea anyway? Palmistry was even more ridiculous than a woman tying a man’s cravat. I held out my right hand, palm up, looking away to the dark window across the room.
Before he’d even touched me, I felt a tingling in my skin. Was that why Peter had taken such steady breaths through his nose? Because he felt the same way? This dizzy, this excited, this . . . affected?
His warm hand took mine, and immediately my senses came alive. This was unlike the time we’d held hands in the stalls, or even in the pasture. The way his fingers brushed against my skin as they felt every groove in my palm was mesmerizing. I felt the sensation all the way to my toes.
“And?” I said in an effort to hurry him.
“This is most interesting, Miss Moore. Most interesting, indeed.” Peter pulled my hand closer, and I leaned in. “You have a very square hand,” he said, pressing my hand between both of his, as though measuring its size. “That tells me you are a practical thinker. Stubborn, perhaps, and strong-willed.”
I squinted at Peter. “Tread carefully, Mr. Wood.”
He pressed his lips together, staring at my palm. “This line here”—he drew his pointer finger along the center of my palm—“is long, indicating that you are an inward thinker. Smart and sensible, but perhaps not as good at sharing?”
“Has he studied this art?” Clara asked from behind me. The answer was no, but Peter had apparently been studying me.
“Both hands, if you will, Miss Moore.” I lifted my left hand, and Peter held them side by side, searching.
“Ah, here it is. The love line.”
My eyes widened. “The what?”
“Your future, of course. It all begins with marriage, does it not?”
Someone snorted, and a man blew out a laugh.
Peter brushed his fingers across my palms, circling, tracing, and likely formulating more ridiculous things to say. Watching his resolve crack under pressure was worth my embarrassment. He would not last, I was sure of it.
He sniffed, looking up at me and feigning serious concern. “You will be disappointed, I’m afraid. As I know you are anything but a romantic.”
I nearly pulled my hands away, but he caught them, lifting them higher.
“This line here”—he traced a curvy, longer line—“is strong and determined. Just like the man in your future. I see happiness here and prosperity. And a very clever, very handsome man to share it with.” Peter looked up at me. “That stubborn, practical side of you will not stand a chance against his charms.”
I bit down on my tongue hard, making my eyes water. He was teasing me. And it hurt so bad not to smile. I had to say something. Anything. “And how will I know when I’ve met him?”
Peter scrunched his nose. “I am a palmist, Miss Moore, not Cupid. But I might suggest encouraging him when you find him. So he knows his intentions will be well-received.”
“Men do not need encouragement,” I argued.
“Oh, yes. Especially when the lady is particularly wonderful and intimidating.” He raised his eyebrows playfully. “It does not have to be a grand gesture. Just enough to prove your affection matches his. That is, if you wish for his proposal.”
Something was coming. I knew he prepared to humiliate me in some form. I needed to take control, so I said, “I shall need a demonstration.”
The men behind him were shaking with silent laughter.
“Oh, there are many ways to encourage a man, Miss Moore. You could flutter your lashes, for example.” Peter’s cheeks dimpled but not with a full smile. He batted his lashes up at me.
I pressed my lips hard together. My chin was quivering, but so was his. “That is not enough. I’d want him to really know.” My voice was shaking, eyes filling with tears at holding it all in.
“Then after you’ve fluttered your lashes at him, warmed him up, so to speak, you should . . .” Peter cleared his throat. “You should wink at him, so he knows how dearly you wish for his proposal.”
“Wink at him?” I repeated in astonishment, nearly on a laugh. “That is the worst advice I have ever been given. You are a terrible fortune-teller.”
“Try it.” He folded his arms and stood. “You will have every man in this room at your feet.”
“I will do no such thing.” I sta
red at him. His chin wavered at the terrified sound in my voice.
“Then do you concede?”
“Of course not.”
Peter waited. As did everyone in the room.
I turned to the girls, who nodded in encouragement.
Huffing, I mimicked Peter’s folded arms, shaking my head. If I was going to do this, I would do it right. I stepped around him, and Peter mirrored my movement until we had switched places. I was sitting in his chair, and he was leaning against the table.
My cheeks flushed. I’d never been so embarrassed in all my life. Tilting my head, I looked up at him and fluttered my lashes ridiculously.
The men stepped closer. Peter’s lips twitched. How was he not smiling?
I licked my lips, and Peter’s gaze dropped. He was suddenly still, watching. This was utterly absurd. Completely mortifying. I thought to wink, but my lips started to curl—oh, how it hurt to force my mouth into a line!—and Peter was as near to smiling as I. A small breath escaped me, and I thought of Clara.
It is only a wink, Amelia, for heaven’s sake.
Chin raised, I met Peter’s gaze and winked.
Peter’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushed scarlet, and his own lips parted as though he had never been so surprised. Desperately, I released my smile, it broke across my face, and I bent over, laughing.
“Champions!” Sir Ronald yelled, pumping a fist into the air as Mr. Bratten punched Lieutenant Rawles in the arm.
Peter smiled fully then, breathing hard.
As the men cheered, we huffed, the anger of four women intensifying with each happy smile from the opposing team.
Beatrice frowned. “Georgiana, I think I would like to see your dress for the ball after all.”
“As would I.” Clara took Beatrice’s arm.
“Amelia?” Georgiana raised a brow, beckoning me to follow suit. “Shall we?”
I seized on the opportunity to leave Peter and this ridiculous game behind me. “I am dying to see it.”
“Wait, no.” Sir Ronald lifted a hand. “It is not even eleven. You cannot retire just yet. Let’s play another round of blindman’s bluff.”
“Come, ladies,” Georgiana called as she moved toward the door, ignoring Sir Ronald’s pleas. I had to give her credit for holding a decent grudge for once. We followed after her, despite complaining and calling from the men behind us.
I’d reached the doorway when Peter called, “A moment, Miss Moore?”
I thought to run from him, that man whose dimpled cheeks had been my undoing, but his strides were too quick. Peter crossed to me, out of earshot from the rest of the party, and I glanced toward the stairs where the other ladies had reached the top.
“I won fair and square,” he whispered.
I poked his chest with my finger. “You are a horrible flirt, and I shall never forgive you. And you absolutely smiled before I did.”
“I did not,” he said only half seriously. “But I’d be willing to play again if you’d like.”
I scowled at his teasing, and he chuckled. “Go to bed, Peter Wood.”
“One thing more, and I shall. Did you decipher your French like a good pupil?”
I crossed my arms confidently, “I did. It is ‘all is more bright.’ Though I am not sure what it means.”
“Yes. More succinctly in English, ‘everything is brighter.’”
“And what does it mean?” I searched his face for an answer.
Peter hesitated, shifting his weight. “Have you ever met someone who enters a room and the whole of the atmosphere changes? The feel, the temperature, the very air you breathe? An angry person could silence a room, intensifying the energy there, while a soft-spoken person could set that same room entirely at ease in the next moment.” He rested a hand on the doorframe as he took a slow, long breath. “With you, Amelia, everything is brighter.”
I’d forgotten to breathe, my heart slowing from its earlier excitement. Peter was not teasing me. Not now. He was quite serious, quite honest. And that was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me.
“I will see you tomorrow afternoon. Do not think I will go easy on you just because your pride was wounded tonight.” He winked and turned away.
What a teasing, irritating man. Wasn’t he? My words were beginning to feel insincere in my head, as though they smiled in their own knowing way. Even I wasn’t so sure I meant them anymore.
Chapter Seventeen
Georgiana closed the door behind her after the four of us entered her bedchamber.
“You did well, Miss Moore,” she said. “I told you he is good.”
“He was most improper,” Beatrice said. “No matter how entertaining it was to watch. I applaud you for lasting as long as you did.”
“Thank you,” I said from where I stood by the small window across the room. My mind was still whirling from what Peter had said about me. His words were the loveliest I had ever heard, even now as they echoed in my memory.
“They will never let us live it down.” Clara frowned. “Mr. Wood will be infamous.”
Georgiana sat on her bed, letting down her hair. “In a party as small as this, perhaps. Usually, Peter will do anything to stay out of the line of gossip.”
Beatrice sat in a chair by Georgiana’s desk. “Won’t we all?”
“Are Sir Ronald’s parties usually much larger?” Clara asked.
Georgiana brushed her fingers through her curls. “Yes, the Demsworths are nothing if not extravagant with house parties. But when Sir Ronald’s father died, and everything came to light, the guest list was the first thing to go.”
“So it’s true?” Beatrice sat up straighter, eyes questioning.
Georgiana smiled a cat-like smile.
“I did wonder why things were so casual,” Beatrice said.
Clara looked to me, confused, but I had no idea what they were talking about.
“What is true?” I asked. “Is something wrong with Sir Ronald?”
Beatrice turned to me. “Surely you’ve heard. His father was a terrible gambler. No one had any idea until his death, but of course by then it was too late. He left Sir Ronald with mountains of debt, and after he paid them all off, there was nothing left. I hear they barely keep the estate running. A portion of money remains untouchable in the bank until Sir Ronald marries. Or so I’ve heard.”
“It is true,” Georgiana agreed, almost happily. “But I imagine that money will not be untouchable for much longer.”
Her meaning was clear, her words pounding in my ears.
Beatrice added in a hushed voice, “My mother says that is precisely why he held this party. They stayed with family over the Season, on a very frugal budget. Now, he means to choose a wife, have a small wedding, and live comfortably again with the sum his father locked away.”
“He is . . . poor?” My tongue felt numb.
“Quite. Which is why not many women from the Season suited his fancy. Too many were only interested in him because they thought he held a fortune.” Georgiana emphasized the word as she looked pointedly at Clara. “But he needs only a few good years of farming to replenish his holding.”
A few good years. The walls in the room constricted, and my hands grew clammy. This was not the security I’d imagined. Did he know Clara came with nothing? Surely he planned on a dowry increasing his income. A dowry like Georgiana most certainly held. Would our poverty change his favor? We’d come this far, and I was so close to giving Clara her heart’s desire. But the risk was more severe than I’d anticipated. Even if Clara secured Sir Ronald, could he provide her with stability? Would Father have allowed a match based on such a gamble? Frustration beat upon me like the pelting of hard rain in a storm.
Clara rubbed her temples. What did she think of all this?
“My brother and Sir Ronald are a lot alike, you know.” Georgiana looked
to me. Her eyes were sharp, almost unfeeling, and I wanted to turn away.
She continued, “Peter will need a considerable dowry from his wife to replenish the amount mine will cost him. Otherwise, he will have to go back to London and work for more income like my father did for my mother. In truth, Peter is expecting wealth in his marriage.”
She spoke the words to the room, but I knew they were intended for me. Her lips curled upward, and I swallowed, looking down to my hands, gloved in secondhand rags. I felt as worthless as a grain of sand.
Somewhere deep down, I’d been harboring hope. Dreaming of a place and time where Peter would save me from my circumstances. The vision had become so clear. I’d tasted it in the small moments we’d shared and in the beautiful words he’d spoken.
But money was something I did not have. I could never meet his needs.
“Are you well, Amelia? You look rather pale,” Beatrice said.
“I am well. Perhaps a little tired from these late evenings. Clara, dear, should we retire?” I stood, reminding myself that my focus was on Clara and her future.
She forced a smile, though her eyes were filled with worry over Georgiana’s attempt to dishearten her. “Of course, sister, as you wish.”
When we were safe in our room a few doors down, I locked the door behind us. The room was quiet as Mary had retired for the night.
Leaning against the wood frame, I took three deep breaths. Georgiana was right. Peter would never think of me as anything more than a friend to tease for a fortnight. He came from a wealthy, established family name, and I came from scandal. That he would need a dowry to bolster his estate was not surprising. Sir Ronald, more so. What would they say when they discovered Clara and I had nothing?
For the first time since arriving at Lakeshire Park, I realized fully the impossible nature of our endeavors. Men did not often marry penniless women, even for love. Perhaps Lord Gray had known all along that we would fail this close to the finish line. This entire trip might have all been a joke to him.
Then again, Sir Ronald knew misfortune. And misfortune often led to compassion. He of all people should understand our reasons for staying quiet.
