“Mr. Mayfield!” she exclaimed. She looked at the door and listened for a reaction from within. When a few seconds passed without the girls seeming to have noticed, she turned back to him but only met his eyes a moment before she looked at the floor.
He kept his arms crossed over his chest. “What is the matter?”
She fiddled with the watch pinned to her bodice. “Nothing is the matter, Mr. Mayfield.”
He put his finger beneath her chin and raised her eyes to meet his as he had before, praying they would not be interrupted this time. “Something is wrong.”
Tears filled her eyes, but instead of wilting, she hit his hand away and stepped back. They stared at one another. He found himself at a complete loss for words. He’d seen her sad and uncomfortable and shy, but he’d never seen her angry.
“When were you going to tell me?” she snapped.
Peter let out a breath. She knew he’d gone to see her mother without telling her and, as much as he hated that she was hurt by it—or angered, apparently—it was somewhat of a relief since he would not have to confess himself. “I am sorry. I had not expected it would be necessary for me to tell you beforehand. I had hoped—”
“Not necessary?” She looked even more offended, and her hands went to her hips in the universal display of angry women. “I may be your servant, Mr. Mayfield, but I am also a person and a woman who has to find her own way in the world. Were you just going to bring her in one day and turn me out? Did you not think for one moment how I might be affected by your decision?”
“Bring her here?” Peter said, trying to keep pace with the conversation. “I wanted her blessing.”
Julia’s eyebrows came together as she stared at him. “Her blessing?”
He took a breath, any hopes of having a well-crafted conversation about this topic lost. “She would not give it. What’s more, I promised her that I would not move forward without it.”
Julia’s looked completely confused. “Promised who?”
“Your mother.”
Julia’s hands fell to her sides. “My mother?”
The confusion was catching. “What exactly are we talking about?”
“The governess you are hiring to replace me.”
Peter opened his mouth to explain he wasn’t hiring a new governess, but he realized that should things go well with Miss Julia, he would be hiring a new governess. How would he explain this? “I think we are both a bit confused right now.”
Julia did not seem ready to admit as much and took a breath. “I know about the letter.”
Peter proceeded with caution. “What letter would that be?”
“The one I read was from Mr. Hastings, but it was apparently in response to a letter you sent in hopes of replacing me. Why? Because I have done a poor job? Because of my mother and her interfering ways?”
“No,” Peter said quickly, putting out his hands in surrender. “Well, perhaps in part because of your mother, but . . .”
She opened her mouth to speak, and he hurried to cut in before things became even more muddied. “I did write to Mr. Hastings after I learned of your mother’s concerns, but by the time he sent the response, I had changed my mind, quite a lot.”
She crossed her arms over her stomach, still confused but not so angry.
He stepped closer, and though she watched him skeptically, she did not move away. He reached for one hand, then the other, before pulling her closer, knowing as he did so that he was making all of this more complex. She did not resist, but neither did she drop her suspicions. Her hand felt so right in his. “I should have told you all of this before I spoke to your mother.”
Her expression changed yet again. “You spoke to my mother?”
“I wanted her blessing.”
He could nearly see her repeating the words in her mind. She blinked, and for an instant, he thought she might turn and run. He tightened his hold on her hands, just in case. They could not afford another conversation like this one, and he was prepared to explain everything. At the same time, the things he had thought reflected feelings on her part suddenly seemed ridiculous and overly optimistic. But to retreat now would be the end of his opportunities—he could feel it.
“I went to Feltwell yesterday to ask your mother’s blessing so that I might court you. I had assumed I would return with success and things would change between you and I in all the ways I have hoped they would and feared they couldn’t.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
He said it all again, slower and without missing a detail.
“You wanted to court me?”
Was she disgusted? He could not tell and simply nodded.
“Sh-she refused?”
He swallowed and nodded again. He saw her jaw tighten slightly. Dare he hope that was a good sign?
When she spoke, her voice did not have the shock and surprise of her other responses but was a bit harder. “Did she say why she refused?”
“To sum up her feelings, I suppose she distrusts my family and therefore myself. It seemed I could say nothing to convince her I am an honorable man.” He paused and shook his head. “Perhaps she is right.”
Julia turned her head slightly, watching him.
“As I left, I gave her my word that I would not pursue you without her blessing, but I fear that may be the first promise of my life I am unable to keep.”
“I need to make sure I have this right,” Julia said slowly. Her hand seemed to relax within Peter’s grip. “You were aware of my mother’s objections to my being here some time ago. When?”
“Within two weeks of your arrival here,” Peter said, swallowing his regret. “I was not yet convinced of how much we—myself as well as the girls—needed you, and my reaction was to protect us all from scandal, which is why I wrote to Mr. Hastings.”
“Why did you not tell me of my mother’s complaint?”
“I did not tell you because it was not my story to tell. I believed that replacing you quickly was the best course, though I see how unfair it would have been. You know of your mother’s connection to my uncle, then?”
She nodded, though slowly. “They knew each other in London and did not get on.” She withdrew her hands from his and took a small step back.
Peter hesitated, but could not help but attempt to further defend himself, and his uncle. “They were all but engaged when my grandfather died, and I am afraid my uncle fairly broke your mother’s heart. My uncle blames his poor explanation to your mother as the root cause for her objection to your being here. You did not know?”
“No,” she said with a degree of tightness. “I did not know the whole of that story.”
“It was easy, I am sure, for her to compound her bad opinion with the scandalous behavior of my parents and my aunts. I could not necessarily argue against her concerns, and I did not feel it was my place to tell you. This was early in your time here, before I had come to . . . to love you. Now I find it impossible to imagine my family or my home without you.”
She smiled, but then returned to a neutral expression and shook her head as though not yet ready to believe it.
Peter had never felt so vulnerable in his entire life and wondered how such careful living could have put him in the middle of so much complication. “I wrote to Mr. Hastings in an attempt to protect us all—you, your mother, and myself. His response a few days ago forced me to admit that the extent of my feelings had changed.”
Her expression remained cautious. “And rather than giving me any hint of such feelings, you went to my mother?”
She made it sound foolish. “It was the honorable course,” he reminded her. “A gentleman procures the blessing of a parent or elder brother before he moves forward with a courtship. You must know how hard I have attempted to live an honorable life, Julia. It has been the goal of every step I have ever taken.”
She n
odded slowly, thoughtfully, then met his eye and cocked her head to the side. “And my mother refused to give her blessing.” She spoke evenly, not letting a hint of her feelings show.
“She did.”
“Does that change your feelings?”
“Not at all.” If his heart weren’t already beating like a woodpecker against his ribs he’d have surely noticed it speed up. He had said so much out loud already and felt completely naked while poised on the edge of a cliff, waiting for her to react to his confessions.
Julia closed her eyes briefly and clenched her jaw before looking at him again. “You must know, Mr. Mayfield, that—”
He reached for her hand without thought and squeezed it. “For the love of heaven, you must call me Peter.” He could not be Mr. Mayfield, her employer and the father of her charges, right now.
Instead of pulling away, she took a step toward him, and a warm shiver calmed him. Somewhat. “You must know, Peter”—she gave the slightest smile before continuing; a smile that lit the sun—“I am a grown woman and do not need her blessing.”
He swallowed. “I gave my word.” He would give anything to go back and undo that promise. Put his heart before honor, once and for all.
She didn’t reply, but took another small step closer to him. Her eyes were bright and a little bit nervous, but excited, too. She reached out her free hand and touched his forearm as though asking his permission to be this close. “Does her opinion mean more than mine?”
Words failed him. He slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her closer still, watching her face as she followed the silent instructions. She was only a few inches shorter than he was, which made it so easy to duck his chin and brush his lips across her own. Light and fiery. She startled—or at least he thought she did. Maybe it was him. He began to pull back so they could consider, reassess, decide together what to do from here, but she took sudden hold of his arm and, as easy as it was for him to duck his chin, it was just as easy for her to lift hers and kiss him back.
More fire than light this time, and completely maddening.
His hand at her waist slid around her back; her hand on his arm moved to his neck. Touch and sound and warmth and silence. Vertigo. A crashing wave. He thought he ought not deepen the kiss, suspecting she had never been kissed before, but he’d no sooner thought it than he was pulling her closer still, drawing her in, pressing for more until everything disappeared except for the two of them and the cracking passion.
When he finally pulled back, her eyes fluttered open, and she stared at him, then smiled—thankfully. He smiled back without releasing her.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t do that,” he whispered, watching her mouth and barely holding himself back from doing it again.
“Then I have never been so pleased to have a promise broken.”
He kissed her again, but when the aching turn frenzied, he released her.
She leaned forward, not letting him go, and it was like starting and stopping the most beautiful piece of music ever played, until finally, he took a step away.
“If we do not stop, I fear we never will.”
“I do not think I would mind.” She smiled, and he began to drown again.
He laughed and lifted one of her hands to his lips—perhaps to remind them both that he was still a gentleman and she was still a young woman who deserved his restraint. He held her eyes. “I do not want to be the reason for a breach of your relationship with your mother.”
Julia’s expression hardened, which made it a bit easier not to kiss her. Reality was returning for both of them. “You will not be the reason . . . Peter. She is the one who created this situation. I will talk to her,” Julia said.
Peter shook his head. “I can’t let—”
She raised her eyebrows, which was all the reprimand he needed. Was he going to give more credit to her mother’s wishes than their own? After that kiss? After her confession of feeling that fit his own so thrillingly?
He reached a hand to her face, unable to stop touching her smooth skin. He trailed a thumb to her lips, still warm from his earlier attention. Gracious. “You will need to move to the vicarage.”
She furrowed her brow.
“So that I might formally court you.”
She smiled and cut the distance between them again with a single word spoken from breathless lips. “When?”
Elliott
Mrs. Hollingsworth to see you, my lord.”
Elliott looked up from where he was playing chess against himself. Life as a gentleman bachelor could be very boring. “Mrs. Hollingsworth?” He scrambled to his feet, and the hot-water bottle he’d been resting on his knee fell to the floor.
Brookie nodded. “I put her in the blue room. Tea is already being prepared.”
“Perfect, excellent. Thank you.” Elliott pushed back from the desk and headed for the door before remembering he’d taken off his shoes—his feet got so blasted hot sometimes. He went back to his chair and slipped back into his shoes, then remembered that he’d untied his cravat.
“Brookie,” he called out, reaching the doorway in time to see the servant turn back. “Please send Heathrow to my chamber to help make me presentable.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Elliott hurried to his bedchamber, changed his coat to the blue one, and then to the charcoal instead. Amelia had once told him in London that gray made his eyes look bluer. Once he had the new coat on, he realized his red-and-green-striped waistcoat did not match. By the time Heathrow arrived, the room was strewn with discarded articles, but Elliott had settled on the right combination—a blue-and-gray waistcoat with the charcoal coat and black breeches. Heathrow kept his fashion judgments to himself and crossed to tie Elliott’s cravat while Elliott stared at the ceiling and wondered why Amelia had come.
Finally, he was ready. He turned side to side in the mirror to make certain, then nodded to Heathrow and left him to clean up the mess while he hurried down the stairs. Outside of the blue room, he paused to take a breath before entering.
Amelia was standing, looking out the window. He hoped she was impressed by what she saw, even though that made him feel childish. She was wearing a lavender gown with a white shawl over her shoulders.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hollingsworth.” He bowed slightly when she turned to face him. It was a relief to see she was not angry, but he could not read much else into her expression. She looked tired, mostly, but then she’d traveled some fifty miles, which meant that her errand was important. “I apologize for making you wait. Had I known you were coming, I’d have been at the ready.”
“I thought not informing one another of visits prior was our arrangement.” She smiled, which allowed him to smile too. She was making jokes—that was a good sign. Still, her overall demeanor remained subdued.
“Would you like to sit down?” He waved toward one side of the large room where two semicircular, blue-velvet settees ringed a small table. Elliott had called them “moon chairs” when he had been a child.
“Thank you.” She moved from the window and sat. Brookie had made the right choice in putting her in the blue room as opposed to the west parlor or the front parlor, which was filled with a nauseating array of floral patterns. His mother had decorated it years ago, and Elliott hadn’t the heart to change it after she passed, but he found the room too busy to be comfortable.
In the blue room, however, with its big windows and muted tones, Amelia was presented at her very best—bright and . . . well, not quite cheery.
Elliott sat across from her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Their last interaction had been in the carriage leaving Peter’s house. He’d rewritten the conversation a dozen times since then and wished that reliving time could be so easy. Even in his editions of what he wished had transpired, however, he’d known he could not change her feelings or reactions. Today, her posture included
an air of humility he had not felt from her before.
She took a breath and then let it out, her back perfectly straight. “I want to know what happened when your father died.”
Elliott blinked. “Oh. Well . . .”
“Is it difficult for you to talk about?”
“Not necessarily,” Elliott replied. “Just unexpected.”
A sound in the doorway drew their attention, and they both looked to see the first footman coming in with the tea tray. Brookie hovered behind him as though supervising his charge. The footman set the tray on the small table, then the two servants departed.
“May I pour?” Amelia asked when they were alone.
“Certainly,” Elliott said.
He watched the graceful and confident movements of Amelia’s hands as she prepared their cups—his with only cream, just as he liked it. Her age showed on her hands, the map of her life etched upon them. They were not the hands of a lady—flawless and smooth and meant for nothing more taxing than pushing a needle through fabric. These were the hands of a woman, a mother, a wife—someone who had worked hard and given much.
Yet she had the manners of a lady: moving with a whisper, setting cups upon saucers without the barest sound, stirring without scraping the spoon on the bottom of the cup, and then tapping the spoon twice on the rim before setting it aside. She chose one of each of the items from the kitchen—a pecan scone, a lemon biscuit, and a cheese tart—then put his plate in front of him. When she looked up, she blushed to find him watching her.
Why was it that no matter how often he saw the worst in her, he never forgot that this was under the surface? What he wouldn’t give to help her step out of the hurt and fear she surrounded herself with so tightly and see this version of Amelia each time he encountered her.
“Thank you, Amelia.”
She inclined her head, then prepared her cup. She took one sip before returning it—noiselessly—to the saucer. She looked at her knees a moment, then lifted her head. “I remembered this morning on the drive here that, shortly before you left London, you had wanted a horse for your birthday. It was a black stallion you’d seen at Tattersalls, and you asked your father to purchase it, but he responded that you were too old for birthday gifts. You were quite frustrated, do you remember?”
Promises and Primroses Page 23
