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.
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.”