“My thanks.” Peter removed his hat before climbing the stairs, noticing the oddly familiar paintings in the corridor as well as the scent of lemon oil and wax hovering in the air.
For an instant, recollections replaced anticipation and nervousness.
The door opened easily, and he stepped inside as memories rose up to taunt him. All the doubts he’d done his best to dismiss assaulted him in that moment, leaving his knees feeling weak and settling a queasy feeling in his gut.
In the corner, the tray he’d ordered awaited him. Meats, cheese, fruits, pickled vegetables, and bread along with a bottle of champagne sat ready to be consumed in celebration.
He removed his jacket and waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Chapter 10
You Didn’t Come
Miranda glanced at the clock on the mantel, a lump of regret clogging her throat. He would be there by now. She knew he’d arrived in town late the day before. Tabetha Spencer had corresponded with her regularly and likely, without meaning to, had kept Miranda informed of Peter’s progress.
But she could not go to the Mivart tonight.
She had nearly changed her mind a thousand times. She would simply tell him… She wouldn’t even have to do that. One look at her and he’d know… Contemplating the resulting aftermath, she had just as quickly decided to stay home.
Setting her knitting needles aside, she closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her temple.
It was possible he had not gone to the hotel. Or that he’d gone, and finding the room empty, had been relieved and just as quickly left.
Sir Bickford-Crowden had selected him for the tour.
Not that it was supposed to be public knowledge, but Tabetha was not a lady to keep something so noteworthy to herself.
Miranda lowered her hand to her heart and rubbed her fist over it, as though doing so could relieve her emotional pain. She would not be the barrier that kept him from pursuing such an incredible opportunity.
Knocking sounded from below, and then voices and shuffling footsteps. Miranda straightened her spine, panicked into arranging the blanket she was knitting very carefully to cover her lap.
“I’ll inform her you’re here, sir. Please wait downstairs—”
But before Herman could complete his request, the door burst open. Peter’s presence, energy, and light filled the room.
“I’m so sorry, My Lady.” Herman shot Peter a disgusted glance. “He refused to wait.”
“I suppose he’s waited long enough.” She sighed. “Would you be so kind as to have tea sent up for Mr. Spencer and me?” She should have had a missive delivered to the hotel.
But that had not been part of their bargain.
“If you are quite certain.” Herman met her gaze, and when she nodded, he backed out and closed the door behind him.
Leaving her alone with Peter.
He was as beautiful as ever, but there was something different. Did he appear older? Dark shadows etched beneath his eyes—eyes that burned with…
Determination.
Confidence emanated from him. It was as though his success over the summer had filled him with a greater purpose. Something he’d lacked the last time she’d seen him. She doubted that anything could keep him from achieving his dreams. Seeing it made her proud but also left her feeling bereft.
“Would you care to sit down?” She made a dismal attempt at sounding airy, staying seated as she gestured to a tall cushioned chair placed across from where she sat on the settee.
Noting his cheeks, ruddy from the cold, Miranda resisted the urge to burst out of her seat and throw herself into his arms.
Peter shook his head, giant snowflakes clinging to his sable hair and the shoulders of his greatcoat. He pinned his gaze on her accusingly. “You didn’t come.”
Miranda’s heart jumped at the sound of his voice. She pinched her mouth into a thin line to keep from answering. Of course, she had not gone. She would have ruined everything for him if she had.
His brows lowered. “You didn’t come.”
She ought to have asked Herman to take Peter’s coat and scarf, and the hat he held in his hand. But she shouldn’t invite his company any longer than necessary. She craved it. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his chest. And then tilt back her head so he could claim her lips with his.
She had so much she wanted to share with him.
But it was impossible.
Rather than sit where she indicated, he crossed the room and lowered himself beside her. Not quite touching but close enough that she felt both the cold from his coat and the intensity of his emotions.
“I understand you were quite the success in Brighton.” She would pretend there was no greater significance to his visit. She would pretend her heart wasn’t breaking.
She was allowing him the opportunity to explain that he would be touring throughout the year. She was allowing him a graceful retreat from his brash declaration last spring.
He waved a hand through the air and shrugged. “It was satisfying, but I’m glad it’s over.”
“But Sir Bickford-Crowden selected you.” He ought to be excited. “It is only the beginning.”
“How did you know—?” He tilted his head and then understanding dawned. “My mother.”
“Lady Tabetha.” She dropped her gaze to her hands. “Congratulations. It’s a tremendous honor.”
He had turned to face her, his knees touching hers. If she could only reach out and take his hand, feel that connection if only for a second.
It would never be enough.
“It is a great honor, indeed.” His voice rumbled beside her. “Or it would have been, rather… but I declined.”
Miranda blinked away the inconvenient stinging in her eyes. “How exciting it must be—you what?” She jerked her chin up. Did he just say he had… declined?
“It wasn’t what I wanted.” He gave her a sad smile. “After spending half a year doing nothing but practicing, playing, and composing, as well as a string of ridiculous exercises in order to prove myself, I realized that it wasn’t what I wanted. I love my music. I will always love making music. But it isn’t the only thing I want in life.” Peter scrubbed a hand down his face, and she couldn’t help but hold his gaze. “Never have I met a more miserable person than Sir William Bickford-Crowden. Personally, I want more.”
Miranda was stunned, her heart suddenly racing. “What more do you want?” Because she was not imagining that determined look on his face.
He’d come here tonight with a purpose.
“I want you.” His throat moved, as though he was swallowing a difficult emotion. “I want us.”
When she didn’t respond, he continued, “I like playing music for myself, for my mother’s friends occasionally.” His words lit a fire inside of her. “I loved playing for you. I don’t need an international audience. I don’t require the accolades. I know that our time together was short, but it was long enough for me to know you are the other half of my soul. Long enough for me to know I want the two of us to be together forever.”
“You still want me, then?” The question flew out of her mouth before she could think twice about asking.