“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.