“Amelia Moore does not believe in love?”
“Amelia Moore believes in practicality and sensibility.”
“Why?” he asked pointedly, defensively.
I thought for a moment, taken aback by his need for an answer. “Because love cannot be trusted. It comes and goes, and those who have it and lose it suffer most acutely.”
I avoided Peter’s gaze, though I felt his stare as he spoke. “But they also live more fully than those who do not open their hearts at all.”
“I would debate you, but I have a feeling neither of us would win.”
Peter chuckled, his eyes lighting up, though he did not press me.
As angry as I was at Peter for all his meddling and coercion, I appreciated the cheerful way he held his opinions. I thought about his words as Summer kept pace with Peter’s steed. What experience did Peter have with love? Any at all? To be so confident that love was a strength was an endearing sentiment, but a foolhardy belief. I’d thought Peter more practical than that.
He continued his questioning. “What is your life like in Brighton? What do you do with your days?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my saddle. He likely thought I spent my days on the shore, meeting tourists and entertaining company. What would he think of me if I told him the truth of my situation? No one knew how we really lived. No one ever asked. But what would it hurt to be honest with him? At the very worst he’d think less of me, and then perhaps he’d be tempted to release me from his company.
I cleared my throat. “I play the pianoforte in the mornings, because that is when Lord Gray bathes in the sea, and it would otherwise disturb him. When he arrives home, I see to his comfort, get him his paper, his cigar, his tea. He expects me to stitch and manage the house while he rests. If I am lucky enough for a bit of leisure, I like to read or walk along the shore with Clara.”
“I imagine you meet many people there.” He stared ahead, and a wave of self-consciousness blew through me. I’d been right. His opinion of me changed in an instant.
“No, actually. We rarely take visitors at Gray House. Though it is fun to watch the beachgoers and imagine their lives and where they are from.”
“Careful, Amelia. That is a very romantic sentiment.” Peter gave me a half-smile, which I did not return.
“Hardly. What about you? What do you do with all of your leisure?”
“All of my leisure?” He coughed. “You think I mull around taking tea and making calls to all the eligible ladies in Hampshire?”
I imagined Peter with his pinky in the air and suppressed a grin.
“Not that you care, as my money is of little consequence to your highbrow.” He sat straighter in his saddle. “But I do have a decent holding, and I manage my tenants and see to their needs. When I am not seeing to the estate, Georgiana is on my heels with a notion or need that she cannot live without and so I see to that as well.”
Turning my head away, I pursed my lips. I did not believe for a second that Peter had any idea what Georgiana could or could not live without. Perhaps he required as much extravagance as she did.
“I know you think I overindulge her.” Peter’s voice had softened, and I met his eyes, surprised at how kind and almost sad they seemed. “But she is my greatest friend. Her happiness means the world to me. What she has suffered from our mother’s lack of care, I try to make up for her now. But you may judge me as you wish.”
I studied his profile and the confident way he presented himself. Whatever his parents had done or not done, Peter carried much of the consequence. And I could not judge him for how he carried it. If I had the means to spoil Clara as he did Georgiana, I could not say that I would not do the same.
“Regardless of what I think, you have done well in your care of her,” I offered, and he looked at me questioningly, as though waiting for me to follow my compliment with censure. “I hope the same can be said of Clara, as I feel I have failed her in many ways.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I doubted any woman at the Season had caught Sir Ronald’s attention until you and your sister arrived. Then again, I am surprised he saw her and not you.”
What had he just said? Did he mean to compliment me? The cool breeze brushed against my suddenly hot cheeks. “Save your flattery, Mr. Wood. It is lost on me.”
“Ah, but your blush says otherwise.” Amusement bubbled in his words as he spoke, and I wanted to reach across the space between our horses and shove him straight off. Heavens, he was frustrating.
“Come on, old girl,” I said to Summer in a feeble attempt to abandon Peter once and for all. We were nearing the edge of the hill. I leaned forward, and Summer grunted under my weight. “Am I really putting you out so dearly? I cannot be the heaviest load you’ve carried.”
Though she was maddeningly slow, Summer was by far the sweetest, gentlest mare I’d ever met. She would not even bat a fly from her back. In the process of one ride, I had already grown to adore her.
Peter chided her with a tsk, drawing near to me and slapping Summer’s rump. She pulled forward in a dash, and I lost my balance, recovering only just in time.
“Peter!” I shrieked as he drew even with me. Every vein in my body pulsed with a lively exhilaration.
Peter laughed unabashedly. “I’ve been wondering how to convince you to use my Christian name.”
I swatted the air at him playfully. “Thank heavens your Christian name will not be the last word out of me.” And that no one else was around to have heard my slip.
He bit his lip. “Forgive me, I had no idea she would do that. But you aren’t supposed to be having fun anyway, remember?”
“I assure you, I am not having fun,” I lied, forcing down a smile.
When we reached the foot of the hill, Peter dismounted first. Summer stopped beside him, and he grasped her reins with one hand, holding her still while I dismounted, and offering his other hand to me for support.
“Where are we?” I asked slowly as I dropped to the soft earth dotted with emerald green bushes.
“A far field.” Peter motioned to the groom behind us, who was unlatching two large woven baskets from his horse. “For berry picking. Cook needs two basketfuls to make birthday pies for Mr. Gregory, the butler. Unfortunately, with the house party, no one has had time for the picking. So here we are.”
Could Peter see the surprise I felt upon realizing that his intentions had indeed been charitable?
Upon closer observation, the bushes around us sagged with blackberries. Just as we’d had at my childhood home in Kent. My stomach rumbled.
“I imagine you will be very miserable,” Peter said, his voice almost a question, handing me a basket. “The bushes are thorny, so—”