“I have experience.” I pulled off my gloves without a second thought, reaching into a bush and plucking a plump, ripened berry. I had no need to observe strict propriety out here with only Peter as my companion. His opinion mattered less to me than that of the groom. I popped the berry into my mouth, the tart juice tickling my tongue, and immediately wanted more.
Peter went to work beside me, filling his own basket. For every half dozen berries I picked, I popped another in my mouth. I could not resist.
“If you don’t start filling your basket instead of your stomach, we shall be here all day,” Peter called from a few bushes down, but I pretended not to hear him. Instead, I sat down in a comfortable, grassy spot at the base of the bush. My basket was fairly full, and my stomach was heavy. Leaning back on my palms, I looked up at the bright blue sky dotted with a few pillowy clouds. Relaxed, I closed my eyes and breathed in fresh air. I let the sun wash over my eyelids, brightening my muted vision with red, and reclined further onto my elbows.
“You are decidedly the worst berry-picker I have ever met,” Peter said, much closer than I thought him to be.
My eyes popped open. “Do you meet many? Up there with all your money and prospects?” I withheld a grin.
“Ha ha,” he said, frowning half-heartedly. “You are one to talk. The daughter of a baron.”
“Stepdaughter. And I see little to none of his money,” I said, willing my nerves to remain unaffected by Peter’s nearness.
“He gave you a Season, did he not?”
“I am nineteen, and this was my first.”
“Oh.” Peter cleared his throat. “Did you . . . meet anyone in particular?”
I cast him a glance, before facing the warm sunlight again. Had I even met a dozen different men? Danced more than half a dozen times? “Hardly.”
Peter said nothing for a few moments, finishing filling his basket with berries. Then he pulled my basket toward him. I sighed as my guilt compelled me to join him.
“Back for more?” he teased, reaching deeper into the bush beside mine.
I licked my fingers and squinted angrily at him, plucking a few berries for the basket.
“Ouch.” Peter recoiled, drawing back his hand.
“Do be careful, Peter,” I said lazily through another bite.
He grumbled, eyeing his palm. A thorn.
“Is it stuck?” I straightened, moving closer beside him.
“Quite.”
“Here, let me see.” I reached for his hand, but he hesitated. “Trust me.”
Peter extended his hand, and I took it in mine, surprised by the roughness of his fingers. I bent over his palm, carefully searching for the source of his pain.
“There. Look away, and you won’t expect it.” I smiled, thinking of how often I had fixed Clara’s ailments. Much more often than our mother had.
Peter looked heavenward, and, holding my breath, I pinched the thorn, which was larger and more deeply set than I’d first thought. He grunted, and I quickly kissed the spot, only realizing what I’d done when he froze.
My wide eyes met his, which were taken aback, and my neck and cheeks burned. This was Peter, not Clara. And he did not require a kiss to seal his wound.
“Pardon me.” I cleared my throat, shaking my head as I turned away from him. “Usually when Clara . . . I was not thinking.”
He chuckled and continued his harvest. “I appreciate the added touch, nonetheless. I’m quite healed, thank you.”
Had I actually just kissed his hand? This had to be a terrible dream. I squeezed my eyes shut, groaning internally. I could never look at Peter again.
After what seemed like an eternity, I picked my bush clean, and together we filled my basket.
“Have you lost your appetite?” he asked when I stood. I willed myself to look at him despite my growing embarrassment. Why had I been so impulsive? “Would it help if I kissed your hand before we go?” he said. “Even things up?”
I furrowed my brow at his wicked grin. “You know I was thinking of Clara. Please do not tease me so.”
“Were you? Then I swear I shall think of Georgiana the whole time.” He tried to wipe away his smile and waited beside me.
I sucked in a breath, pushing my basket into his chest and heading off toward Summer. Except she was not there. A new, taller horse stood in her stead, and I wondered where she’d been taken. Was something wrong with her?
“Wait,” he called, catching up. “I am sorry. Here, have another blackberry.”
I took the berry from his outstretched palm as meekly as I could, then turned and threw it right at his perfectly straight nose.
He said nothing as I walked away, but his infuriating chuckle followed behind me.
He’d had his afternoon. And I was quite miserable after all.
Chapter Eight
When the house finally came back into view, Sir Ronald’s carriage sat at its front. We’d been gone longer than I expected. Since I’d stubbornly refused to engage Peter in conversation during our return journey, he took it upon himself to detail his recent investments and upcoming tenant house expansion. As much as I tried to be annoyed by him, I found his business well thought out and intelligent. I kept that thought to myself.
I left Peter in the stables, all but running toward the house to find Clara.
She was not in the drawing room, where I found Mr. Bratten and the Turnballs in lazy conversation at the window. Nor in the library, where Lieutenant Rawles paced the shelves. Georgiana and Sir Ronald were nowhere to be found either. Perhaps they’d stayed behind in town? Peter’s voice carried from the entryway, and I snuck up the marble stairs to my right, heading for my bedchamber. A muffled cry startled me as I burst through the door.
“Clara?” I ran to her and knelt down by her bed. “What is wrong, my darling?” Had Sir Ronald refused her already?
“Oh, Amelia.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “It was awful.”
“Tell me at once,” I pleaded, sitting beside her on the bed and pulling her hands into mine.
Clara shook her head, holding my hands tightly. “She was on his arm all afternoon, making him laugh with old memories. I tried to interject, but she belittled me at every turn. My adorably antique dress, how easily excitable I am, what a great complexion I have for mourning colors.”
“How dare she—” I started, but Clara shook her head.
“Georgiana’s words were so painted in sugar, Sir Ronald did not catch her true meaning, but I did. She made it perfectly clear that I do not belong with him.” Clara buried her face in her hands. “I’ve been so ridiculous, Amelia. So foolish. How could he ever love me? I am nothing compared to her. You should’ve seen them together. I do not know what I am doing here.”