I wanted to admit that I could relate, that I too felt confused and incapable of staying afloat since we arrived. What were we doing here? And what had I been thinking, dealing with a man like Peter Wood? Inept as I was at socializing, I’d sentenced myself to a fortnight of misery in Peter’s company. He was proving more intelligent and clever than I first assumed. Huffing, I shook my head. Why had I kissed his hand? Talk about foolish. He’d never take me seriously now. Instead of posing a threat, I’d made Clara and myself a joke.
But feeling sorry for ourselves would not fix our problems. The truth was we were different from this company. We had neither wealth nor social experience, with hardly enough refinement to suit an average gentleman, let alone a baronet. And yet we were here. Why? Sir Ronald must’ve had a motive to invite us. And unless I was truly daft, that motive was to court Clara. She could not give up.
“You are neither ridiculous nor foolish, Clara. In fact, you are the most intelligent, kind woman I know.” I pulled her to my shoulder, kissing her head. “And you underestimate your hold on Sir Ronald by miles. He adores you. We need only give him more time to address his feelings.”
“They are friends. Close friends. She knows more about him than I—”
“And? Where is the rule that states one must marry a childhood friend?”
Clara stifled a laugh, lifting her head from my shoulder. “Do you believe he cares for me, then?”
“Very much,” I said with fervor. “And Georgiana must see it too if she worked so hard to steal him from you this afternoon.”
“What shall I do, Amelia?”
Her voice was soft, afraid, so I strengthened mine.
“We shall have to help him see what he is lacking.”
Mary helped Clara into her salmon-colored silk evening dress, which Lord Gray had fumed over for a week when he learned its cost, and I rosied Clara’s cheeks and lips with the slightest touch of Liquid Bloom of Roses. Simple, but elegant. Her appearance alone was sure to catch Sir Ronald’s attention tonight.
In accordance with my plan, we were the last to arrive for dinner. Clara offered Sir Ronald only a small smile and brief nod as we entered the candlelit drawing room, and we crossed directly toward Mr. Bratten and Lieutenant Rawles, who received us with enthusiasm. Before we’d had time to finish polite greetings to one another, Lady Demsworth called for dinner, and Mr. Bratten offered his arm to Clara without hesitation. To my grand satisfaction, Lieutenant Rawles escorted me into the dining room behind them. Undoubtedly, Sir Ronald would feel Clara’s absence now.
I tried not to notice Peter, dressed handsomely in an earthy brown jacket, pulling out a chair for Beatrice. His eyes met mine, and I quickly dropped my gaze. But not before catching Sir Ronald’s hesitant glance at Clara.
As I’d hoped, Mr. Bratten set up a card table after dinner, inviting Lieutenant Rawles and me to join him and Clara. The game was uninspiring, but we laughed all the same, teasing each other and praising the winners round after round.
“Three to one,” Lieutenant Rawles declared miserably, though perhaps exaggeratedly, when we lost the final game. “They have slaughtered us, have they not, Miss Moore?”
“They have indeed,” I answered loudly enough for the room to hear. “Clara and Mr. Bratten are quite the pair.”
Mr. Bratten shuffled the cards with enthusiasm. “Your sister is a remarkably skilled player. I am surprised. After our first night here when I witnessed her play, I confess I thought she was the weaker player. But I see now it was Wood all along.”
Smirking, I glanced at Peter, but to my grand irritation, he was lost in his book, sitting alone by the fire, minding his own business for once in his life. Exactly as he’d promised. Could Peter’s word actually be trusted?
“Miss Clara, if I may,” Sir Ronald said, starting toward our table with a half-smile. Clara raised her chin as he approached. “There is a picture I think you’d appreciate in my new book on architecture from the bookshop today. Would you care to see it?”
Clara threw me a glance before smiling shyly at him. “I do love architecture.”
Sir Ronald helped her from the table and directed her to a nearby settee. Mr. Bratten and Lieutenant Rawles began a conversation about whist strategy, but my focus stayed with Clara. She blossomed under Sir Ronald’s attentions.
The entire room seemed to notice them sitting together, sharing their book under the light of a candle. But only I noticed Georgiana stride to Peter, her eyes fuming and determined. I could not hear their conversation, but he rubbed the back of his neck as she whispered fiercely at him, hovering over his chair.
“What do you think, Miss Moore?” Mr. Bratten asked.
“I’m sorry?” I drew my attention back to the men in front of me. They stared at me, waiting for my response. “Forgive me, gentlemen, the only strategy I entertain in gaming is in chess. Perhaps you should start a match. I’d love to watch.”
“Of course.” Mr. Bratten, who apparently never turned down a good game, looked hopefully to Lieutenant Rawles.
“Miss Moore, if you are finished, please come and join us,” Lady Demsworth called from across the room. She and the Turnballs sat near the hearth, close to where Peter had been, though his chair was now empty.
Weighing my options, I decided conversation with Lady Demsworth would better serve Clara’s endeavors than watching a game of chess. I offered my regrets as Lieutenant Rawles pulled out the chessboard and found a seat opposite Georgiana, whose arms were crossed defiantly. She was clearly put out, and I could not blame her. Clara had Sir Ronald’s attention for the night.
“. . . Mr. Turnball was so surprised I said yes, he couldn’t speak for an entire minute. You see, I’d already had seven other offers! He did not think he stood a chance,” Mrs. Turnball concluded, and I tried to piece together her words. What sort of conversation had I walked into?
“Poor man,” Lady Demsworth hid her laugh behind a gloved hand. “His courage proved worthwhile in the end.”
“What about you, Lady Demsworth?” Beatrice asked eagerly. “Surely you had just as many offers of marriage as my mother. However did you choose? Might I ask you to divulge your story as well?”
“Oh, it was not at all interesting, dear. Our marriage was arranged by our parents early on. I am afraid my experience with choosing a partner is lacking.” Lady Demsworth tilted her head as though an idea had just occurred to her. She clasped her hands, smiling as she gazed around the room. “Might I ask for your help with something? All of you?”
“Of course,” Beatrice said seriously, and the rest of us agreed.
Lady Demsworth continued. “Someone to whom I am very close has asked for my help in choosing a marriage partner. Thus far, my advice has yielded no result, and I blame my inexperience. But perhaps with your opinions, I might find the answers I need.”