“What?” Peter’s voice was shocked. “What did she mean?”
I turned to face him, to explain. “She knew Lord Gray, before my father. They were secretly in love in their youth.”
Peter’s eyes grew wide.
“Lord Gray’s family had a summer home in Kent, like Mama’s. But he’d been away on a tour of the Continent. The night of the ball was the very day Lord Gray was set to return home. They made plans to find each other. But when he did not attend, Mama’s heart was shattered. And so she entertained my father. But Lord Gray did attend the ball; he arrived just in time to witness the kiss on the veranda. His heart was equally broken, but his pride even more so. When everything came to light, he would not save her from ruin.”
I picked at my fingernails. “My mother claims my father kissed her without her consent. My father, on the other hand, claimed the kiss was mutual and that the evening was like a story in a book. I used to long to have a romance like theirs, to meet a man and fall so instantly, madly, in love.”
I shook my head at the thought. Love was not something that came in a day or a week, perhaps not even a year. And if it did come, one could never be sure it would last.
“But now I see it was all a facade. My mother’s heart always belonged to Lord Gray. When at last they married all those years later, it was like an entirely new person overtook her body, and I hardly recognized the woman I knew. She was giddy and distracted. She threw parties and hosted lavish dinners. Lord Gray called it his second chance, but he’s hated Clara and me ever since my mother died. He once told me that Clara and I are the only part of his life that should never have been.”
Peter’s voice was low, fierce. “He is an utter cad, Lord Gray. I should duel him for that.”
“Duel a dying man? At least challenge someone who can put up a fight for me.”
“The next man who looks at you wrong is mine,” Peter said, squinting playfully, before softening his voice and dropping his smile. “Is this—your father—the reason you do not believe in love?”
Peter was too perceptive. “I suppose so, yes. If there is anything I learned from my parents’ story, it is that love is the greatest risk a person can take. And I simply cannot indulge chance.” Not with so much at stake.
Peter leaned toward me, willing me to hear him, to believe his words. “Love is not a risk, Amelia. Love is an inevitable outcome of living. And sometimes it does not make any practical sense at all. But that does not mean we should fear it.”
His warm eyes held me there, pulling me closer to him. How was it that Peter could evoke such emotion from me with only words? For all his charm, it was his heart that appealed to me most. I wanted his secrets, all of them, for myself.
“That is a beautiful sentiment,” I replied, and he seemed satisfied. I wished I could believe him. I wanted to be brave. “Your turn. Same question.”
“Ah, fair enough.” Peter took a deep breath and hesitated. “It isn’t exactly for gentle ears.”
I gestured to the horses in the stall with us. “I think you are safe here.”
Peter rubbed his eyes, grimacing. “All right. I’ll just . . . get it out then. I have told no one this, not even Georgiana, so I appreciate your discretion.”
“Of course,” I said. What could Peter have to disclose? Surely it was no worse than what I had just offered.
He shifted in his spot, turning toward me. “My mother . . . perhaps you have guessed. She is not exactly well. It is more of a sickness of the mind than a physical illness.” He looked to me, sadness in his eyes.
“When my father died, I rowed at her. On and on and on. I blamed her for his heart attack. She had caused it, I was sure, from her constant bickering at him about his dress, his habits, his expressions . . . nothing was ever good enough for her.” Peter’s shoulders sunk, and I ached for his weary heart. His parents. For the burden he carried. “I told her he’d worked himself to death trying to please her, to build enough wealth to satiate her, and make our life appealing so she would stay. We barely had him home long enough for a conversation some weeks.
“But of course she rowed back, blaming everything and anyone but herself. I can’t remember ever seeing her so angry and terrified all at once.” He shook his head. “She did not even cry.” He paused. “I have not seen nor spoken to my mother since. It has been almost a year. And it’s not that any of it was untrue to say. Only, perhaps some things are better left unsaid.”
Peter stared at his hands, lost. How had I never seen this wounded side of him? Bruised and tormented like my own? Without thinking, I reached out to him, my fingers grazing his, and he took my hand, locking us together.
“I’m sorry, Peter. That sounds very unfair,” I managed softly, captivated by the warmth of his hand on mine.
“Yes, well. I think unfairness in life is something we have in common, do we not?” He thumbed my fingers, igniting a blaze in my chest. How was this the same Peter I’d met days ago? My enemy and the single most irritating man in existence? Something was changing between us, like a cloud evaporating under the sun.
Winter twitched in his sleep, and Summer looked over her shoulder, quickly satisfied that all was well. But a scraping of wood on stone startled her, and a melody of voices filled the room.
“She’s over here,” Sir Ronald said loudly.
“What handsome stables, Sir Ronald.” Beatrice praised. Most likely paired with Mr. Bratten.
Releasing Peter’s hand, I stood, snatched my gloves from their perch, and dusted off my skirts. He rose and opened the door more fully to greet them.
“Wood, there you are. We’ve been wondering after you,” Sir Ronald said, examining the stall door. “Good. Beckett’s fixed the latch here.”
Winter woke, and though I tried to calm him back into slumber, his curiosity got the better of him. Summer tensed but allowed him to hobble toward the door near her. Georgiana approached him first, taking off her gloves and fingering his mane. Then Beatrice, followed by Clara, took turns admiring him under the watchful eye of Summer.
“And Miss Moore as well, I see.” Georgiana eyed her brother pointedly. “Where is the groom?”
“Not far,” Peter said, and I wondered if he truly knew.
Clara reached for my hand, pulling me outside the stables. Part of me wanted to stay with Peter, to continue our conversation, but loyalty to Clara won out. When we were alone and out of earshot, she smiled.
“Alone in the stalls with Mr. Wood? You are dedicated to your task to the risk of propriety.”
“It was an accident, actually. I had no idea he would be here.” An accident resulting in the most real conversation I’d had in years.