I looked to Peter, whose expression was unreadable. He studied me, much like he had last night, only now I felt like he was seeing me for the very first time. I needed to escape, to take a moment to recover.
When Beatrice took my seat on the bench and all eyes were on her, I slipped out through the back door, tiptoeing down the stairs and out into the darkness of night.
Chapter Twenty
Two glowing lanterns lit the veranda. I stole one from its perch, using it to light the stone stairs leading to the darkened expanse in front of me. Sitting on the lowest step, I set the lantern beside me as I took in three deep breaths, clasping my shaking hands together. I focused on the open fields that surrounded the estate, painted black and hilly and lush with crops.
I could not calm my mind, the melody of Father’s song haunting the silence of night. Rubbing my eyes with my palms, I pressed hard against my face as though to eradicate all feeling with sheer will.
“There you are.”
I froze as Peter’s steps stopped beside me.
I watched him settle beside me on the step, torn between the necessity of his absence and longing for him to move closer. “Peter, you should not have followed me.”
“Your music . . .” he said earnestly. “Why did you never tell me you could play so well?”
His voice alone calmed my tensed muscles, easing my fears. “I have played that song no fewer than a thousand times, but put a page of any other music in front of me and I assure you I will disappoint.”
Peter laughed softly, leaning near enough to radiate warmth. We sat together in amiable silence, two friends on a stone step lit by a lantern’s glow.
I gazed up into the golden-spotted sky, so serene and magnificent. And so very far away.
When Peter finally spoke again, his voice was soft, full of compassion. “Tell me what has you so out of sorts.”
I swallowed. How could he know me so well? Were my secrets written so plainly in my countenance? “It is nothing. I am only worried for my sister. I fear I am not doing a very good job at securing a future for her.”
“I do not understand. Why must you be responsible for your sister’s match? Is that not your stepfather’s responsibility? You should be free to live as you wish.”
Should be. Yes, he was right, I should be free. But I was not. This fortnight was about securing our futures, and the surest way to do that was for me to marry Mr. Pendleton. The deed was nearly done. “You cannot possibly understand.” My words were weak, flat.
“Then tell me, and I shall.”
I gave him a half-hearted smile. “My circumstances are not your concern.”
Peter shook his head, his voice low. “What if I want them to be?”
I wanted to reach out to him, to let him wrap his arms around me and fall into his warmth, but as much as my heart ached for it, my mind knew it was neither practical nor sensible to let my emotions take precedence now. Peter did not know how great my needs were. And I could never ask him to work as hard as his father had for his mother. To sacrifice time and memories at home for financial security when he had everything sorted out so perfectly to match his dreams.
I huffed, narrowing my gaze at him, and he drew a deep breath. For once, he did not press me on my silence.
“I have something that might cheer you up.”
He moved the lantern to the step above us, and I saw his face more clearly. Those gentle eyes that smiled into mine. In his hands, he held a small package.
“For you,” Peter said, placing the package between us. “A bit overdue, I’m afraid.”
He looked pleased, almost smug, as I untied the string. Had I ever been given a gift before? Not that I could remember, and certainly not from a gentleman. What had Peter thought to get me? And why? I removed the lid of the box and unfolded the thin paper wrapping.
Gloves. Ivory gloves.
Emotion welled up in my throat, and I swallowed, words eluding me. I looked to Peter, whose smug expression transformed into something new. His eyes were soft, yet serious, and if I hadn’t known him to be so shameless, I’d have almost thought him shy.
“Do you like them?” he asked.
I pulled the gloves out as delicately as though they were made of actual ivory. They were pristine, so bright and smooth. But what shocked me was the mustard pair also sitting inside the box. And the burgundy pair beneath them. Three pairs of new, perfectly sized, beautiful gloves.
“Peter,” I breathed. “This is too much. And far too kind. I cannot—”
“They are for you. I ordered them that first night. After you ran into me outside the drawing room.” Peter’s lips twitched. “I had to track down a retired glove maker, an old friend of the Demsworth family.”
I shook my head, too stunned to speak.
He took the ivory pair from my hands, placing it gently on the stair between us. His eyes met mine with a question, a hesitation, before he took my hand in his, loosening the glove from each of my fingers.
My heart pounded with every soft touch, every tender caress of his fingers on mine. At last, he pulled my gloves free and held out the new ones for me. I pulled them on. A perfect fit.
“How?” I asked incredulously. How had he figured the perfect size without my hands for a fitting?
“You truly share hands with my sister. I stole a pair of her gloves to replicate.”
“Thank you, Peter,” I managed. I hadn’t been allowed new gloves in years. Lord Gray had barely spared the expense for new dresses for the Season.
“Of course,” he replied. “Luckily, you were already here. Otherwise I might have spent the entire fortnight trying to find you.”
“I should confess I’d hoped to never see you again.” I raised my brow at him in jest.
Peter feigned a gasp. “You wound me, Amelia.”
“I am glad you’ve changed my mind on the matter,” I said, before realizing how forward, how flirtatious the words sounded. I bit my tongue, cheeks ablaze. I should not tease Peter. Not anymore.
Peter leaned his elbows back on the step above us. “As am I.”
Fuzziness clouded my thinking. The space between us smelled like the woods mixed with leather and soap. Peter. My deep breath felt like a saving grace; I feared I had stopped breathing altogether. Could it be that Peter cared? That he too felt this tingling, fuzzy pull?
“What are you thinking?” he asked timidly.
I wanted to tell him that I felt it too, that I wanted to spend another afternoon with him, to ask him about his childhood, his adventures, his travels. But I had too many secrets now. No matter what Peter thought of me or how I thought of him, there were too many reasons against us now. My lack of dowry, his family name, and perhaps greatest of all, our sisters’ opposition to each other. Clara especially would despise the connection. I could not create something new with Peter if it meant destroying my relationship with Clara.