“I want to leave,” Clara said, dabbing her face with her cloth. “But wherever shall we go, Amelia? We have nothing . . . nowhere . . .”
My heart fell, my thoughts instantly turning to Peter.
He loved me.
He loved me.
But he had not asked for my hand. And even if he had, how could I accept him now?
I could never have Peter. Not like this. Not after Georgiana simultaneously sealed Sir Ronald’s fate and broke Clara’s heart. The pain a match with Peter would cause Clara would be too great.
There was only one thing I was certain of, only one thing left for me to do.
“I will write to Mr. Pendleton. He is expecting us.” I kissed Clara’s head.
“You shall have to marry him.” Clara’s voice was flat and certain. “Forgive me, sister, for everything I said against you. Where would we be without your practicality?”
I winced at the word, one I’d so often used against Peter. For once in my life, I could not agree. Practicality had wounded me greatly. And I would never recover. “I am only grateful his need matches ours.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Lady Demsworth quickly stepped in. “Ladies. I hardly know what to say, or where to begin. I must offer my sincerest apologies for Miss Wood’s behavior tonight. We have all been quite caught off guard.”
“Did she act on her own?” I asked as Clara wiped her eyes, sniffing.
“Oh, yes.” Lady Demsworth knelt beside us, more casually than I’d ever expected she could. “Miss Wood’s actions were a shock to us all. But I shall not trouble you with what you already know.”
“We were unaware of the circumstances, actually.” I cleared my throat. “Your clarification would be most welcome.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Demsworth pressed her hand to her chest. “It pains me to think of the hurt this has caused you both. What can I do? Mrs. Levin has no rooms here, and I hate to think you are uncomfortable now in our home, but I insist you return so I may take care of you until you leave us. You must trust that I will not allow any discomfort to come upon you. I will keep every guest from your room so you may have the privacy I am sure you desire. I know Ronald will wish to speak with you both.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Mr. Wood insisted they leave at once. The three of them took a carriage back with Lieutenant Rawles and Mr. Bratten. If you are willing, we shall share a carriage with the Turnballs. As soon as you are ready.”
“I am so embarrassed,” Clara said, wiping her nose.
“No more than I, my dear,” Lady Demsworth said. “You have nothing to be embarrassed of. I know how you cared for him. You have every right to your tears.”
“Shall we go, Clara?” I asked, squeezing her shoulders. “Get you to bed? This will all feel less sharp in the morning.”
“All right,” she said weakly. “Thank you, Lady Dems-worth.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
When we entered the carriage, Beatrice and her mother were already waiting inside, both looking at us as though they’d seen a ghost. Lady Demsworth rapped on the carriage roof, and we rolled away from the ball.
Though Clara’s tears were blanketed in darkness, I could hear her sniffles. I pulled her close, and she leaned her head on my shoulder. This was all my fault. I should have prevented this. Had I not left the ballroom with Peter, I could have seen Georgiana’s intentions and stopped her before she followed through with the kiss.
But what were Sir Ronald’s true intentions? Did he love Clara? Or was he content to be stuck in a forced marriage with Georgiana? As much as I wanted to know, I equally wished we’d never know the truth. How love stung.
And how it changed a person. To be loved by Peter was proving to be the most painful love of all. I shook my head free of the picture of him and rubbed my hands until the feeling of his fingers intertwined with mine faded. I pressed a hand to my middle, trying to hold it all in, but in vain. My tears fell as freely as Clara’s. How could something so perfect, so enlivening, cause such pain and heartache? I would not recover from this love. Peter had a piece of me now.
I stroked Clara’s hair, listening to the quiet whisperings of our company.
“. . . had no cause for rushing. Who could have guessed?” Lady Demsworth said under her breath.
“You are incredibly calm. I could not keep so even a temper were I in your position,” Mrs. Turnball said.
“My hands are still shaking, Julia. I do not know what Mr. Wood expects. Nor what Georgiana intends. And Ronald? If he rejects her, he is ruined.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Turnball paused. “What choice do you have but to remain strong and hold yourself together?”
“I shall try, for his sake.”
Their conversation faded, and I heard Beatrice shift in her seat. I wanted to ask her what she saw, how exactly the aftermath of the kiss had played out. But I could not be sure Clara slept, and I did not wish to wake her in case she did.
Before long, the carriage pulled up along the drive to Lakeshire Park, the windows alight with candles. When we reached the grand staircase, voices carried from the drawing room a few doors down. I hesitated behind Clara.
“I will not leave this room. We shall stay here all night.” Peter’s voice was deep and serious. More firm than I’d ever heard him speak.
“Then let us stay,” Georgiana replied.
What was going on in there? I had half a mind to march in and call out Georgiana for the mess she’d created. But Clara looked back at me with such desperation, and I quickly followed before she too could hear their voices.
“Misses.” Mary opened the door to our bedchamber, eyes low as she curtseyed. She must have learned what had happened when the others arrived.
She closed the door behind us, quietly assisting Clara in taking off her gown, and then helping me out of mine. Our nightclothes were laid out on top of our beds, a cup of hot tea on our nightstands.
“Thank you, Mary. We will not have any visitors this evening,” I said, pulling Clara’s covers tightly around her.
“Yes, miss. Shall I pack up your things this evening, or wait until morning?”
Our things. Of course. The moment was here, too early, too soon. “The morning will do.”
I crossed to the desk, candle in hand, and pulled out a single sheet of paper, some ink, and a quill. This letter would seal my fate—and break my heart for good. But I had no choice. David was our only hope. “A connection with the Woods would be worse than servitude,” Clara had said. How could I ask her to sacrifice so much for me? Such a bond would break her, if Sir Ronald had not yet broken her entirely already.