My Peter.The countess obviously doted on her grown children as well.
“He taught me how to drive.” The words tumbled past Miranda’s lips before she could consider them. “We are friends.”
“I’d anticipated that he’d lock himself away with his cello until the moment he had to leave London, and yet he did not. In fact, he hardly practiced at all that week.” Lady Ravensdale wasn’t criticizing, but she seemed to be fishing for information.
“I had the music room all to myself,” offered Rose, whom Miranda had learned played the pianoforte. “So very unlike him.”
“He wasn’t all sensitive and broody, either, like he was before the audition,” Natalie said.
Miranda swallowed hard. She could hardly confess to spending most of that time alone with him, nor could she tell them half of what they’d been up to.
Or that she missed him even more than she’d expected and craved to hear how he was faring in Brighton.
Miranda forcibly tamped down all the questions she wanted to ask about him. About his childhood, what he’d been like growing up… And although both his sister and his mother were fair-haired, Miranda recognized similarities in their features and some of their gestures.
Lady Ravensdale reached inside of one of her sleeves and withdrew a folded sheet of parchment. “He’s written already. I hadn’t expected to hear from him so soon.”
“What does he say? Is Sir Bickford-Crowden the dragon Peter thought he would be?” Natalie leaned forward.
Peter.
“He says the schedule is rigorous. But assures me he is eating sufficiently.” His mother donned a pair of spectacles and settled them onto her nose. “And oddly enough…” She stared over the glasses at Miranda. “He requested that I ensure this was delivered to you.”
Miranda wondered if they could actually hear her heart beating as she reached out with a shaking hand to accept the envelope. The younger ladies’ eyes had widened in surprise—accompanied by a healthy dose of curiosity.
Miranda would not attempt to read the missive in their presence, despite the thousands of questions behind the three pairs of eyes gazing at her.
“Thank you.” Her voice shook as she tucked it into her own sleeve and rose. “And thank you for tea.” She knew they were hoping for some sort of explanation and part of her wanted to strangle Peter for putting her in this position.
At the same time, she was dying to read what he’d written. Did he wish to dissolve the bargain he’d made? Had he met someone else?
But the memory of that last night together haunted her.
He loved her. He’d told her over and over again.
And then he’d shown her.
By the time she was home, she could barely contain herself and, after handing off her hat and reticule, locked herself in her favorite drawing room and rushed to the window, throwing open the curtains and flooding the room with the late afternoon sunlight.
She broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and nearly swooned when she caught a whiff of his scent. Leather, spice, wood, and lemon oil.
Dear Miranda,
I failed to obtain directions to your residence but I knew my mother would ensure you received this. Stop glaring, sweetheart. She guessed I had feelings for you the morning after our ‘walk’ through the garden.
And yes, in case you were wondering, my feelings have not changed. Feelings I never expected or comprehended. You’ve invaded my heart with your smile and the memory of pleasuring you tortures me at night.
I know you believed my proposal an impulsive one, but I meant it with all my heart. I still mean it. And if at any time you decide you are ready, all you need do is send word. Send word anyway. Tell me what you are doing—what you are thinking—what you had for breakfast and the color of gown you wear each day. I am starved for missing you.
I haven’t time to write more now. Sir Bickford is a ruthless taskmaster, and it sounds as though I’m complaining but he has a good deal of knowledge for me to consume.
I will anxiously await any snippet you are willing to share with me.
All my love and affection,
Yes, Love. ALL my love.
Yours most sincerely,
