Peter was… steady. She could see why people spoke so highly of him. He was kind and steadfast. If you were in his circle, then you would be safe. Somehow, she’d become part of his circle, though she had no idea why. Her entire world was topsy-turvy, and she’d found herself craving his presence and the way she felt grounded when she was around him. Once her typecase had provided security, now he was a reliable source of it.
“Dash it.” She sighed, putting down Baskerville and going to the kitchen to make the cat dinner. She took a bowl from the kitchen sink. “I do not know what to do,” she said as she pulled flesh from the fish bones.
She shook herself. She knew very well what she had to do. She needed to finish packing. She was due to move in four days and it would take at least that long to finish sorting her things and sell that which she could not take.
She placed the food bowl on the floor and topped up the drinking water.
Neither man could be her priority at this moment. If her mind was to wander anywhere, it should be to what on God’s earth she was going to do next. The only certainty she’d reached was that she should work for herself. Never again did she want her fate to rest in the hands of an employer, not even one as nice as Sophie.
She washed and dried her hands. She should tackle her collection of fonts. They were stacked as neatly as they could be in three columns, each reaching her waist.
She stood in front of them with her hands on her hips and scowled. “I don’t know what to do.” Just last night, she’d come to terms with the need to sell them—for pennies probably, nowthat they were more or less obsolete. But there was something about Peter’s idea earlier that had caught, like one of Baskerville’s claws on raw silk. It was not a desire to set type for advertisements, or even design them, butsomethingwas telling her that selling these fonts would be a bad idea.
Peter had expanded her thinking. It was not fair to think the Captain was the only one who could do so. Their conversation today had opened up a whole new future of possibilities. And it was not fair to the Captain to act as though Peter was the only one who provided a sense of safety. When her world had started crumbling and she’d had no one else to talk to,hehad been steady.Hehad been secure.
Peter had a work ethic that matched hers. The Captain shared her passion for story.
“Ugh.” She shook out her hands and forced her attention back to the task in front of her. She couldn’t decide which fonts to keep and that was what rankled. Until she knew what her mind had snagged on, how could she make those choices?
How could she make any choices?Peter. The Captain. Peter.Her feelings for them had also tangled and caught.
Baskerville rubbed against her skirts, potentially sensing her irritation. She kneeled to scratch his chin, and he pressed his cheek into her hand. “I know, kitten. This train of thought is not helpful. I must put both men aside. I have more important things to consider.”
If she couldn’t make progress with her fonts, she would tackle the last of her loves. Putting it off was no longer an option. With a sigh, she opened her wardrobe. It was overfull. It had been overfull for a decade, but that was because each piece was beautiful and even if it was no longer in fashion, or it now fit too snugly, that didn’t mean that it no longer had value.
The dresses had been arranged by color—a rainbow of silks and satins and lace. Those that were too small to be worn should go first. That made sense, even if she didn’t like it. One by one, she pulled them from the wardrobe and laid them across the font boxes, where Baskerville could not cover them with his fur.
The Captain understood her love for beautiful things. He’d sent her a profusion of colorful flowers. Peter had brought her peonies. The most delicate of the petals were now pressed between leaves of blotting paper, inside the cover ofEmma, with a dozen books stacked on top. She wanted to preserve the soft wash of pink, which stirred the memory of his lips. The memory of his lips led to the memory of their kiss. If she was being honest with herself, that memory was why the peonies were being pressed. It had little to do with their color or the pleasure she’d drawn from arranging the petals and leaves to reflect the shape of the flowers themselves. It was the feeling she’d had when he’d given them to her that she wanted to capture.
Kissing Peter had made her entire body want to melt. It had caused every nerve to tingle. It had warmed her core and filled her senses. Just the thought of it was enough to stir a desire deep within.
She had yet to pack her percussor. It was still beneath the pillow on her bed. That was clearly the solution to this building tension.
Maybe kissing the Captain would feel just as intoxicating. How could she know unless she tried it? She certainly couldn’t make an accurate comparison without the right data.
“Ugh. I do not know what todo.”
From the center of the bed, Baskerville purred. He’d pulled at the bedding until it resembled a nest. There was no chancethat he’d go easily into a crate and his displeasure would only double when he realized that the home he’d always known had been replaced by a room only a third of the size. “Me too, kitten,” she said, hands on her hips. “Me too.”
There was an empty trunk by the door. Coincidentally, on top of it was a half-read book and a half-drunk bottle of gin, and another small bottle, the cordial with unidentifiable origin. She’d been sensible all week, refraining from liquor in order to pack efficiently, but surely a drink tonight was excusable. It had been a full day and maybe a break, a book, and gin were what her mind needed to settle.
With boxes everywhere and items still to pack covering most surfaces, in front of the door looked like the best spot to sit. She poured a generous amount from each bottle into a glass, plucked the book from the trunk, and then sank to the floor. She leaned against the wood, her skirts tucked underneath her. She slid a nail beside the ribbon that marked her page and tried to focus on the story.
Both men cared for her. That was clear.
Both men had hurt her, but both had made sincere efforts to make up for that hurt.
Neither hadexplicitlysaid that they wanted a future with her. In fact, she couldn’t see how that would be possible with either, and maybe they both knew it. She’d somehow forgotten that, in addition to being a man she’d kissed and would like to kiss again, Peter was also a duke. She was about to move into a women’s boardinghouse. They did not have a future.
And the Captain had not met her when they’d planned. He’d said nothing since about taking their written friendship into the real world. She was foolish to think he wanted to when all the evidence pointed to the contrary.
Here she was, trying to choose between two men when there was likely not a choice to make at all. Her head thunked against the wooden door. “I am being a fool, Baskerville. My attention should be entirely dedicated to solving the conundrum that is my future.” Neither the Captain nor Peter was it. Besides, her present was a shambles because her past had given away its autonomy to employers, even if she hadn’t realized it. Her present was not about to put her future into the hands of a man, no matter how lovely the future would be with either—both—of them in it.
Both would be lovely. It was unconscionable that she was forced to make a choice. If they could be one and the same, then she would not have to choose between two men who both made her happy in different ways. She could have the man who spoke to her mind and the man who spoke to her body. This dilemma was proof that soulmates didn’t exist, because her soulmate would encompass both of them.
She stretched to the side, trying to work out the kinks that all this overthinking had caused.Focus.Baskerville meowed. She looked at him; she looked at the pile of colored silk; she looked at the book in her lap. She’d sold her other two editions of this novel to Charly. Sigh. She gulped down another mouthful of terrible, sickly-sweet gin. Her skirt was well creased by now. She should have changed as soon as she’d gotten home.
She located the point on the page where she’d left off at last time and tried to read. Her eyes slipped to Baskerville, who was looking at her expectantly, as though he could see an answer she couldn’t. She looked at the dresses that needed to be bundled up and the fonts that needed to be put in a trunk, and then took another gulp of her drink. Surely, she had done enough for the evening?
