“You are enjoying this too much.” Peter’s voice was light and amused. “You are supposed to be miserable.”
I snapped to attention, catching his contagious smile. “I am horribly miserable, don’t you worry.”
“Excellent, then some conversation should increase your misery just enough.”
I moaned. Why must he ruin my comfortable sunshine? Couldn’t we just trudge through our afternoons silently and leave both parties satisfied?
“Do you have any other siblings? Besides Miss Clara?” he asked, as though the question was as intriguing as a hidden chest of treasure.
“I do not. And you?” I asked the question to be polite, before realizing I’d only fueled the conversation.
“It seems we have a commonality. Only Georgiana.” He smiled at me, but I looked away. “And what of your parents? How did they meet?”
“Oh no, you’re a romantic,” I said with a pained expression. He’d be disappointed with Mother and Father’s story, and even more so with Lord Gray’s. Neither was romantic in the least.
Peter straightened. “Perhaps I am. Most women find the sentiment charming.”
“Or unrealistic.” I raised a brow at him, and he tilted his head back in jest.
“Amelia Moore does not believe in love?”
“Amelia Moore believes in practicality and sensibility.”
“Why?” he asked pointedly, defensively.
I thought for a moment, taken aback by his need for an answer. “Because love cannot be trusted. It comes and goes, and those who have it and lose it suffer most acutely.”
I avoided Peter’s gaze, though I felt his stare as he spoke. “But they also live more fully than those who do not open their hearts at all.”
“I would debate you, but I have a feeling neither of us would win.”
Peter chuckled, his eyes lighting up, though he did not press me.
As angry as I was at Peter for all his meddling and coercion, I appreciated the cheerful way he held his opinions. I thought about his words as Summer kept pace with Peter’s steed. What experience did Peter have with love? Any at all? To be so confident that love was a strength was an endearing sentiment, but a foolhardy belief. I’d thought Peter more practical than that.
He continued his questioning. “What is your life like in Brighton? What do you do with your days?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my saddle. He likely thought I spent my days on the shore, meeting tourists and entertaining company. What would he think of me if I told him the truth of my situation? No one knew how we really lived. No one ever asked. But what would it hurt to be honest with him? At the very worst he’d think less of me, and then perhaps he’d be tempted to release me from his company.
I cleared my throat. “I play the pianoforte in the mornings, because that is when Lord Gray bathes in the sea, and it would otherwise disturb him. When he arrives home, I see to his comfort, get him his paper, his cigar, his tea. He expects me to stitch and manage the house while he rests. If I am lucky enough for a bit of leisure, I like to read or walk along the shore with Clara.”
“I imagine you meet many people there.” He stared ahead, and a wave of self-consciousness blew through me. I’d been right. His opinion of me changed in an instant.
“No, actually. We rarely take visitors at Gray House. Though it is fun to watch the beachgoers and imagine their lives and where they are from.”
“Careful, Amelia. That is a very romantic sentiment.” Peter gave me a half-smile, which I did not return.
“Hardly. What about you? What do you do with all of your leisure?”
“All of my leisure?” He coughed. “You think I mull around taking tea and making calls to all the eligible ladies in Hampshire?”
I imagined Peter with his pinky in the air and suppressed a grin.
“Not that you care, as my money is of little consequence to your highbrow.” He sat straighter in his saddle. “But I do have a decent holding, and I manage my tenants and see to their needs. When I am not seeing to the estate, Georgiana is on my heels with a notion or need that she cannot live without and so I see to that as well.”
Turning my head away, I pursed my lips. I did not believe for a second that Peter had any idea what Georgiana could or could not live without. Perhaps he required as much extravagance as she did.
“I know you think I overindulge her.” Peter’s voice had softened, and I met his eyes, surprised at how kind and almost sad they seemed. “But she is my greatest friend. Her happiness means the world to me. What she has suffered from our mother’s lack of care, I try to make up for her now. But you may judge me as you wish.”
