I studied his profile and the confident way he presented himself. Whatever his parents had done or not done, Peter carried much of the consequence. And I could not judge him forhowhe carried it. If I had the means to spoil Clara as he did Georgiana, I could not say that I would not do the same.
“Regardless of what I think, you have done well in your care of her,” I offered, and he looked at me questioningly, as though waiting for me to follow my compliment with censure. “I hope the same can be said of Clara, as I feel I have failed her in many ways.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I doubted any woman at the Season had caught Sir Ronald’s attention until you and your sister arrived. Then again, I am surprised he saw her and not you.”
What had he just said? Did he mean to compliment me? The cool breeze brushed against my suddenly hot cheeks. “Save your flattery, Mr. Wood. It is lost on me.”
“Ah, but your blush says otherwise.” Amusement bubbled in his words as he spoke, and I wanted to reach across the space between our horses and shove him straight off. Heavens, he was frustrating.
“Come on, old girl,” I said to Summer in a feeble attempt to abandon Peter once and for all. We were nearing the edge of the hill. I leaned forward, and Summer grunted under my weight. “Am I really putting you out so dearly? I cannot be the heaviest load you’ve carried.”
Though she was maddeningly slow, Summer was by far the sweetest, gentlest mare I’d ever met. She would not even bat a fly from her back. In the process of one ride, I had already grown to adore her.
Peter chided her with a tsk, drawing near to me and slapping Summer’s rump. She pulled forward in a dash, and I lost my balance, recovering only just in time.
“Peter!” I shrieked as he drew even with me. Every vein in my body pulsed with a lively exhilaration.
Peter laughed unabashedly. “I’ve been wondering how to convince you to use my Christian name.”
I swatted the air at him playfully. “Thank heavens your Christian name will not be the last word out of me.” And that no one else was around to have heard my slip.
He bit his lip. “Forgive me, I had no idea she would do that. But you aren’t supposed to be having fun anyway, remember?”
“I assure you, I am not having fun,” I lied, forcing down a smile.
When we reached the foot of the hill, Peter dismounted first. Summer stopped beside him, and he grasped her reins with one hand, holding her still while I dismounted, and offering his other hand to me for support.
“Where are we?” I asked slowly as I dropped to the soft earth dotted with emerald green bushes.
“A far field.” Peter motioned to the groom behind us, who was unlatching two large woven baskets from his horse. “For berry picking. Cook needs two basketfuls to make birthday pies for Mr. Gregory, the butler. Unfortunately, with the house party, no one has had time for the picking. So here we are.”
Could Peter see the surprise I felt upon realizing that his intentions had indeed been charitable?
Upon closer observation, the bushes around us sagged with blackberries. Just as we’d had at my childhood home in Kent. My stomach rumbled.
“I imagine you will be very miserable,” Peter said, his voice almost a question, handing me a basket. “The bushes are thorny, so—”
“I have experience.” I pulled off my gloves without a second thought, reaching into a bush and plucking a plump, ripened berry. I had no need to observe strict propriety out here with only Peter as my companion. His opinion mattered less to me than that of the groom. I popped the berry into my mouth, the tart juice tickling my tongue, and immediately wanted more.
Peter went to work beside me, filling his own basket. For every half dozen berries I picked, I popped another in my mouth. I could not resist.
“If you don’t start filling your basket instead of your stomach, we shall be here all day,” Peter called from a few bushes down, but I pretended not to hear him. Instead, I sat down in a comfortable, grassy spot at the base of the bush. My basket was fairly full, and my stomach was heavy. Leaning back on my palms, I looked up at the bright blue sky dotted with a few pillowy clouds. Relaxed, I closed my eyes and breathed in fresh air. I let the sun wash over my eyelids, brightening my muted vision with red, and reclined further onto my elbows.
“You are decidedly the worst berry-picker I have ever met,” Peter said, much closer than I thought him to be.
My eyes popped open. “Do you meet many? Up there with all your money and prospects?” I withheld a grin.
“Ha ha,” he said, frowning half-heartedly. “You are one to talk. The daughter of a baron.”
“Stepdaughter. And I see little to none of his money,” I said, willing my nerves to remain unaffected by Peter’s nearness.
“He gave you a Season, did he not?”
“I am nineteen, and this was my first.”
“Oh.” Peter cleared his throat. “Did you ... meet anyone in particular?”
I cast him a glance, before facing the warm sunlight again. Had I even met a dozen different men? Danced more than half a dozen times? “Hardly.”
