“No cards for me tonight,” Sir Ronald said to Mr. Bratten, but his eyes found Clara.
I squeezed her hand, and she stood, walking toward him. His happy smile was effortless, and she followed him to the pianoforte.
That was easy enough.
Until Georgiana swooped in, curls bouncing as she placed her hand lightly on Sir Ronald’s arm. Perfectly in the way. How could I get rid of her? I could steal her attention with private conversation like Peter had done with Clara. Ugh, I was no better than he.
“That’s a scowl if I’ve ever seen one,” Peter said, taking Clara’s vacated spot beside me on the settee. “What is wrong?”
Glancing again to Clara, I frowned. Admitting my frustration to Peter would not do, though he knew the feeling as well as I. “Nothing at all.”
Peter traced the path of my gaze. “Georgiana?”
I flicked my eyes to his. He couldn’t truly want me to answer.
His eyes took on a pained expression, like he was torn between paths and didn’t know which to choose. “I am afraid I cannot intervene.”
Clara was lifting sheets of music, while Sir Ronald opened the keys. Was she going to play? Had he asked to hear her?
“Could you not invite her to join us? Just for the evening?”
Peter crossed his arms. “Would you do the same for Georgiana tomorrow?”
“Perhaps if the occasion presented itself.”
“And if it didn’t? Would you remove Clara just for the sake of creating time for Georgiana?”
I could barely entertain the idea. “No. I would not.”
“You have my answer.”
I sighed, neither angry nor content. I understood him completely, actually. Peter, who I’d once thought to be the greatest schemer of all, was more of an honest player than I.
“You were quiet at dinner,” I said. In truth, he had hardly spoken two words of conversation.
Peter shifted his knees toward me, relaxing. “I am exhausted from chasing after you all day.”
I chose to ignore his baiting, for surely he only sought to aggravate me. “You should go to bed,” I said matter-of-factly, and he smiled.
“If I did, then how would you bear to be without me tomorrow? I shall be gone all day at the fencing exhibition.” He raised his chin, and his eyes brightened. “You will owe me an extra afternoon for missing tomorrow.”
Did Peter truly care to missone? I turned my shoulder, facing him. “We made no arrangements for such a circumstance. You lose your afternoon by choice.”
Peter pursed his lips playfully, leaning his elbow alongside the back of the settee and resting his head on his hand lazily. “That is mean.”
I grinned at his displeasure. “It is fair. You look like you could fall asleep. Go to bed this instant.”
“You shall have to take me. I am too tired to climb the stairs alone.” He leaned in, a smug smile on his lips.
“Peter Wood,” I chided, pinching his arm. “Where is your honor?”
“I have none. But you keep insisting that I acquire it.”
“Why do you say that so often? It is very derogatory to claim one has no honor. Surely it is untrue.”
My question seemed to sober him, as he took a deep breath and rubbed his face with his palm. “What does it even mean to be honorable? I think it is ridiculous to claim a word that no one in his right mind can live up to.”
How could I refute that? No person was perfect, nor would they ever be. Yet many claimed the word. “I suppose it means you are trying, and succeeding more often than not. Do you have principles? Are you virtuous? When one is honest, trustworthy, loyal, and acts with compassion, then I think the word is deserved.”
