“You must work on your arm, Clara, if you plan to marry a countryman,” I teased.
“Hush. I am merely encouraging the fish to swim closer to land. For visual purposes.”
Mr. Beckett laughed politely beside us, filling our hands again and again as we ventured around the perimeter of the pond. The fish bubbled up to the surface of the water, flicking their tails as they fought for a bite.
We spent the afternoon along the bank watching the fish until Mr. Beckett’s bag was empty and the water stilled. Birds chirped in the trees, dipping down to steal worms and bugs from the earth. Being with Clara like this reminded me of Father. I could almost believe he would pull up on his steed, fishing poles in hand, and join us on our afternoon adventures.
Nothing about Brighton reminded me of Father or Mother. Brighton was filled with sickness and chaos. A house that had never been a home. A shell of a life that kept us living.
Sitting beside Clara, I considered telling her about Lord Gray, to share the burden of his inevitable death and of my plan to save us with Mr. Pendleton. Would she be angry with me for keeping these secrets? If all went as planned and Sir Ronald declared himself, none of it would matter to her anyway.
Clara watched the clouds pass by slowly in the sky, her gaze contemplative and serene. I studied the curve of her nose, the blue in her eyes, and the soft, natural curls that framed her face. My little sister. She deserved the world.
“I love him,” Clara said softly, arms around her knees. “I love him, Amelia.”
“I know you do.” I pulled her close, kissing her hair. “And he’s a fool if he does not love you back.”
That night, we gathered in the drawing room, and Beatrice played the pianoforte while we waited for the men to descend for dinner. Lieutenant Rawles was first to enter, then Mr. Bratten, followed shortly by Sir Ronald, who walked straight to Clara, beaming to tell her the news of the exhibition.
“The fencing was incredible. You would not believe how fast their footwork was, how powerful their swordsmanship.”
Clara matched his enthusiasm with ease. I left them alone on the window seat, watching the door.
Where was Peter? And why was I looking for him? His was the only company I should not be seeking. The afternoon was long past, which meant I owed him none of my time, but still my thoughts were filled with nothing but him.
I smoothed my skirts as I paced the room, feeling my hair for any loose pins. Last evening had been different. His attention felt personal and more ... meaningful. What exactly had he meant by that phrase “all is more bright”?
Just then, Lady Demsworth stood. “Good, we are all here. Shall we, Ronald?”
I looked to the door and found Peter’s eyes waiting for mine, curious and warm. Crossing the room, he bowed to me, offering his arm. “Might I escort you in, Miss Moore?”
I bit back a smile, remembering our conversation about trying to be honorable. Perhaps Peter had taken it a touch too seriously. “Why, thank you, Mr. Wood. How dashing you are this evening.”
His grin grew full then, on the brink of laughter. “If I’d known good manners granted me your flattery, I would have long since abandoned my ill repute.”
I took his arm and freed my smile, acutely aware of Peter tightening his hold and slowing our steps behind the others. My heart was much too happy to be near him, thrashing around in my chest like a long-abandoned puppy.
Dinner was casual and brief, though at one point, Beatrice giggled so hard at Mr. Bratten’s reenactment of a winning fencing blow, she tipped her cup over, spilling her drink over my dress. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice, and I patted down the worst of it with a linen napkin.
We finished eating, and as Lady Demsworth rose to lead the ladies to the drawing room, I snuck away to my bedchamber to change. As I turned up the stairs, I heard Sir Ronald ask the gentlemen if they minded skipping port.
Mary helped me change into a pink evening gown, and I quickly returned to the drawing room.
Lady Demsworth and Mrs. Turnball greeted me as I entered. The rest of our company was clustered together in the back corner around a small table and two chairs. The men stood on one side and the ladies on the other, and they appeared to be rivaling teams. Laughter filled the air.
“Miss Moore!” Beatrice broke away and grasped my arm, pulling me to the table. “Thank goodness, we need you.”
“Amelia!” Clara clapped her hands. “We’ve found her. Gentlemen, we have one more player.”
“Who are we missing?” Mr. Bratten eagerly searched the faces of the men.
“Wood,” Sir Ronald announced loudly, and everyone craned their necks to look for him.
“Yes?” Peter looked up lazily from his seat near the hearth, book in hand. He looked warm and comfortable, and I’d have much preferred to join him there instead of playing whatever game I was now caught in the middle of. Peter’s eyes met mine, and he closed his book, standing.
“We need you,” Lieutenant Rawles called as Peter strode toward us.
“We’re at a standoff,” Sir Ronald added.
