Peter shook his head, his voice low. “What if I want them to be?”
I wanted to reach out to him, to let him wrap his arms around me and fall into his warmth, but as much as my heart ached for it, my mind knew it was neither practical nor sensible to let my emotions take precedence now. Peter did not know how great my needs were. And I could never ask him to work as hard as his father had for his mother. To sacrifice time and memories at home for financial security when he had everything sorted out so perfectly to match his dreams.
I huffed, narrowing my gaze at him, and he drew a deep breath. For once, he did not press me on my silence.
“I have something that might cheer you up.”
He moved the lantern to the step above us, and I saw his face more clearly. Those gentle eyes that smiled into mine. In his hands, he held a small package.
“For you,” Peter said, placing the package between us. “A bit overdue, I’m afraid.”
He looked pleased, almost smug, as I untied the string. Had I ever been given a gift before? Not that I could remember, and certainly not from a gentleman. What had Peter thought to get me? And why? I removed the lid of the box and unfolded the thin paper wrapping.
Gloves. Ivory gloves.
Emotion welled up in my throat, and I swallowed, words eluding me. I looked to Peter, whose smug expression transformed into something new. His eyes were soft, yet serious, and if I hadn’t known him to be so shameless, I’d have almost thought him shy.
“Do you like them?” he asked.
I pulled the gloves out as delicately as though they were made of actual ivory. They were pristine, so bright and smooth. But what shocked me was the mustard pair also sitting inside the box. And the burgundy pair beneath them. Three pairs of new, perfectly sized, beautiful gloves.
“Peter,” I breathed. “This is too much. And far too kind. I cannot—”
“They are for you. I ordered them that first night. After you ran into me outside the drawing room.” Peter’s lips twitched. “I had to track down a retired glove maker, an old friend of the Demsworth family.”
I shook my head, too stunned to speak.
He took the ivory pair from my hands, placing it gently on the stair between us. His eyes met mine with a question, a hesitation, before he took my hand in his, loosening the glove from each of my fingers.
My heart pounded with every soft touch, every tender caress of his fingers on mine. At last, he pulled my gloves free and held out the new ones for me. I pulled them on. A perfect fit.
“How?” I asked incredulously. How had he figured the perfect size without my hands for a fitting?
“You truly share hands with my sister. I stole a pair of her gloves to replicate.”
“Thank you, Peter,” I managed. I hadn’t been allowed new gloves in years. Lord Gray had barely spared the expense for new dresses for the Season.
“Of course,” he replied. “Luckily, you were already here. Otherwise I might have spent the entire fortnight trying to find you.”
“I should confess I’d hoped to never see you again.” I raised my brow at him in jest.
Peter feigned a gasp. “You wound me, Amelia.”
“I am glad you’ve changed my mind on the matter,” I said, before realizing how forward, how flirtatious the words sounded. I bit my tongue, cheeks ablaze. I should not tease Peter. Not anymore.
Peter leaned his elbows back on the step above us. “As am I.”
Fuzziness clouded my thinking. The space between us smelled like the woods mixed with leather and soap. Peter. My deep breath felt like a saving grace; I feared I had stopped breathing altogether. Could it be that Peter cared? That he too felt this tingling, fuzzy pull?
“What are you thinking?” he asked timidly.
I wanted to tell him that I felt it too, that I wanted to spend another afternoon with him, to ask him about his childhood, his adventures, his travels. But I had too many secrets now. No matter what Peter thought of me or how I thought of him, there were too many reasons against us now. My lack of dowry, his family name, and perhaps greatest of all, our sisters’ opposition to each other. Clara especially would despise the connection. I could not create something new with Peter if it meant destroying my relationship with Clara.
Besides, I’d already settled on Mr. Pendleton. He was not a risk in the least, but a sure means for security and comfort. He knew all of my secrets, and he needed me as much as I needed him.
“We should go back inside,” I said. What if we were seen out here, alone in the dark? I could hear the pianoforte, which meant someone was playing and the musicale continued on, unaware of our absence. Perhaps Mrs. Turnball played. Or Georgiana.
“Indeed,” Peter agreed, sighing. But neither of us moved.
