Page 73 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

Their breath mingled. She reached to take the ball, and suddenly she was cradling his hand in hers, unable to move away. She looked up at him and knew she wanted to kiss Mr. Sloan. Peter. He glanced from her eyes to her lips. She suspected he fancied her, and the intense gaze they shared did nothing to absolve the notion. The idea of a valentine became indistinct, ghostly against the solid reality of Peter Sloan.

He leaned toward her.

She lifted her chin.

His lips brushed hers—a sigh, a wish, a dream that settled her nerves and granted wings. There was nothing bold in the action, nothing that demanded or claimed, but it held a statement. Her hand found the nape of his neck. She nudged him toward her, proving the strength of her feelings as their kiss spread quiet warmth, turning her insides molten. Her mouth explored his, each turn a revelation. His palm opened over the small of her back, strong and reassuring. The mace and ball clattered to the ground.

His touch awakened in her a tenderness she’d turned from, sensations ignored and left unacknowledged. His arms cradled and strengthened her. She felt protected and loved.

He pulled back enough to study her eyes. Meg reached for the bookshelf to stabilize herself. With inches between them, she could see his whole self in his eyes, and joy coursed through her. His kindness and cheerful demeanor recommended themselves. He’d been beside her all the time, not a mystery man hiding behind valentines, but a friend and mentor.

And she had cheated him, stolen his letter, and hid it. She’d betrayed him. Her limbs turned stiff and cold.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have. I thought…”

She had invited the kiss; he had nothing to apologize for. But she could not toy with his feelings when she used him so poorly. “Do not worry yourself. We will forget it happened.” Meg turned and walked as slowly as she could out of the room, keeping her gaze steadily ahead, else she turn back and betray herself.

Later, long after a carriage ride that put them in closer proximity than was comfortable, Meg lay in bed and examined the day, felt again the steadiness of his eyes upon her, the strength of his proximity. She considered his carefully spoken words about her valentine. Not Peter, but someone conquered by her—meaning what? That her valentine loved her?

But the kiss. Their coming together meant something as well, and Peter and her valentine seemed tangled in a way she could not examine directly. The feelings she had when she read letters from her valentine, when she examined his artwork, mirrored what she felt for Peter. She longed for them both. She wanted them to be the same.

Peter had confirmed it was not possible, though. She must let her feelings for Peter go, for he had likely become affectionate toward her because of his father’s death, was merely craving human connection in his loneliness and grief. Regardless of her own desires, she must be on her guard, offering strictly friendship. She would dedicate her heart to discovering her valentine’s identity from this moment on.

22

During the two months that followed their prolonged visit with Lord and Lady Halverton, the earth softened and greened. As the air warmed, a contrary coolness settled between Peter and Margaret. In the evenings, he joined her household for supper. Those affable, happy meals surrounded by others dispelled the disquiet hanging between them to a degree. Half the day, Peter experimented in the dyehouse, which meant Margaret shouldered his responsibilities. Unfair to Margaret and his other apprentices, the habit must break; but he was afraid of spending time with her, afraid he would reveal his secret, afraid he would not. Forgetting the reasons he did not tell her he was her valentine, he avoided her.

He could not forget the rightness of her body against his, the way she had pulled him to her, seeming to want him as much as he desired her. That response to his kiss—proof she returned his feelings—should have propelled him into confession. He decided nearly every day to admit the truth, but when her eyes met his, he lost his nerve.

And he’d lied. When faced with her direct question, he’d laughed and deflected, and then he’d gone and bloody kissed her. He had hidden behind the impropriety of the arrangement as though propriety governed his feelings for her.

The falsehood sat like a bone in his throat. He had chosen cowardice over truth, not because the lie protected her but to protect himself from the risk of her rejection, from the awkwardness of a master confessing to his apprentice, from the terrifying possibility that she might look at him differently.

His father would have told her. His father, who broke with his family and his guild for the woman he loved, would have taken both her hands and said the simple, devastating thing. Peter had inherited the old man’s trade but not his courage.

With these troubling thoughts, he entered his kitchen after a day’s work and found a valentine had been slid beneath the door. Their correspondence came in starts and fits, at times three times per week and at others a full week passing with nothing. In this case, it had been nearly ten days since she’d written.

Dear Valentine,

My house is full of women, a novelty for me. I predicted that I would not like the company, but I do. The chatter and gossip from the two women under my roof amuse me and prove I did not know I was lonely.

Did you see the sunset yesterday? If I could paint as well as you, I would have captured it.

To answer your questions: I like sweets but rarely. I prefer cats to dogs because they are useful where mice are concerned. My favorite color is purple—is that garish? I cover my hair because it is a nuisance.

I have questions of my own: What is your name? Or at least the first letter of your surname. How old are you? Why do you keep yourself a secret? Are you married or betrothed? Are you a beast? Pardon the question, for I recently finished Madame Barbot de Villeneuve’s Beauty and the Beast. Are you a gentleman or do you have a trade? Farmer? Poet? Artist? Butcher? Baker? Candlestick maker?

The mystery of you has intrigued me so that I fear I may be making more of your letters and gifts than you intend. Knowing who you are would set things on equal footing and ensure I lend proper weight to our interactions.

Yours, etc.,

Margaret Cooper

Peter took up his pen.

Dear Margaret,

I am young, but not so young as you. Though I am neither married nor betrothed, I cannot risk telling you my name or any letters contained therein. I safeguard my identity because I must, but I hope to inform you in time. I try not to be a beast, but I am not a gentleman. I know that does little to help you discover who I am, but anonymity is best for us both.