They were once again in his study, but this time Petra had boldly pressed her lips to the tanned swathe of skin at the base of his throat. She’d reached up to allow the ebony locks to curl around her fingers. When she had awoken, her nightgown had been wrapped around her thighs, her body throbbing with the need for something she couldn’t describe.
Simon never invaded her thoughts in such a way.
“I’ll be back before tea,” she informed Tessie. “Best get us packed for Brushbriar.”
After donning her boots and the oldest, plainest dress she had with her, Petra waved at Tessie and headed down the stairs, wondering exactly where she would go. The moors beckoned to Petra, as did the patch of trees visible from the window of her guest room. She was ready for an adventure.
I don’t miss Simon.
Shouldn’tshe miss him? Not so much as a note had come to her from Brushbriar, nor had she felt compelled to send one herself. Mother, between retching into the chamber pot, had chastised Petra for her oversight and insisted she pen something to Simon immediately.
Petra, defiance filling her, had not.
A dapper, well-dressed servant passed the stairs as Petra reached the bottom step. He was no footman, for he wasn’t much taller than Petra and most of the Somerton footmen were burly looking lads. Tessie had mentioned she’d met Woods, Morwick’s valet, as she ate in the kitchen with the other servants the night before. Her description of the valet had been spot on, for surely this was he.
“Excuse me.” She caught Woods as he was about to turn the corner. “Mr. Woods?”
Woods bowed formally. “Just Woods, my lady.” The valet had a pencil thin mustache, neatly shaped above his upper lip, which wiggled as he spoke. His dark hair was styled to perfection and laced with silver. “How may I assist you? Should I fetch Timmons for you?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I was only wondering…do you know where Mam Tor is?” she asked, in a burst of inspiration. The drawing of the peak had stayed in her mind since seeing the charcoal drawing the day before in Morwick’s study. “I thought I’d walk in that direction. I fear I’m in need of some fresh air and exercise.”
“Unfortunately, Mam Tor is some distance from here and can’t be reached easily on foot, my lady. But if you venture out through the gardens behind the house, there is a small gate leading to the moors beyond. A path leaving the gate will take you along the outer edge of a patch of gritstone, the dark rock. Once you cross the gritstone you’ll see the tree line, along with a lovely view of the moorsandMam Tor. The scenery is quite magnificent. But stay on the path, my lady,” he cautioned. “You don’t wish to get lost, especially since you are departing for Brushbriar tomorrow.”
“No, of course not. If my mother —”
“I shall make sure she is informed you are walking through the gardens.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink.
“Thank you, Woods.” She smiled gratefully. “And may I say,” Petra said a bit impishly, “I do not envy you your job.”
“You may, my lady.” The valet bowed, his lips twitching.
Leaving the house, Petra whistled as she strolled through the gardens and past the bench where she’d spent the day reading Lord Thurston yesterday. The gate soon came into view, rusted and hanging by the hinges. It swung open easily with a gentle push of her hand. Obviously, the gate was well-used and oiled, despite looking as if it were to fall apart.
Keeping a brisk pace, Petra stayed on the path made up of a series of stones. The moors stretched out before her, covered with sprays of heather. Just as Woods had said, the path soon evolved into large patches of gritstone. Ahead was a patch of trees, where the moors ebbed away and forest took over. As she came closer to the tree line, Petra caught her first real glimpse of Mam Tor, rising to tower over the moors.
“Oh, my.” She’d never seen anything half so beautiful, though the rise and dip of the land obscured her view.
Every few steps Petra would jump, in an effort to catch a better glimpse. Petra had never given much thought to her smaller stature, but just now, wanting to see Mam Tor, she wished for longer legs. If only she was higher, she may be able to see better. The tip of her boot caught on something on the ground, tripping her, and Petra caught herself.
A large tree root, twisted and rough, stuck out of the ground attached to a massive oak tree.
“I’ve never seen one so large.”
The oak towered above all the others, the gnarled bark and width of the immense trunk telling the story of a long life. The branches above her head created a thick canopy, stretching out as far as Petra could see. How old could an oak tree be? She made a mental note to find out. Surely Morwick had a book on trees in the chaos of his library.
Then Petra remembered she was leaving early tomorrow for Brushbriar. She wouldn’t have time to seek out such a book.
She glanced toward Mam Tor and then back at the tree, considering her options. Once upon a time, before Mother had decided to focus her energies on her daughter, Petra had been a bit of a tree climber. She had never been as quick as Rowan, but she had spent many summers at the Marsh family estate in Essex learning how to climb a tree in order to escape her governess. Miss Persimmon had been a dour spinster who, along with teaching proper French, a language Petra still hadn’t mastered, also sucked the joy out of any room she entered.
Petra had climbed a lot of trees that summer.
“I shouldn’t.” Her words fell into the summer breeze. A young lady, especially the daughter of an earl, didn’t climb trees.
If she married Simon, there would likely be little time for such outlandish behavior. He did not strike her as the type of man who wished his wife to go round climbing trees in Hyde Park. Simon expected her to preside over his dinner table exchanging polite conversation with his political cronies and their wives, none of whom spent their time considering how best to scale an oak tree. This may be her last chance.
“Just once more.” She ran her fingers over the bark, looking for natural footholds, trying to remember how it was done. A small limb hung over her head. If she could get herself up off the ground, she could take hold of the branch and pull herself up. At least, that’s what she surmised. She hadn’t actually done such a thing since she was ten. “All right then.”
Lifting her skirts she tucked them up at the sides, which felt incredibly scandalous, though there wasn’t anyone around for miles. She raised her right leg, moving her ankle back and forth until she felt secure in putting her weight into it. Cautiously, she moved up into the canopy, the bark scraping and tearing at the front of her dress. Thank goodness the dress was old and beneath the notice of her mother. If Petra never wore the flowered muslin again, it was doubtful Mother would remark on it. Gritting her teeth, Petra managed to pull herself up and lodged her left foot into another groove in the trunk.
