“It’s her, isn’t it?” The dark eyes searched his face.
Brendan’s hand on the door stilled. “Who is what? I’ve no idea what you’re speaking of.”
She pressed another kiss to his cheek. “I like her, if it matters. She has spunk.” Without a backward, glance Katherine slid through the door. “Good luck.”
19
Petra slept much later than usual the following morning, the sun well up before she rang for breakfast. While she usually went down for her tea and toast, she wished to avoid seeing the other guests. Hiding in her room was the obvious option, though rather cowardly on her part, but she didn’t think conversing with Katherine while they politely sipped tea would help her mood. She needed time to think. Alone.
Mother stopped by Petra’s room, but seeing her daughter with a breakfast tray, asked with barely restrained horror, if Petra was ill. Since the stomach ailment brought on by spoiled stew, Mother treated Petra as if she were some frail, delicate young lady prone to bouts of illness.
Petra assured her she was only tired and wished to rest up for the night’s dancing, an excuse Mother approved of and didn’t question. Today, her mother wore a brushed muslin day dress in a pale shade of mauve. The fabric was sprinkled with what looked to be lilacs. The material was far more suited as wall covering for some elderly matron’s parlor than a day dress, and Petra thought she looked a bit ridiculous, but wisely kept her mouth shut.
Assured Petra wasn’t ill, Mother hurried off to fawn over Lady Pendleton.
No note came from Simon to inquire about her whereabouts or her health. She was not surprised.
For the remainder of the day, Petra was bothered by no one but her maid. When luncheon was served, she again asked for a tray, citing a need to rest for the evening’s festivities. Again, no one questioned her reasons. Apparently, the entire household thought young ladies were so fragile they required constant naps.
Petra spent the remainder of the day in a large, overstuffed chair, a fluffy blanket her maid had procured slung over her knees. She had Tessie position the chair so she could gaze out over the moors while she read. She finished Lord Thurston while she had her breakfast, disappointed she would now only be left with books on geology. Turning to the book on fossils, she leafed through the pages, finding herself intrigued despite having little interest, at least initially, in the subject matter. She tried to imagine Morwick crawling through a dark cave with only a lamp and discovering the outline of a giant seashell. Petra tried to concentrate but as the day drew on, it became more difficult.
The feeling of suffocation that had plagued her since leaving her family’s London home weeks earlier had only increased. She’d had a brief reprieve from her dread while at Somerton, but since meeting Lady Pendleton and seeing Simon, the sensation had returned. Petra closed her eyes against the constant chattering of her mind. Torn between her parent’s expectations and her own desires, Petra was at a loss. Perhaps defiance came easy for some, and it was coming far easier these days for her than before, but she’d been raised to be obedient. The thought of disappointing her parents, particularly her mother, was difficult. She was shedding the skin of whom she was expected to be, and it was a far more painful process than she’d imagined.
She wished desperately to speak to Rowan.
Just after noon, as Petra was about to ring for another pot of tea, a broad-shouldered man, dressed like a laborer and carrying a battered heavy pack in one hand, strode across the back gardens of Brushbriar toward the open parkland beyond. Dark, unruly curls peeked from beneath his hat.
Petra put down the book and sat up a little straighter. She wasn’t sure why she continued to read about geology, for certainly it would do her no good in London, but she’d had an urge to surprise Morwick with her knowledge of the subject. And somehow reading about rocks and fossils made her feel closer to him.
Her chest squeezed painfully.
Morwick strolled purposefully through the gardens, never pausing as he circumvented trees, the small pond and a large fountain of a Roman deity. He moved with such fluid, measured grace for a large man. A length of rope hung over one shoulder. Morwick was going exploring. At dinner last night, Simon had mentioned a cave a short walk from Brushbriar. She’d no doubt that was where Morwick was headed.
It was easier, in the light of day, to push down the hurt of seeing him with Katherine last night. Petra wondered at what point her heart had tethered itself to Morwick, and decided the timing didn’t matter. The reality of her feelings was a constant, dull ache in the vicinity of her heart, coupled with a horrible sense of loss.
She continued to watch Morwick until he was nothing more than a tiny speck on the moors, wanting to hate him, but missing him all the same. Batting away the moisture forming at the corner of her eyes, she rang for more tea.
20
Petra stopped before the floor length mirror only long enough to inspect her appearance. The musicians were already tuning their instruments below, and the dancing would begin soon. After spending the day reading and napping, Petra was eager to leave the room. She shifted back and forth on the balls of her feet, watching the material of her ballgown flutter in gentle waves around her hips, silently thanking Arabella for her foresight.
Mother didn’t care to have Petra wear anything other than pastels, a color palate that left Petra feeling like an after-dinner mint served at the conclusion of a large meal. Arabella had extended an invitation for a day of dress shopping when the decision to visit Brushbriar had been announced. Her sister-in-law needed a new wardrobe, given that she’d recently found herself with child. The invitation had only been for Petra. Lady Marsh would not be included, since Arabella tolerated her mother-in-law only when necessary and even then, only to please Rowan.
Ironically, after spending a lifetime in dark, unflattering clothes, Arabella had become something of a fashion plate. She’d shaken her head as the modiste brought bolts of lime and cream for Petra, insisting on something more vibrant. Probably thinking how best to annoy Mother, Arabella had chosen the delicious material and design of the gown Petra now wore.
The gown was the color of a newly bloomed rose, not pink or red but a subtle hue in between. The shade spoke of innocence with just a hint of seduction. Composed of four scalloped tiers edged in silver thread, the skirt fell in graceful flounces over her hips. The fabric draped daringly around Petra’s arms, exposing her shoulders, before dipping sharply into a deep vee to gently cup Petra’s breasts. A sash encircled her narrow waist, embroidered with silver vines sparkling in the light with every twitch of her hips.
Twirling around, the tiers of fabric all lifted and fluttered about. She felt a bit like a cake she’d once seen at Gunter’s, all frosted layers and flowers. Tessie had painstakingly gathered Petra’s hair into a smooth chignon at the base of her neck and carefully encircled the bun with fresh roses from the Pendleton gardens.
Petra smiled back at her reflection.I look smashing.
A brief knock and the door was flung open as Mother entered, her gown the exact color of a hyacinth. “My goodness, we shall be lateagain. It is almost as if you wish to antagonize Lady Pendleton or Simon.” She paused, gloved hand on the door. “Hurry now.” Her skirts slapped against the door as she halted abruptly. Eyes bugging from her plump face she turned, with a stunned look, back toward her daughter.
“What onearthare you wearing?”
“A ballgown, Mother.” Petra smoothed the fluttering skirts. Her hands automatically tried to force themselves together in the typical manner of obedience she’d been trained to for her entire life. She resisted and instead, placed her hands, palms flat, against her hips. There would be no more ofthat, ever again. “A very lovely ballgown.”
“I can see it’s a ballgown. But not a gown I approved. Where did you get such a thing?” Lines appeared in her forehead. “Well,” she waved a gloved hand, “it doesn’t matter.” The tiny hill appeared on her upper lip. “You will not go downstairs in such an unsuitable ensemble. It’s completely unacceptable. The dress is much too grand for a demure, unmarried young lady. Flashy, even. Something a more mature woman would wear. Tessie!” She clapped her hands as if summoning a dog to her. “We must hurry so as not to be late. Bring Petra the pale yellow.”
