Page 98 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

He frowned. “Stroud suits you.”

The candid assessment brought a swell in her throat. It had suited her.

She kissed the top of his head. “I should ready myself and meet James downstairs.”

“James?”

“Didn’t he bring you?”

“Not him. Mr. Sloan.”

Her limbs grew heavy. Whatever was Mr. Sloan doing here? She did not wish to see him. Could not see him.

“Go and thank Mr. Sloan for his service and let him know I will return you to school.”

“He’s a capital fellow. We played cards all the way here and I won six pence.”

She could not withhold a laugh but reprimanded him for gambling. On her feet, Meg observed her mussed hair and heavy eyes in the glass. “Run along and tell Mr. Sloan he is no longer needed.”

“He has something for you.”

“You can give it to me.”

Samuel sighed and shook his little head. “He’ll not go until he sees you. Best wash your face and find a cap.” The honesty of a child. “We will wait for you in the parlor.”

As soon as the door closed, hot tears spilled over Meg’s cheeks. She pressed her palms against them and stuffed her feelings into a far corner, steeling herself against Peter’s charming air. But why had he come? She’d imagined his delight when all her orders arrived on his doorstep. A rival gone.

She took her time, completing her ablutions with lingering care, prolonging the inevitable. When there was nothing else to be done, she descended the stairs.

Peter sat with his back to her. Beside him, Samuel bounced a toy soldier across the sofa, uttering a string of threats. The boarding house matron, knitting near the window, turned an encouraging eye upon Meg. What had Peter told the woman?

The scene stilled her breath. Peter and Samuel, their shoulders touching, bent over the small battalion as Samuel narrated his campaign. Peter’s head tilted in his familiar way, the attentive angle he gave to anything that interested him. She had seen it when he worked on chintz, while speaking with his father, while teaching her a new skill.

Samuel turned first. His face split wide in that uncomplicated grin of a child. Peter followed, and every thought she had carefully arranged during the long minutes at her dressing table scattered like pins from an upturned box.

She had forgotten. Or perhaps she remembered too well and had flattened the memory into something manageable, but the living fact of Peter Sloan could not be managed. He was on his feet, stepping toward her. He paused, the corrected impulse of a man who had trained himself against reaching for what he wanted.

“Mar—Miss Cooper.” Peter Sloan stood before her, his eyes tender, perhaps wary.

Her arms ached, her hands twitched for the wanting of him. She checked herself against the desire to throw herself into his chest.

She approached him, close enough that the scent of bergamot reached her. His eyes searched hers with the same expression he’d worn in the dyehouse after his father’s funeral. Not hurt. Not concern. Something raw and honest, a question beneath.

Pressure gathered at the base of her throat, heavy and insistent. If she permitted its passage, everything she had fortified would crumble. She would weep, and the crying would carry words she had no right to speak. Not to this man she had so thoroughly wronged.

Her gaze swept to his collar, the neat stitching she recognized as his own work, the thread pulled through with the steady hand of a craftsman who could not make a careless stitch.

“Thank you for bringing Samuel.” Her voice held. She marveled at its steadiness when her insides lurched as if the floor had tilted. “I should have been patient enough to visit him before I departed.”

The words rang hollow. She was speaking of Samuel when other words pressed against her. I am sorry. I left to return your life to you, to give back what I have taken. She bit them back.

“What made you leave with such haste?” Peter stepped toward her until his legs brushed her gown.

She warmed from her stomach to her toes. “Samuel said you have something for me?”

“A trade, then?” Peter retrieved a box covered in fabric. “I will give you this when you explain why your departure.” His dimples appeared, her undoing.

“I could not stay when my presence required so great a sacrifice from you.”