Page 21 of Tall, Dark & Wicked
Lightness filled Petra the further she climbed. There was something so incredibly…freeabout doing something purely because shewishedto. A young lady’s life, and indeed most women’s, was structured from start to finish. What to wear, how to behave. Decorum. Manners. Mother constantly hovering over her.
Whom she should marry.
It had all become exhausting. The last few months, even before Simon offered for her, Petra had started to feel as if she were drowning under the weight of her mother’s expectations.
She’d always loved being outside, something she’d forgotten until this journey. Young ladies took quiet walks through gardens with their maids trailing behind, or carriage rides in Hyde Park to show off a new bonnet. When she was younger, Petra had run after frogs and collected twigs and sticks to make castles. She’d strung together daisies and worn them in her hair. Then she’d had to become a young lady. No longer could she roam about; instead she was confined to the schoolroom learning how to dance and embroider. Mother was a relentless taskmaster, demanding perfection from both Rowan and Petra.
Good God; Mother has turned me into her version of me. An obedient, well-mannered dressmaker’s dummy she can trot out to ensnare a proper son-in-law.
The bark bit into her fingers. Morwick was correct. Climbing did clear one’s mind.
Petra reached for the low hanging branch and with much effort and straining of her arms, managed to pull herself up. Dr. Stubbins, she was certain, would not approve of tree climbing as a method of recuperation from her stomach ailment. Resting for a moment to catch her breath, Petra was filled with a sense of achievement. She’d done it. And she was free and unencumbered looking out at the beauty of Mam Tor.
As Petra sat drinking in the color of the peak set against the moors, contentment filled her. There were no calls to pay. No guests for tea for whom she had to pretend interest. No need for her to sit demurely, hands firmly clasped in her lap, while Mother gossiped. No amount of lessons would teach her to speak French properly because she didn’t care to. Embroidery bored her. Her entire life was pretense. Petra grabbed tighter to the branch to keep from falling off.
Mam Tor beckoned, shining like a beacon in the distance. The smell of damp earth, leaves and pine filled her nostrils. If she went higher, the view would be better. She reached up again, pulling herself close to the trunk of the tree and kept going, unmindful of anything but the task before her.
* * *
Brendan whistled,boots crunching against the stones as he took the path leading back to Somerton. Lady Marsh, according to his mother, was much better this morning. Petra and her mother were scheduled to leave for Brushbriar today. By the time Brendan returned for tea, Petra would be gone. Before long, she would be reading a tome of poetry in Brushbriar’s garden while Pendleton hung on her every word. Simon might even take her hand, which would be something. Simon was a cold fish.
Brendan hiked the rucksack up higher on his shoulder, ignoring the pain as the leather strap bit into his flesh. His pack was full of samples today, many more than he needed, but Brendan was trying to keep his mind from Petra. He didn’t care to think of Petra in the garden with Pendleton, nor the jealousy the image invoked. Petra wasn’t his, nor would she ever be. His was a life meant to live alone. Solitary. Having Petra would meancaringfor Petra—something that could not be allowed.
I still want her.
Brendan forced himself to summon up a painful memory. His mother, dressed all in black, talking to the portrait of Reggie. Weeping, she had pled with his father to return to her. He’d been five or six at the time and he’d run to her, wrapping himself inside her skirts, begging her to stop being sad.
He didn’t wish such a future for himself. Digging through caves was a far safer option.
“Damn.”
The unladylike curse sprung from the giant oak tree to the right. He’d been by this very tree hundreds of times and had never heard the oak swear at him.
“Damn and blast.” A tearing of fabric sounded. Bits of bark and leaves fell from somewhere above him. “Bollocks.”
Brendan craned his neck back, searching upward, delighted to see a pair of slim, stocking clad legs dangling above him. A tree nymph.
Another burst of leaves rained down on him followed by a gasp of utter horror. The tree nymph had spotted him.
A smile pulled at his lips. “Petra?” Desire bloomed in him, his fears of not a moment ago evaporating. It wasn’t only the sight of her legs, which were spectacular, but the knowledge she’d climbed atree. What on earth would have possessed her to do such a thing? And she was cursing up a storm, something well-bred young ladies weren’t supposed to do. He doubted she’d learned those words from Lady Marsh.
“I didn’t know tree climbing to be practiced amongst theton.” Brendan spoke to the pair of legs.
“As it happens, I am one of several young ladies who believe in challenging ourselves with physical feats of strength. We gather every Thursday in Hyde Park. In addition to tree climbing we are known to run foot races, sail boats and compete in other competitions.” Her voice floated down to him. “Obviously we don’t go around speaking of our…conditioning.”
“I’d no idea the ladies of thetonwere so interesting.” What a sassy little minx Petra was. A slow ache stretched across his heart, adding to the slow throb in his breeches. “And the cursing? Where you did you gain such a vocabulary? A governess?”
A bit of bark and several acorns bounced off his shoulder. “Surely you are acquainted with your cousin’s wife? Her Grace would put a sailor to shame. Jemma’s profanities are quite colorful.”
Brendan had never actually heard the Duchess of Dunbar curse, but considering her other eccentricities, he didn’t doubt Petra’s explanation.
“I do hope you won’t mention my language to Mother. She’d be most distressed.” A feminine grunt sounded from above.
“Perish the thought. I’ve no desire to give your mother a fit of apoplexy.” He looked up into the branches, admiring Petra’s calves and ankles. “Are you coming down?” She had lovely calves. Too bad she was wearing stockings. He would so adore pressing a kiss to the hollow behind her knee.
“Of course I am,” she snapped. “I’m only working on how best to make my way, and I find it difficult to do so when you are distracting me. Feel free to be on your way.”
Brendan had climbed all his life. Rocks, peaks, trees. The roof of the tavern in Buxton. It was no secret why Petra hadn’t yet come down. Climbing up something seemed a wonderful idea until you realized you must come down at some point. “Petra, don’t look down.”
