So beloved. The tenderness yanked at Peter like a ghost, trying to frighten him and make him run. But Peter had held this woman in his arms, he had spent the whole day rearranging his life to put her at the center. He recognized the sweetness when it choked his throat and flooded his chest.
He wanted it. He was tired of running.
He moved towards her, let himself smile the way that came naturally, and saw her relax. Just the tiniest gesture, a different tilt of her right shoulder, a softness in the corners of her eyes, but Peter had been paying attention to Celia for a long time now. He knew how to look for the tiny things.
They greeted each other, the words familiar and irrelevant.
Celia held out her hand as he drew close. He didn’t know what she intended him to do, but he was buoyant with the news about work, with the punch that had sent Hargreaves with his tail between his legs, with knowing that he, himself, had wanted to turn and run away from the intensity of his feelings about Celia but had walked towards her instead. He took her hand and bent down and kissed her forehead.
She was surprised. Then, she smiled.
Victory! Peter pulled over an ottoman, settled beside her, unable to hold back his grin. He’d never done such a thing, never greeted a woman with a casual kiss, but he’d envied the men who could. He had, now, the best of all women to kiss.
He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and he held out his hands to her again. She glanced down, the same hesitation she had this morning, but this time, she laid her hand in his. They talked about her embroidery, which was an intricate collection of Celtic knots framing a field with wildflowers. Peter asked questions, pointing but not touching the fabric, and let her settle into herself. He showed her the special license, talked about what they would need for travel, agreed with all of her tentative suggestions for the ceremony. He didn’t care about the ceremony, he just cared about getting her out of here. When she requested, he moved her embroidery and tea tray out of her way. She didn’t ask, but he took her hand again.
“Celia.” He wanted to call her my sweet or dear love, but he had never heard those words spoken except to make fun, so he relished her Christian name. “Celia, how are you, truly?”
“I am well.” A little hopeful, helpless flutter of a smile. “You don’t need to worry. He didn’t cause me any true harm, it is just this silly ankle.” She gestured, as though tossing herself away. “And that was my own fault.”
He didn’t cause her anyharm?Peter didn’t know how to respond to such a bald-faced lie. Afraid his silence sounded like agreement, he responded to the other. “Nothing that happened last night is your fault. Nothing.”
“Oh, but it was! It was after he had already left, and I was trying to hurry, and I slipped and twisted my ankle. You know how clumsy I can be.”
“You are not clumsy.” Peter figured out the moment she was referring to—that rushing, choking flush of anger at himself.“When I told you to get behind the folly if someone was coming? I take that injury entirely upon my own head.”
“Oh no—” She looked away; flustered, upset.
“I beg your forgiveness.” He squeezed her hand, waited for her to glance at him. “I was so focused on finding Hargreaves, I didn’t plan what to do afterwords. I should know better than to make mistakes like that. I should have put my coat around you and stayed with you until your cousin arrived.”
Celia tried that deliberate smile again. “You would have been trapped all night. I need not have been so frightened.”
“Celia, I told you before, you don’t need to do that with me.”
He meant that she could go back to her real self, her animated expressions and perspicacious comments, but instead she ducked her head. Perfectly still, like a rabbit in the brush.
Peter was no good at this, didn’t know how to help someone anxious or afraid, never could do anything right. Didn’t deserve her, knew he didn’t deserve her.
He leaned back, blew his breath out slowly, trying to get ahold of himself.
Celia’s hand was still resting in both of his. She had turned her shoulders away, but not pulled her hand back, which had to be a good sign. Peter focused on it, rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles and the base of her wrist.
She still didn’t pull away.
Almost too slowly to see, she shifted on the pillows. She did not meet his eyes, but she watched their hands, together. Her voice was almost too soft to hear. “You need to know. He did not… violate me. It was just…”
It hurt, watching her in pain, seeing her uncertain. He had thought it would be different. Hated it.
He made himself start talking, just a patter of anything, curling and uncurling her fingers, sliding his thumb over her fingertips to see if he could feel the callouses from herneedle. “Being afraid isn’t nothing. Do you know about cavalry techniques? Of course not. The way it works, the foot soldiers form a square, three layers deep, and take turns firing their muskets. They can move their square or hold ground. The cavalry just rushes towards them, straight into the fire. If the foot soldiers acted rationally, they could always repel cavalry and the square would be essentially undefeatable. But humans do not act rationally in all circumstances, so fear itself is the true offensive weapon of the cavalry. And it frequently wins—generals rely on their cavalry. I should not be telling you any of this, should I?”
Celia laughed, weak but genuine. “What was your role in the army?”
Peter hesitated. The answer was dangerously close to his real self. “I entered as a cavalry officer. But…” He took another breath. Told the truth. “I spent most of my career as a strategist. I was moved from place to place to solve problems.”
“Oh.” Celia did not sound horrified. As though their conversation itself pulled her, she swung towards him, letting her feet slide to the floor.
Damn, after how upset she was this morning he didn’t dare explain about his real name yet. When he had imagined proposing to Celia, he had imagined telling her everything beforehand. But after a night like that, she needed his confidence, his support, not him giving all his problems to her. He knew in a practical way, their marriage was the best—possibly the only—solution to Celia and her cousins’ problems, but he also knew that she would not hesitate to throw everything away if it felt morally wrong. In order to take care of her, he needed to hide things from her a little longer. Just until she was back to her usual confident, decisive self.
Not to mention, he really, really could not afford to upset Lord George Whitely, and Lord George had told him to wait.
