“Do you want to know something funny?”
Peter was startled. “Of course.”
“Lord Edmund was just an actor, setting the scene.” Celia smiled, as though there were any ‘just’ about it. “He wanted anyone who passed by to think we had been in a passionate embrace. So passionate, I suppose, that my dress just—fell away.” She giggled, nervous, inviting him to join in. “But he had to work so hard on my clothes! He practically had to resort to asking me if I had scissors in my reticule to finish the job.”
Peter chuckled because he was glad to see her usual sense of irony. Her story was horrific.
“I don’t know much about passionate embraces”—she glanced at him, almost flirtatious—“but I know a fair something about making clothes. I cannot imagine that kisses, however ardent, would take the seams out in quite that manner.”
Peter knew little about passion and less about garment construction, but he knew how proud he was of Celia, all determination and imagination. Before he realized what he was doing, he reached out—no.
Her eyes caught his hesitation, and the self-doubt returned to her face.
Couldn’t have that. He finished the gesture, slowly, so as not to startle her. Let his fingers touch her cheek, his thumb cup her chin. Behind her head, the sun slipped below the horizon and the room was velvet dusk around them. Her eyes were pools in the shadows, fixed on his own.
“I should go.” He slid his palm across her cheek, let it drop to his lap. Careful not to brush her body, to let her think that he cared about any of that.
She was still holding his hand. He rose to his feet, and she stood with him. He hoped she was not in pain; reached out to stabilize her, remembered that her arm must be nothing but bruises.
His hand ended up on her waist. Now they were very close; every breath was the smell of her hair, the air she was breathing. It would be easy to slide his arm around her, but he would not be another man like that. Another man pulling her off balance, making decisions for her.
“I should go,” he said again, not leaving.
“Hm… I have a favor to ask.” She lifted her free hand, the one not holding his, traced one finger down the outside of his lapel. “But you might not like it.”
“I am right here.” That wasn’t the right thing to say. Or maybe it was just right. He didn’t know how to do this.
“It is rather hard…” She leaned closer, very slightly, her hair tickling his lips. “To contemplate marriage, just a few days ahead of one…”
Her words sounded like she was retreating into formality, but her body was close. She flattened her palm against his coat, and Peter drew a slow breath. She was not pushing him away.
“When one has only had one—one kiss. And it was such a… terrible one.”
Peter clasped her hand firmly, reassuring her of his presence, while his mind raced. She must mean that Hargreaves kissed her. Peter would have moved heaven and earth to take that terrible kiss away, but Celia was practical and would not bother to ask it.
He breathed in the scent of her hair. “Are you asking me to kiss you?”
She laughed, short and self-deprecating. “Not very well.”
He had to pause a moment to sort through what she had said, make sure that was a “yes.” He was nearly positive that it was, but moved slowly, just in case.
He lifted their joined hands and set hers on his chest. He would not pull through her tiniest smallest most polite gestureof hesitation, not now, not ever. Her touch was so light he could hardly feel it through his coat.
He cupped his hand around her face. Gradually, she tilted up her face and looked into his. He slid his fingers into her hair, ran his thumb across her cheek.
Over and over, he had thought about this exact moment, the silk of her skin, the warmth through her dress, her solemn eyes so close.
He had to look away—over her head out the window into the sunset—in order to catch his breath. Because this was what he wanted and it was all wrong. Because Celia was not smiling, she was coming to him in fear. She was the bravest, most clever and loving woman in all of Britain, and the most she dared hope for was that he would not hurt her deliberately.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t—”
He didn’t have words for the anger inside him but he couldn’t let her apologize. So he took the obvious way out and kissed her.
Lips soft to hers. She breathed in, but did not kiss him back.
Her very first kiss, she had said. In order to give her a chance to react, he brushed his lips against hers again, and this time she responded, pursing her mouth carefully. Still unsure. He adjusted his hand to cup her head, fingers brushing the nape of her neck, and kissed her lightly again. And again. She tasted soft and smelled sweet, and it was all that Peter could do to focus on her reaction instead of his own sensations.
She relaxed ever so slightly with each caress. He kissed each of her cheeks, like he had been longing to do since he had seen tears there. He nuzzled against her temple; could not see with the light fading and dim, but could feel her smile against his lips. So he stayed there, holding one kiss for a moment or three, keeping the next one soft and sweet, breathing her in, kissing her lightly.
