Peter stared into the dancing flames. No matter his own discomfort, this man was one of Celia’s best friends. He had been loyal beyond any possible duty—even before today—and Peter had watched the way she talked with him. She was comfortable with Francis.
Peter blew out his breath slowly, recrossing his feet. He was a married man now, and he must put his wife’s needs first. Celia needed her friends more than he needed to hold onto the doubt and resentment that James’s tragedy had cast over them.
“I’m sorry.” Peter’s voice came out abrupt and sharp. “You were right. I should have listened.”
Francis turned, leaning on one elbow, his gaze intent.
Peter rubbed his thumb up and down the handle of his mug. “You told me a long time ago I should marry Celia. By the time I finally did it, she was—hurt. It’s my fault.” He pressed fingers against his eyes. Went on. “I thought I was being sensible and protecting her. By my troth, I did. But my foolishness hurt her and I…”
“Peter.” Francis put a hand on his knee, holding firm. “Hargreaves hurt her, and Kilairne let him. You did not do it.”
Peter wiped his face, shook his head, took a sip of tisane. Still too spicy. “I should have listened to you. I should have married her long ago.”
Francis sat back with his own cup, watching Peter carefully. “You didn’t act more quickly because you didn’t know what was happening. Brennan told me what you said that evening, in the corridor with Henrietta.”
Peter sucked in his breath.
“As soon as you had the information,” Francis continued, “you went to find Celia. You told Brennan immediately that youwould marry her.” Francis shook his head, his mouth twisted with bitterness. “Do you know how I have berated myself, for not finding the right words earlier? I was caught up in the intrigue, making these complicated plans. Every single night since it happened I go over and over what I knew when, what I could have told you. Because you loved her all along, and love does the right thing.”
Peter thought about it. What information would have changed his mind, when he was so confused about—
“See?” Francis laughed, bitter. “You’re doing it too. Going back over each day. Trying to see what we could have done differently.”
The logs collapsed in the fire, and both men turned to the shower of sparks.
“Brennan and I had this idea”—Francis spoke almost dreamily—“that we would propose to Henrietta and Celia. Explain to them that it’s a sham marriage, but legal freedom.”
Peter startled. “Was that what he called his battering ram plan?”
“Precisely. It had started as a joke, and then we said we’d do it if the situation got desperate. It’s not like we are sacrificing anything, but they would be. When I got home after dropping you off after the Latham’s ball, Brennan had torn our room apart. Was sitting on the floor sobbing.”
Peter didn’t know what to say. Brennan had always been the calm one.
“Brennan said…” Francis took a shuddering breath. “When he confronted Henrietta and her paramour, young Pipperly fled. Henrietta sobbed and hit Brennan and begged him to just let her ruin herself. Thumped his arms and repeatedit’s my bodyover and over, and of course she is right. He just put her off, but it would have been too late anyhow. Brennan was so madat himself—at us—for not giving the women the choice that we could have offered them when we had the chance.”
“Celia asked to see me, and we had an appointment for the next morning,” Peter said. “What if I had gone straight over when I received her letter?”
“And the Bigelowes?” Francis turned to Peter. “They came to our place the day after your wedding. Bigelowe couldn’t forgive himself for passing Celia to Kilairne. He had told himself that he had no right to gainsay Kilairne, but said if he had thought twice, he would have punched the man in the nose rather than agree to anything.
“And I”—Francis shook his head sharply—“I was upstairs playing a confounded game. I had the right to be with her, and I could have argued with Kilairne till the rivers ran dry, but I left. What sort of man am I, Peter?”
Peter looked away. For just a moment, his hot anger raged at Francis, but it passed like the sparks in the fire. It had seemed reasonable at the time.
Francis ticked off his fingers. “Charlotte was upset because she had known Henrietta was assaulted and didn’t tell any of the men. Mrs. Pipperly and Charlotte’s mother were distraught that they did not help chaperone, since Mrs. Thompson had three girls to manage. All of us see something we could have done differently, Peter. All of us see the moment when a different decision would have changed everything.”
“But it’s Celia who bore the consequences of our inaction.” Peter couldn’t sit still; went to the window, checked outside, leaned his head against the cold glass. “And Henrietta.”
Francis spoke sharply. “They bore the consequences of Thompson’s laziness, Kilairne’s gullibility, and Hargreaves’s cruelty. Not yours. Not mine.”
Francis stood, with a shuffle of damp clothing and hot mugs, crossed the room and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Thingsare dark right now, but we’re going to make them better. You’re a good man, Peter Alcott, and you love her.”
Peter hadn’t dared to even say the words to himself. He tested them in his mind. He’d kept getting irritated with her lately, the way she disappeared when it was time to go—fixing JC’s coat, apparently—and her little long-suffering sighs and the way she left bits of embroidery silk on the rug and funny trifling little scissors in odd places. Was that love?
But he wanted her laughter more than he wanted dinner after a long day in the saddle; he passed behind her chair at breakfast and yearned to kiss the curve of her neck. When he saw her body tense and her face anxious, it created a physical pain in his body; there was this throbbing in his flesh that he would tear himself apart to keep her away from danger. He wanted to learn about every one of her artworks; he wanted to ask her everything about her childhood; he wanted to tell her things he had never shared with anyone. He was this welter of frustration and desire and longing and pride and ardor, all swirling in the confines of this ridiculous muddy journey and the rain that raineth every day. Was that love?
“I don’t know,” he told Francis. “She’s still so upset. She sits stiffly in her chair and gets teary-eyed at odd times. She hates the carriage, and then just goes into her room and won’t leave.”
“Give her time.” Francis patted his shoulder and returned to the fire. “And then give her something to do.”
