You are not your family, Francis had said. You are enough.
Celia brought a towel and lifted it, expectant. Peter ducked his head and let her drop it over him, rub his hair. She was vigorous and thorough, and Peter found himself smiling when she was done.
Celia smiled back. Her real smile, not the ought-to one. She stepped close and ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it away from his face, settling what had to be a lion’s mane. He had meant to go to the barber before his wedding, but by the time he had to dress for Mrs. Thompson’s party he still hadn’tgotten around to it. Marsh trimmed it, and up until three hours previous, Marsh had been a private guard at a gambling club.
Peter was hit with a wave of gratitude. For the men who had stood behind him tonight, for Leavenworth who sincerely tried to keep him from doing anything beyond foolhardy.
For Celia. Dear God in heaven, he was grateful for Celia.
Her knuckles brushed his cheek as she lowered her hand, and he caught it. Kissed her fingers, met her eyes.
Celia laughed, startled but not frightened.
Peter smiled. Like the ice that encased him was cracking, suddenly aware of the fire behind him, the nubbly rug beneath his wet stocking feet.
“Let’s get this off,” Celia said, “and I’ll give you a cup of tisane. It arrived just before you did, so it’s nice and hot.”
She unclipped his watch, put it on the table, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Peter didn’t know what to make of her; he really didn’t. His skin tingled where Celia’s hands slid between his waistcoat and his shirt. The real Celia behaved differently from every Celia he had ever imagined.
She poured him a cup of tisane. He thanked her.
She rotated him towards the fire—touching his shoulder and waist and back and chest—and he sipped the brew, trying not to think about her hands. The tea (possibly her hands) painted heat from his tongue to his throat and coiled in his belly. He shook out his sleeves so the shirt cuffs could dry; he was feeling better with the heavy clothes off. His pants were wool, wet but warming with body heat and fire heat.
All things considered, he was glad that Celia had not taken those, too. He definitely would not have been able to stand like a wooden soldier with Celia addressing herself to his trouser buttons.
Celia was moving around the room, humming. Peter sipped his tea and watched the flames dance.
He had been a fool, to not ask Leavenworth for help and not tell Celia where he was going. Ever since he saw Clarence at the ball, ever since he knew Celia was out in the garden, he had been trying so hard. So hard. Keep her safe, give her space.
And he almost ruined it all by walking out of here alone. He could see it: his battered body, the rain pelting into the mud where he lay, Celia waiting up all night. Crying.
“Celia,” he said, and his voice came out rough and sharp.
“Yes?” She turned, worried. But she came towards him, hands loose and gaze steady.
“Celia, I…” He closed his eyes. Tried to get a breath. Lungs stuck.
Celia took his mug. A rustle as she moved back towards him. He could smell her hair.
She touched his hand. Tentative, just a finger. A brush of warmth.
Peter opened his hands and found both of hers. Held them. She moved closer, her skirts brushing his cold shins, the hitch of her breath.
Eyes still closed, Peter leaned forward. Knowing her exact shape, her proportion to himself, he kissed her forehead. Let his lips linger, brush her hair.
“Celia, I need your help.” He stood and looked at her. He had to say the words. He had to explain it properly, for once.
“I’m right here.” She looked up, her face soft. “You know I will always help.”
He did. “It’s my sister. Elinor. It’s—I—” He shook his head.
Celia smiled slightly. “You can walk around if you need to. Straighten everything on the mantelpiece, and look out the curtain and close it more properly.”
Peter did walk around the room, he did fix the curtain, and he did feel better once he put all the tea settings straight. Then he managed to talk.
“My parents never leave their village. Elinor has never been any farther in her life than to visit nearby family. It’s not healthy, and she is afraid of ordinary things that a girl her age ought to know about. She can’t do a quarter of the things that Marianne does. Now she is getting older and”—he blew out his breath, forced himself on—“it’s getting close to time to think about marrying. Eliza married the neighbor boy, and my father has his heart set on Elinor making a fine match. But…” He threw up his hands.
“She doesn’t know anyone, and doesn’t even know herself?” Celia suggested.
