“Precisely! And I need—she needs…” The card that Celia made, without him asking her to do anything at all. Six men in formation, maybe for him, maybe for Celia. Trust, he needed to trust. “Now that I’m married—we’re married—you could sponsor her. Take her to London, show her a little of life. She could live with us. Elinor and Marianne both. Now, that’s sounding like a lot of girls, isn’t it? Some husbands wait nine months before giving their wives children.”
Celia burst into a peal of laughter, and everything was all right. Peter loved making someone laugh, and he loved her laugh the very best.
“So that’s what I need.” The words weren’t so hard now. “Take care of Elinor. Teach her the things you do, give her little reminders the way you do Marianne. In a couple years, introduce her to the queen. Manage the invitations. You know.” He spun his hand, slowly returned to Celia at the hearth.
“I do know.”
“And most importantly…” Peter was in front of her now, and she did not flinch away. He took her hand. “Don’t let her marry anyone. Yet, I mean. Until she knows who she is and what she wants.” Until she knew how to find a man who was nothing like their father.
“Let her have her girlhood and let her play? Yes. Yes, Peter. I can do that.”
“You make it sound simple. I’m trying to be honest; I don’t think it will be easy.”
She looked up, eyes serious. “People are never easy, Peter.”
He had thought they were. He had thought it was him who didn’t understand.
Celia touched his cheek. “I like young ladies, and they usually like me. I can do this. I want to.”
He loved that fierceness in her voice. “My father isn’t going to be nice about it.”
Celia raised her chin. “I am also good with old men.”
“He is… unusually difficult.”
“Peter.” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Together, we will manage. We will figure something out, because Elinor needs a good life. And she is our sister.”
“You’re right.” He put his hand on her waist, a few inches still between them. “Somehow, when the time comes, we’ll figure it out. First, I have to get you home.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try not to cause a fuss.” She tipped her head towards his shoulder.
“I don’t mind.” He didn’t. Celia could drink four pots of tea at every change of horses, and leave embroidery silk on the breakfast table, and take off his waistcoat whenever she chose. She was imperfect and wonderful, and she was his.
And for some reason, she didn’t seem to mind. Like honey brought in from the cold, she softened closer to him.
Celia needed time to think things over. He didn’t rush her.
“Do you need anything else?” She straightened to look at him, but didn’t pull away.
All he wanted was everything, but he would be content with that long-ago dream. “Just this,” Peter said. “Just you.”
And he put his hand along her face, and she turned slightly towards him, and he cupped her cheek with his other hand. He looked into her eyes, wide and blue and waiting, and then he kissed her.
He stood back to check her face. She was smiling, so he lowered his lips to hers again.
His imagination hadn’t warned him about all the feelings that flooded him, from her warm palms on his shoulders to her soft mouth under his. He didn’t want to just touch her face, he wanted the whole Celia. He lowered one hand, brushing her chin and the nape of her neck. He slid his arm around her shoulders and she melted closer to his chest, but that wasn’t right yet. His breath catching in his throat, Peter slid his hand to her waist. Her skirts flattened under his palm, not concealing the warmth of her skin or the curve of her waist and hip. Without thinking, Peter let his fingers spread, curious, pulling her close. Celia moved with him, nestling so her body fit perfectly against his.
He drew a breath, knowing she could feel the rise of his ribcage, the shudder of air against his tight throat. That was more intimate than their bodies touching, even with half his clothes off.
“Peter,” she said. She kissed his shoulder, her mouth warm through his thin shirt. “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.”
She had asked him before, and he hadn’t realized she was meaning him. Himself.
“Celia.” He kissed her forehead, more firmly, her temple. He cupped his hand around her head, and her chignon came unpinned, slowly, brushing his fingers with little tickling caresses. “Celia, you have me. Forever.”
She looked up and he kissed her full on the mouth. This time he couldn’t hide his longing, couldn’t be a wooden soldier any longer. He kissed her firmly, opened his mouth and breathed her in. Tasted her. Celia made a little noise, and his head warnedshe is frightenedbut his gut saidshe wants you. He was too exhausted to figure it out so he kissed her some more, tilted her face towards him and nuzzled against her lower lip. He forced his hand to stay light on her waist so she could move away when she needed to.
Celia didn’t move away. She flattened her palm on his chest and he hummed, startled, as his kisses trailed across her cheek. She arched closer and whispered his name, and he heard the loneliness in her voice. He needed to answer her, and that turned into his hands on her back, his kisses against her neck. She was his, he was hers, he wasn’t enough but he loved her, he loved her, he loved her.
