“Yes, ma’am!” Janie declared loudly. “One enormous tea tray, coming right up!” She bustled out, leaving the door open.
“Come sit by the fire, Celia,” Clarence said.
All of Celia’s comfortable pillows were in the chair by the window, but she didn’t want to draw Clarence’s eye to her scattered sketched and half-begun embroidery. Looking at her ideas in fledgling form felt like seeing her naked.
No. She would not think that.
“How is your journey?” Clarence asked. “Roads are bad this year, hm?”
When Celia glanced down the street before she dared to step out, she was not looking for Lord Edmund. He seemed almost a caricature, defeated with one punch. She had been watching for her brother.
“Celia?” He sounded irritated. “Why aren’t you answering me? Come and sit down. I have been searching for you. Now we have the chance to talk.”
He wouldn’t hurt her, not really.
Could he?
“Celia! My feet are tired. What on earth is wrong?”
Celia fought an irrational urge to giggle. Clarence wouldn’t sit while a lady was standing. He would shame her and strike her and abandon her, but he wouldn’t sit.
In the hallway, pattering feet and rustling skirts—Celia turned with relief. Marianne burst in, eyes wide, with Bridget on her heels.
“Well then,” said Clarence, irritated.
Marianne glanced at Celia, then launched towards the sitting area. “Cousin Clarence! Imagine seeing you here! Do you like Yorkshire? Don’t you think the sheep are charming? Their little ears that go”—she wiggled her hands by her chin and tumbled on.
Clarence looked at Celia, brows lowered ominously. She didn’t offer to save him from the onslaught of sheep related enthusiasm.
By the time Marianne had exhausted the role of sheep in Britain’s economy, interspersed with her breed-by-breed analysis of ovine cuteness, Celia and Bridget had tidied up her embroidery corner. Celia smoothed back her chignon and adjusted her fichu, tucking it down into her collar and pulling it up to her throat.
“We won’t leave you alone,” Bridget murmured, under the bright chatter.
There was a set to her jaw that Celia had never seen before, and she realized: Bridget knew. Marianne knew. Celia had tried to pretend that everything was just fine, but they had all known all along.
They had seen her body was bruised, and they had known that Clarence had been there that night.
Janie returned, rolling the tea cart. It was, indeed, enormous, and also curiously lacking in roast beef sandwiches.
Celia lifted her chin and led the way to the seating area by the fire, where Peter had kissed her last night. Like it had been doing all morning, Celia’s heart flared with warmth, treasuring the sweetness he had offered. She gathered her skirts and sat at the head of the low table, facing towards the room. She knew how to manage tea, and she was not alone.
Leavenworth meandered in, buttoning his cuffs and tugging the last wrinkles out of his dinner jacket. Was it so late already? He raised an eyebrow at Celia as he joined them; no smiles this time.
So Leavenworth knew, too.
“Lord Kilairne!” Leavenworth bowed, just the correct amount. “How’s it looking on the Cato Street judgment?”
Courtesy forced Clarence to acknowledge the greeting. As they spoke, his mouth was tight as though he had a mouthful of gooseberries.
Celia set out teacups.
More footsteps on the stairs; too heavy to be the ones she wanted. Everyone turned to watch.
Of all impossible things, Marsh and JC clattered into the room. Marsh’s hair still showed wet lines from the comb, and JC was wearing a military medal pinned to his somewhat worn jacket.
“Said we were taking tea here, today,” Marsh explained to Celia.
“My lord,” Leavenworth said smoothly, “may I present my valet, John—”
