“I do, Miss Westhaven. It is one of my guiding principles. Watch out, here.” He stepped onto the lawn, so she could have the space at the very edge of the path and not wet her shoes in either the grass or the puddle. “But the thing about love is that it looks different for each person. If there was a man who was more than the sum of his house, what would that look like to you?”
“Two legs,” Celia quipped. “Two eyes, one nose.” The conversation was making her uncomfortable.
“How would he treat you? How would he speak to you? How would you know that you were loved?”
Celia’s mind flashed to the image of Peter Hughes examining her embroidery, asking why she had chosen to depict Mór-ríoghan as an eel and a heifer, but not in her raven form, the way he watched her while she explained what she meant, as though she had a right to interpret the ancient tales. As though her art mattered.
“My father adored my mother,” Celia said out loud. “I imagine like that, I suppose.”
Lord Francis, who talked so much that he had shaken stories out of Celia, raised his eyebrows. “I could do with a little less passion beyond the grave. Perhaps a wee bit overdone, in your father’s case.”
Celia lifted her chin and paused to examine a shrub. She loved her father, and it wasn’t his fault he went into such depressions of spirits. It just meant he loved deeply, and was unlucky to have become a widower twice. “I have heard they collect the Gallica roses, here. I would love to see the garden in the summer. My lord, why are you asking me all these impertinent questions?”
Lord Francis shrugged, which he turned graceful and theatrical. “I was going to offer to help you find a match. But only if you actually want one.”
She had told Rose she would fix everything. “I need a match.”
He bowed. “Then I shall find you a house, with a reasonably unobjectionable gentleman attached. Shall we talk strategy, my dear?”
They meandered around a couple more beds, admired a couple more views, while Lord Francis chattered. He would throw a party; invite some ladies whose husbands were out of town, and some houses to fawn upon Celia—
“I don’t need fawning,” she protested.
“They aren’t literally houses, either,” he said.
—check around with various contacts at various clubs, have his aunt invite her to parties.
It seemed like a great deal of effort to put in for a lady he only knew casually, when he was in love—his guiding principle—with someone else.
It began to rain again, the sort of drops that are barely beyond mist. Celia lifted her face and let it kiss her, glad she had a nice warm house to return to. For a few more weeks, at least. “But why?”
“Why would I not help the kindest, loveliest, most generous lady in London?” Francis placed a hand over his heart.
“Well then, why would you take time off from that worthy cause to offer to helpme?” Celia asked.
“Oho!” Francis rolled his eyes. “Take snuff at yourself, will you?”
“I want to know,” Celia insisted.
“Very well.” Lord Francis swung her onto another looping path through the garden, his tone playful. “The injustice of the world bothers me. I told you what mattered to me; I don’t want to see anyone marry against their will.”
Exactly her own mission. Celia was ensuring that Rose and Henrietta and Marianne did not have to marry against their will. But Francis had no reason to care so much. “So you are Lord Bountiful, then?”
“Do you not believe in friendship, Miss Westhaven?”
Come to think of it, that was how Celia thought love looked. A friend with whom you wanted to spend all your days, and—
Lord Francis interrupted her thoughts. “As a matter of fact, I am an egotistic man with an ulterior motive. Hardly better than a bed of ragwort, am I?” He dropped her arm and spun to face her, and his voice had dropped slightly, lower and rougher. He stared off at the Thames, tension around the edge of his mouth.
This, Celia saw, was the real Francis Burnett—thinking, passionate, and a little bit tired. She brushed his hand, lightly.
“I always kept ragwort around for my little brothers’ colic,” she said. And then, because she could not think of something clever, she added what she really felt. “You should come for tea; you are always welcome. I will prepare you something special.”
A moment passed. Lord Francis pulled his gaze back to Celia, a little smile at the corner of his mouth. Then his playful mask was back in place, and he bowed and offered his arm. Just then, the wind gusted and raindrops began in earnest.
Another couple passed them, giggling and squealing and clutching each other. Celia wondered if that was love; if they would clutch and squeal until they were kissing. If they were married, and would go home and take off each other’s wet clothing. What that would feel like.
Lord Francis walked Celia briskly, protecting her feet from puddles and both of their reputations from speculation.
