“Raise Elinor?” Francis flung himself back into his chair. “God, I hope you can. She needs to get out of there.”
“But I’m just a useless, cankered—”
“You’re just a man,” Brennan said. “We’re all useless when it comes to young ladies.”
“Which returns us to my original idea!” Francis bounced upright. “Celia—”
“No. I already told you, no!” Peter drained his water, throat tight.
“But darling, that was last year!”
Bone saw. Cut her out. No pain. No pain left at all.
“Seriously, Peter.” Francis brought him a new glass of water, and a new fresh lime. “You’ve been visiting her all winter. I see the way you look at her. I’m a matchmaker, and I tell you, the two of you would be a good match.”
“Seriously. I can’t do it.” Peter met his eyes. Tried to be convincing. “It’s not fair to Celia. She needs someone steady and respectable, and I’m just lurching from one disaster to the next. She needs to marry quickly, and I haven’t even got a house to give her.”
“Except, that is, yourhouse,” Brennan muttered to his paper.
“But her cousins need her in London. I’m too much of a mess.” Furthermore, he had a mysterious enemy threatening his womenfolk.
“You’re right about one thing.” Francis was cool and steady now. “Celia needs to marry quickly. Peter, if you won’t do it, she’s going to marry someone else. You’re out of time.”
Peter looked at the ceiling, blew out his breath slowly, looked back at Francis. “If someone else can take care of her properly, then God go with them. Truly.”
He meant it. He really did.
It just hurt.
Chapter Eight
Roaming Round its Gilt Cage
“Oh, goodness me,”Rose half-whispered, pulling at Celia as they stepped onto the fourth-floor landing. “There’s light under our bedroom door. Henny-Penny must be waiting up for us. Let’s go to your room.”
“Maybe Henrietta just wishes to talk,” Celia suggested. “One’s first Season is so overwhelming.”
“Not for darling Miss Perfect,” Rose said.
“You and yourself had a fine evening,” Celia said, “even though your mother wasn’t there to witness it.”
Within a few short days, Lord Francis had followed through on his promise to Celia. Candlelight and laughter glinting off the crystal in a private parlor at Mivart’s Hotel, Celia and Rose had dined with a carefully selected group of single gentlemen and married ladies. Lord Francis had kept the conversation flowing and playful, Rose had immersed herself happily in a discussion of Greek texts, and Celia had been persuaded to tell stories.
“Maybebecausemy mother wasn’t there,” Rose said bitterly.
Lately, Rose and her mother had nothing but barbs for each other, but Celia would rather remember the good days. Back when Aunt Thompson brought her daughters to Castle Killyreigh; little Rose curled up to her mother’s side, giggling while the bard pretended to pull coins out of Clarence’s ears and the chubby boy rolled on the floor in laughter. Two yearsyounger, back in those days he followed Celia everywhere. She felt badly for the collies who had to get wet on their way to the upper fields, and she wanted to build a bridge. Rose and Clarence worked diligently, following her instructions as they all placed sticks and leftover bricks, and Henrietta was allowed to come play with them after her nap.
Before their parents sent Clarence to Eton, and her mother died, and her father remarried. Back in the days when Celia had time to be a child—the time that she wanted so desperately to save for Marianne. Once you have to grow up, there is no going back.
Celia sighed and pushed open the door to the large bedroom.
Henrietta sprang up from where she was curled by the fire. “Did you have a wonderful time? I hope you had the most wonderful evening! I heard the carriage, and ordered chamomile tea and hot milk with vanilla. I can help you undress while Fanny brings them. Do you want hair down first, or stays unlaced?”
“You are so thoughtful.” Celia hoped Rose noticed it too. “Hair, please; I have a pin that has been tugging at me.”
“Buttons,” moaned Rose.
Celia crooked her finger and Rose turned her back to her, and they made a little interconnected row of undressing. Henrietta chattered on, asking questions about Mivart’s and what they had eaten. Celia didn’t think she was Miss Perfect; she thought Henrietta was young and careful and a little bit brittle, walling herself in “accomplishments” because they were the only armor allowed to a young lady.
