Just like Francis had threatened.
John Cade was tall, with smooth dark hair and a self-assured way of walking that indicated that he had not faced artillery fire. Peter was not tall, and his hair was kind of medium-colored and still not barbered, and the bayonets had been the least of it—but for just a moment, he saw himself there with Celia. He saw who he might have been if he’d chosen a different direction these dozen years past. Fat allowance from his father, Avonleagh Manor polished and full of flowers, an understated townhouse inthe best neighborhood. Perhaps by now he would run a charity school, or be a patron of the arts, or have taken his degree by examination. And that—thatwould be the man who had the right to fall in love with Celia Westhaven.
“I wish him luck,” he said out loud, meaning it to John Cade.
No one could hear. The party was loud, the music was starting, he was leaning over the balcony. “Fucking bastard,” Peter added.
*
“Clarence! Darling! Howwonderful to see you!” Hurrying across the Merriweather’s checkerboard hall, Celia released Mr. Brennan’s arm to reach towards her brother. Clarence avoided her embrace, but leaned in to peck her on the cheek, and Celia caught the tension in him. This was not the dominoes playing Clarence, this was Lord Kilairne.
Celia presented Brennan to her brother, glancing at the man looming behind him, but Clarence did not make introductions, so Celia politely ignored him. He was glowering oddly at poor Mr. Brennan, though, who hastened through a polite discussion of the weather and took his leave.
Celia smiled that special smile she had for Clarence, obliging and demure with just a hint of tenderness. “I think you will enjoy this ball particularly. There is a special balcony for the musicians, and Mrs. Merriweather hired exceptionally fine players.”
“I do enjoy good music.” Clarence’s expression softened.
Celia knew he enjoyed good music. Celia knew everything that pleased her brother.
“You are in fine looks tonight, Celia.” He sounded mildly surprised, and idly adjusted his ornate enameled buttons as he took stock of his sister. “Have you been dancing every set?”
Celia assured him that she had; Clarence made approving noises, as though he were her uncle.
Surely a lack of love and security had been what propelled him into putting on such hauteur. The real Clarence still shone through sometimes; if Celia just loved him unconditionally enough, she was sure it could atone for the tragedy of his young life; being sent away to school, in a foreign country where he was supposed to belong. He had written her begging to come home, but by the end of the first year they had turned to flat acceptance. They were also in English, by then.
Clarence glanced at the gentleman behind him, then asked Celia questions about her partners, which she answered with that just-right smile, wondering even more about the tall man in the bright blue waistcoat.
As they spoke, Celia could see Mr. Penrose hovering politely, examining a Dutch still-life rather than intruding on their conversation. Celia had promised a dance to each of the gentlemen from Lord Francis’s party, and he was here to escort her.
She focused on her brother. “Clarence, darling, do you think you could find Henrietta?”
“Do you need her? Or you mean… ask her to dance?”
“You could dance with her once, couldn’t you?” Celia twirled her fan on her wrist. “And then, just… hover around her a bit? You know, dear, since she doesn’t have a brother of her own?” Clarence might be young, but he had that wonderful glower. Not to mention the title, of course.
Clarence’s infamous brows drew together again as he touched his pocket watch, but his expression cleared before helooked at it. “I wasn’t going to stay for long, but I suppose tonight is as good as any. I will find her.”
As though it weren’t the gentleman’s duty to escort the ladies of his family! Out loud, Celia said, “You are too kind!” in that purring voice that Clarence particularly appreciated.
Celia sent Mr. Penrose an apologetic smile and dipped a curtsey to her brother.
Before she could excuse herself, Clarence made a broad gesture to his companion.
“Lord Edmund, this is my sister.”
Celia curtsied and extended one hand.
The man made a deep bow and grasped both of Celia’s hands, kissed them several times and pulled her fingers against his heart. Celia laughed nervously.
Clarence’s tone was brisk. “Celia, this is Lord Edmund, third son of the Earl of Roxworcester. Lord Edmund is the master of Dreirly Manor, he raises very fine racehorses, and has extensive personal holdings in the Caribbean.”
He sounded like a shopkeeper selling the latest face cream to prevent blemishes.
“Charmed, Miss Westhaven,” murmured Lord Edmund, tucking one buckled foot behind the other in order to bow over her enclosed hands. The bow was too deep, and his dark upswept Brutus hardly budged as he dipped. As he rose, he met Celia’s confused expression, and smiled widely. “Be thou, the evening beam that smiles the clouds away, of starry skies—meet in her smile and her… eyes.”
He was acting like a hero in a melodrama, and Celia was confused about what her role was supposed to be. She was hardly an ingenue.
Besides, even Celia could tell that poetry didn’t scan.
