“I hope the excessive rain this spring is not harming the crops at Dreirly.” Celia smiled back, tense and blank.
Lord Edmund blinked, and she disengaged her hands.
“If you will excuse me.” Celia tried again to turn to Mr. Penrose, who approached, smiling.
Lord Edmund was undeterred; he grabbed at her hands again. “You must give me the honor of this dance!”
Mr. Penrose bowed, Celia stepped backwards, Lord Edmund held fast. She felt a flash of panic and tugged, which knocked her off balance; Mr. Penrose stumbled out of his bow to catch her. Through it all, Clarence’s eyebrows descended.
Blushing, Mr. Penrose snatched his hands away from her arm and lower back the moment she had regained her balance.
“Please excuse me.” Celia was mortified, but kept her best brother-appeasing smile in place. “I have already promised this dance.”
“Shall we, Miss Westhaven?” Mr. Penrose offered his arm, stiff as a wooden soldier. Since he had not been introduced, he could not address Clarence or Lord Edmund.
Lord Edmund followed along. “How foolish of me to imagine such an exceptional lady would be available the moment I set eyes on her!” He was elbowing people out of the way in order to walk three abreast. “The next dance, then, Miss Westhaven? I shall collect you for the dinner dance.”
Celia did not have a specific prior commitment, so courtesy dictated that she accept. She dipped her head in agreement, and finally Mr. Penrose maneuvered her through the ballroom door and Lord Edmund fell back.
Mr. Penrose was muttering something to himself. His rare comments at the dinner party had been imaginative, and Celia hoped he was not already disappointed in her.
“What were you were saying?” Celia smiled her sweetest smile.
Mr. Penrose guided them into place. The boxy styling and worn cuffs of his brown velvet coat made Celia suspect that hishair was fashionably long merely because he had forgotten to make an appointment with his hairdresser, but something about his chestnut curls made Celia want to ruffle them. He felt like the brother she had imagined when Clarence was off in England, growing up without her.
Penrose blinked. “She walks in beauty, like the night, Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright, Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
“Oh.” Was Celia in another melodrama, now?
But Penrose continued in a normal tone. “Your friend, there. He conflated two different poems into one…” His face registered distaste that he was too polite to express.
“Into one sad quotation, misused and abused?” Celia laughed with relief, because at least this comment made sense.
“Speaking of your friend…” Penrose glanced up at the musicians, who were just beginning. “I do apologize if I interrupted an introduction you were desirous to pursue immediately.”
“No! Oh no. I mean…” Celia scrambled for words. “That is, I am not ready to be at all particular in my affections. At all.”
“Very well, then.” Penrose sounded as awkward as Celia felt. “I trust you will inform me if you do wish to become more particular. Until that point, perhaps I might escort you occasionally? Walking in Hyde Park, perhaps, on Thursday?”
Celia’s heart flooded with light as she bobbed and accepted. Oh, how happy Aunt Thompson would be! And Henrietta too!
She took every opportunity to smile through the rest of the gavotte.
*
Peter made acircuit of the upper rooms, danced (someone whowasn’t Celia), played a game of whist with Leavenworth as his partner (won), and danced (another someone who was not Celia). He was just checking out the window (rain, just like ten minutes earlier) when he heard his name.
He turned, and realized it was the wrong name. Damn damndamn!
“Peter Alcott, as I live and breathe! How wonderful to see you here!”
“Uncle Derrick.” Peter raced through his options: too late to pretend he was not Alcott; nor that he hadn’t heard; nor to rush his uncle to a private room and try to explain the situation.
All of them involved disrespect to a man who—well, who was good man. Peter took his uncle’s arm to lead him to a bench where they could sit together. Samuel Derrick had been a doddery, slightly confused old man when Peter had shown up on his doorstep a decade ago, and he appeared to be equally doddery and no more confused now.
“Fancy seeing you! Fancy seeing you again!” Uncle Derrick kept patting his arm, over and over, his smile wide and honest. “I didn’t even know you were in London!”
“I’m not in London, really.” Not as Alcott, he wasn’t.
