“I’m sorry, it’s just terrible in here, isn’t it?” Celia found a half-empty basket on a shelf, and shoved the flounces on top of a dozen skeins of wool.
“I like it.” Mr. Hughes was idly winding the thread and examining all the escritoires and cabinets, pacing from needle books to soft pastels, straightening the pots of glue and brushing a graceful finger along a feather. “It’s friendly.”
“You can’t possibly like this mess. I’m terribly sorry.” Celia pressed the stopper into a bottle of perfume, wondering what Mr. Hughes’s home was like.
Mr. Hughes found a pegboard and placed his spool precisely between dark purple and dove. “I do like it. This room proves that this house is filled by industrious and creative women.”
He rewarded Celia with the full intensity of his smile, and Celia forgave him for everything.
Impressive chords that had to be Beethoven began echoing around the room. Marianne was the most passionate pianist among them, and therefore the most technically advanced.
“Miss Westhaven.” Mr. Hughes held a chair at the table for Celia.
To take the chair, Celia had to pass so close she could see the shadows under his eyes, smell his shaving soap and sandalwood. For some reason, Celia felt heat in her cheeks, and she allowedhim to seat her without finding the polite words to reply. After all, it wasn’t like he was flirting with her, and it wasn’t like she held out any hope of him.
“It’s not respectable for me to stay long, even with your cousin here.” Mr. Hughes sat opposite, leaning his arms on the table between them and clasping his hands.
Celia stared at her lap. In the last week, Lord Edmund had stayed for their entire at-home, speculated about Celia’s clothing in public, and offered to buy her a horse. Her name was already bandied about by the gossips; Peter was only a mister and a few minutes would hardly make anything worse.
“I came to talk with your uncle about Lord Edmund.”
Celia’s gaze darted up desperately. She didn’t want to talk about Lord Edmund, oh no she didn’t!
Mr. Hughes leaned forward so they could speak underneath Beethoven. “I hope I have given Thompson enough information that he will keep Hargreaves away from you. Men are joking in the clubs about his obsession with you. I fear you are in deeper than you think.”
That prickly heat flared all through Celia’s chest, sharper with every word he spoke. So he was coming to tell her what she knew all too well?
“And how do you know what I am thinking?” Celia flattened her hands on the well-worn table, breath sharp and shallow. “I know enough to know I dislike him thoroughly.”
“This is not about like or dislike—”
“What right have you to tell me what to think or do?” Celia’s slow-burning indignation flared to the surface, and somehow she was also on the edge of tears. How dare Mr. Hughes call himself their friend, then disappear for all this time, and then come and lecture her?
“Celia.”
Something in the gentle way he said her Christian name made those tears start to spill, her throat hot and burning.
He put his hand on the table between them, as though he were covering hers, but leaving a scant few inches between them. “I have no right. I have no business being here. You can tell me to leave and never look at you again.”
Celia looked down at his hands. His fingers were long and slightly tapered and had a scrape on one knuckle. She did not tell him to leave forever.
All her frustration drained as quickly as it had risen, leaving her deflated. She rubbed her eyes and let her hands drop back onto the middle of the table, right next to his.
Celia glanced at Marianne, who was completely focused on repeating a small passage over and over. She needed someone she could confide in, someone who was not dependent on her.
“You were the one who warned me about my uncle.” The texture in her mouth made Celia aware she was speaking Irish, and she started over.
Peter moved his little finger on top of her little finger. He was watching her calmly, giving her time to work through her tangled sentences.
“We—figured it out. The mines. The ship.” Celia watched his face, checking for any sign of surprise.
Mr. Hughes tugged his little finger against hers. “Yes, I already know.”
Celia wasn’t surprised that he knew, but it was unsettling that he had recognized her unspoken question.
Her hand nudged closer, and Mr. Hughes’s fourth finger rested on top of her fourth finger.
“If I married Lord Edmund…” Celia took a deep breath, and concentrated on Marianne’s music, how much she loved her. “I would be taken care of forever. Then my cousins would be safe. They would be safe.”
