Mr. Hughes rubbed her pinky finger with his, slowly.
Celia glanced up and saw the warning on his face, and rushed forward with her desperate explanation. “Rose could stay with me until she hears from Mr. Featherstone, or Hanson, whoever she likes. I could plan parties and introduce Henrietta to eligible men.” Ones who didn’t stare at her bosoms when she was speaking. “And she could live with me”—slight nod towards the piano—“so if only I had a household, I could manage!”
Mr. Hughes’s face was still. “What indication has Lord Edmund ever given you that he would let you spend one penny on your cousins?” The question was so cruel that Celia accidentally yanked her hands back, turning away in her chair. Of course he must be willing. Anyone who was interested in her must understand that much.
Of course.
“I would be safe.” Celia’s voice broke.
Her own safety wasn’t even what was important to her.
“Your material needs might be met,” Peter agreed quietly, “but I do not think you would be safe.”
Celia closed her eyes.
Peter waited, patient. Keeping all his impossible secrets.
Marianne began working on a Bach fugue, which was more conducive to organizing one’s thoughts. Celia sat up crisply.
*
“Do you intendto inform me of the news you brought my uncle?”
As soon as Celia spoke crisply, Peter pulled upright. He probably ought not be here at all, but Henrietta had told him to come.
“I have learned two things of interest.” He’d called in favors for this, probably started rumors in the spy corps, starting tomake people wonder why he cared. Who he was. “First of all”—he aligned the jars of clips and pins and tiny scissors—“Hargreaves has been married before. It was a girl from the country, she was never presented, and no one knows her at all. There are records of their marriage and her death, three years later. No children.”
She was upset, but he wanted her upset about this. He wanted her to harden that sweet heart of hers.
“Secondly…” Peter looked directly at Celia. “Your brother owes him money. A great deal of money.”
“Gambling!” The word burst out of Celia, and the music stopped mid-phrase.
It was brutal, but Peter needed her to face it. She had more sense than Kilairne, but she was trusting him instead of herself.
Celia dropped her head in her hands, elbows braced on the table.
Very well. Time to drive home the blow, take the pain, and walk out.
“Lord Edmund is not the only gentleman interested in pursuing your hand this Season, Miss Westhaven.” Peter pushed back his chair, brushed his coat straight. There. Done.
“Oh Mr. Hughes!” Marianne whirled around from the piano bench, all bright eyes and wild hair. “Celia has so many suitors this year! Have you seen the way they look at her? Finally, someone sees Celia for how wonderful she really is.”
For the first moment, her words were like the gossip in the clubs, the words in Peter’s mother’s letters, the words he said to himself.Suitors, he should, you should, spring wedding, dowry, settlements, set up your nursery.He was numb to that.
But this was Marianne, who had not a single iota of scheming in her littlest finger. Marianne, whom he couldn’t help adoring with all the leftover love from his own sister. Marianne, who loved Celia with the fierceness she deserved.
Someone sees Celia for how wonderful she really is.
Peter stared at her cheerful expression and the truth hit him. He wanted to be the only one. Peter was counting on all the other men overlooking everything except for her skills and connections. But they weren’t.
He could let Cade court her. He could let Cade marry her. But he couldn’t bear for Cade toseeCelia.
Marianne’s smile fluttered, then faltered.
Peter pushed away his feelings. Later.
He turned to Celia, all geniality, prepared words. “Trust Lord Francis. The man knows everyone who is anyone, and he is determined to find you—ahem, I believe he said, ‘the husband of your dreams.’” He rolled his eyes heavenward, tipped one hip forward, and tapped one finger on his chin. It was a perfect imitation of Lord Francis, and he got both ladies to laugh.
