“Of course I can.” Not without a man beside her and a house behind her, she couldn’t.
But Rose’s face relaxed, as though Celia had swept away the shards of a broken teacup. Everything fixed. “Charlotte was right, I feel better already. Now let’s go dance, before Mother gets in another scold.”
Celia smiled back and followed her cousin down the corridor. She could laugh about the Cu Sidhe for herself, but not if their sepulchral footsteps hounded her cousins, too.
Chapter Two
The Three Warnings
Celia stood bya plaster column at the edge of the assembly rooms, rubbing her elbow and fanning the perfumed air away from her face, relieved to have a moment to marshal her thoughts. With every passing dance, every inane conversation, every precise curtsey calibrated to the depth of her own station relative to that of the person she was greeting, Celia’s mind plunged deeper into examining the last few months in the Thompson household. There had been something unsettled, Celia had known that, but she had guessed it was because Henrietta was home from school, exponentially increasing the available arguments, and of course Mr. Jones’s rejected proposal had set off the friction between Rose and her mother. But now, she was going over and over Aunt Thompson’s and Rose’s comments, trying to calculate what neither of them had said. She and Rose were both in their mid-twenties, and in all these years Aunt Thompson had never made more than desultory suggestions that they marry. Something was wrong, but Celia didn’t have enough information to fix everything, as she had promised Rose.
Celia had survived her life so far by twisting obedience into her own needs. Since she was supposed to marry, she would find a match for her own purposes.
She would marry for the house, and make a home for her cousins. Rose didn’t wish to marry, Henrietta deserved to play, and Marianne was much too young to worry.
Celia scanned the ballroom, her shoulders settling back, her chin lifting. For the last three years, she had felt stupid and awkward in company—but what if she turned it around, and truly everyone else was the one out of place? The thought was so audacious that her face softened.
Fingers hidden amidst her silly ruffles, Celia snapped her fingers at her side, imagining the scene. From behind the refreshments, under the stairs, slithering out of the violoncellos like smoke, the Cu Sidhe lifted their black heads and came trotting towards her.
“If Gaelic monsters are haunting London, it is me that you should obey,” Celia told them. She spoke in Irish, murmured under the cacophony of the ballroom, although she was just English enough to know that the hellhounds were not real. She twitched her fingers, the command for collies to round up. “Put them all in Omagh.” The fools probably didn’t even know their best linen came from the bustling Irish city. “See how graceful they look then.”
The English girls with their false ennui and ruffled silk would be at a ball in a castle keep, echoing with the skirl of the flute and fiddle. The matrons in their velvet turbans would be huddled in the corner of a church redolent with the smell of incense and the chant of prayers. Men who wore navy epaulettes for decoration would not know how to take a punch, let alone at a funeral with barefoot keeners beating their breasts, wake pipes passed from lip to lip in the church courtyard, kissing games as the vigil tipped past midnight.
Celia leaned back, smiling, both amused by the absurdity and soothed by her memories. Catching movement, her eyes darted to the real-life man bowing his greeting. He was lithe andgraceful, with the sort of medium-brown hair and medium eyes and medium features that blend into the crowd, but his fluid expressions stood out to Celia. She loved that smile, and she didn’t mind Mr. Hughes, either.
“I have come to ask you for this dance,” Peter Hughes said, “but it looks like you are many miles away.”
Five hundred, to be precise. Celia’s smile came easily as she offered her hand. “I was, but I can return for you.”
Mr. Hughes kissed her glove in the formal way, his eyes twinkling, his hands warm and confident.
“This late at night, and you aren’t even in your cups?” Celia threaded her arm through his his, and wrinkled her nose. “Or are you?”
“Would you still dance with me if I were?” A smile flashed across Mr. Hughes’s expressive face. “I am fairly certain I have all my faculties. Shall I dance a jig to prove it? Play a Mozart sonata?”
“Do you know how to play Mozart?”
“No, nor how to dance a jig either.”
Celia laughed and let her steps settle next to his. He smelled of sandalwood and wool, overlaid with the heady sweetness of brandy, but Celia was not a sheltered city debutante and she knew perfectly well he did not speak or move like a drunken man.
They wove into the crowd on the ballroom floor, and Celia’s foot stuttered. Her heart froze, but before panic could seize her, Mr. Hughes braced his arm. Without thinking, Celia let herself lean on him until her heartbeat steadied. Mr. Hughes did not flirt with her, but he noticed the little things.
“How are you doing, tonight?” He led her into position, more slowly now, and spun to face her.
“Me and myself?” Celia touched her breastbone. “I am fine. Perfectly well.”
The musicians tuned their instruments, and the next couple paused several paces away, instead of lining up in a tottering row. Blazes! Would that she had managed to sit this one out. Celia disliked the pompous intimacy of a waltz. Mr. Hughes was a graceful partner, but in thirty minutes of unalloyed conversation, he would get her talking. That was one thing on a morning visit—at home, endless pots of tea, her cousins’ chatter dim from the far side of the room—it was quite something else when Celia just needed to hold herself together to the end of a ridiculous ball.
Of course, if he pleased her aunt by offering for Celia, that wouldn’t be so bad—but as soon as the thought skittered into her head, Celia shook it away. If he had wanted to propose, he would have done it last year, and clearly he hadn’t. Besides, she had never heard about Mr. Hughes owning a property of his own. Celia didn’t need a man, but she needed a house.
The musicians played the opening chords, Mr. Hughes bowed and Celia curtsied, and Celia stepped into his hands. The music captured Celia’s heart, and without planning it at all, Celia looked up at Peter and smiled. Truly, all the way, the smile she rarely needed any more.
His smile, as always, lit her up like a sip of fine Irish whiskey. As they settled into the slow promenade, Celia allowed herself to forget her aunt, forget the Cu Sidhe, and enjoy this moment—just this exact moment. Mr. Hughes was light on his feet, guided her smoothly, and they fit together well. He did not overwhelm or tower above her, even as small as Celia was. As he led her in a perfectly timed turn, Celia savored the rhythm and beauty and human connection.
They shared a smile during the pause, and then the musicians began the bright pace of the Sauteuse waltz.
“How is Miss Henrietta?” Mr. Hughes was not out of breath.
