“It feels too selfish. Too easy.”
“Your brother might be a bit self-centered and high-handed, but he’s a decent man. Isn’t he?”
“I think he’ll be better in a few years,” Celia admitted.
“Like ripe cheese?” Charlotte giggled.
“I think he’d prefer to be compared to wine.”
They meandered towards the next stall, their laughter cut off when a man rushed down the alleyway. His shoulder knocked into them as he passed. Celia staggered into Charlotte, who grabbed her to stay upright, dropping her bundle.
Celia bent and brushed it off, knowing that her friend didn’t have the budget to replace anything ruined underfoot. Her frustration flared; a man making it worse, like always—even Peter hadn’t fixed anything.
“You too.” Charlotte placed her hand on Celia’s arm, so close that Celia could see the tawny glints in her dark eyes. “Marriage isn’t just parlor conversations and bouquets.”
“I know.” Celia retreated inward, like a snail.
“It’s about your body, too.” Charlotte stepped closer, implacable. “Rose won’t think about it, Henrietta oversimplifies. But you’re not naive, Celie. You have the Westhaven status behind you. Use it to insist on finding a man who pleasesyou.”
“We haven’t time.” Celia pulled back.
“If you cringe away from Lord Edmund’s touch now, it will only be worse when he’s your husband.” Charlotte linked herarm through Celia’s. She smelled of neroli and comfort. “A thousand times worse. You know that. And even Mr. Cade—can you imagine being close to him? Imagine him undressing you?”
“We haven’t time,” Celia repeated, because she didn’t want to imagine it.
This time Charlotte didn’t argue.
She didn’t need to. Celia knew.
*
Forty days. Clarenceescorted Celia to another Irish member of the House of Lords dinner, as the MP had no wife of his own to bring. The music was loud, the tales were exaggerated, and the food was plentiful. It was a wonderful evening.
On the carriage ride home, Clarence leaned close to his sister. “Lord Edmund likes you more and more with each passing day. Says you’re pretty and agreeable.” He still spoke in Irish.
Celia looked at her hands, uncertain.
“He’s ready to make an offer for you. I said he should talk to our uncle to discuss terms, and—”
“Oh Clarence!” Celia rarely interrupted, and now she wasn’t sure what to say. “Ask him… would he… I mean, please…” She took a deep breath, and smiled her sweetest smile. “Can’t he wait a little longer?”
“I’ll see. You deserve a nice courtship, a stór.”
“Just so I can know for sure…” She let her brother think she was referring to knowing her own mind, but her mind was clear. The Bonnet Brigade wanted her happy, but Celia wanted to know how to keep her cousins safe.
*
Thirty-nine days. Celiaand the Thompsons went walking in the park, where they just so happened to meet Lord Francis and a group of his friends. Celia had just been by this same pond on her weekly walk with Mr. Penrose.
Francis had once described a plan that involved his letters and suggestions, but as the spring wore on, Lord Francis himself kept getting involved. Today, Lord Francis claimed Celia, trailing behind the others.
She told him what Clarence had said the night before.
“I wish I could make the same report.” Francis guided Celia carefully around a puddle. “My horses are getting a rather slow start out the gate. Cade says he likes you but doesn’t hardly know you yet.”
“What has that to do with marrying someone?” Celia laughed, bitter once again.
“You’re not seriously considering the buffoon.” Francis stopped, turning to face Celia.
