His gaze was still fixed on her. His expressive face was sad, or thoughtful, or—not possibly tender. Its steadiness was certainly at odds with his slurred speech, which reminded Celia of the other times she had seen him supposedly in his cups. His bumbling actions were belied by his internal poise.
The maid poured the lemonade, and Charlotte went to collect their glasses.
“We have been very busy, sir.” Rose glared at Mr. Hughes. “We have parties, and drives in the park, and—oh, so many invitations.”
“So I have heard.” Mr. Hughes looked past them for a moment, his mouth tightened briefly, and then he smiled wryly. “Speak of… and he is at your elbow.” He omitted the word that was inappropriate for ladies.
Celia’s stomach clenched in sudden understanding. She turned quickly—
Right into Lord Edmund, her arm bumping his coat and his hand brushing across her. Celia took a quick step backwards.She kept trying to see the best in him, remember how Dreirly Manor would make up for a multitude of deficits, but with Peter standing right there she could hear his warnings pounding in her mind.
Lord Edmund bowed a florid greeting to Celia, ignored Rose, obstructed Charlotte, then spun towards Mr. Hughes.
“Why are you hanging about?” he growled. “I’ve told you before, bugger off! I won’t have a drunkard hanging around Miss Westhaven.”
He put a proprietary hand on Celia’s arm—marriage is a thousand times worse,Charlotte had said—Celia stiffened in panic. Rose edged sideways. Lord Edmund was between them, but both her friends were right there. They both believed that Celia had choices, was strong, could keep going. Celia willed her feet to move, to take another stumbling step away. Glanced desperately at Mr. Hughes, who stood straight and calm.
Lord Edmund was petting her arm and talk-talk-talking, and by the rhythm it was probably poetry, but with every stroke Celia’s head pounded harder and she had lost her command over English. This was how ladies lost their reputation, their other suitors, their choices. She saw Rose’s desperation, knew that the whole room was watching them, waiting to judge her for being too flirtatious or too underhanded or too Irish. She managed another step.
She was close enough to Mr. Hughes, and he placed his hand—calm, steady—on her back.
“Leave my lady alone!” Lord Edmund snapped.
She was not his. She would never be his.
His big hand closed around her elbow as Celia turned away and planted her feet at the same time, while her head was spinning and her balance was bad. She knew that she was falling, but she was horrified to fallintoLord Edmund. Her shoulder slammed into his broad chest and her hand skittered across hishard stomach muscles and sharp buttons and past his hip—oh horrors! She could smell his cologne and his male sweat, feel his rapid breathing. At almost the same moment, his fingers closed over her upper arms and he yanked them upwards, pain lancing through her shoulders.
Celia was too shocked to cry out.
“Oh, my poor darling! Are you hurt? Did you stumble?” Lord Edmund had Celia by one elbow, patting down her rumpled skirt, his hands hot through the thin fabric, touching her hips and her thighs.
Then Peter Hughes was there, his steady hands on her shoulders, his warmth behind her. Celia found that inner fire that Lord Francis had mentioned and dared to yank her elbow away from Lord Edmund, hard. She tumbled into Peter, who used the momentum to step them both backwards, away from Lord Edmund’s grasping hands.
It was just a second, just a few tumbling heartbeats, but Celia’s mind spun even faster than her breath was heaving. In that breath, her sensations were clear as cut crystal: Peter’s sharp intake of air, his solid grace, scent of sandalwood. Her first thought was illogical, that Mr. Hughes was not even a member of the Bonnet Brigade, not even contracted to rescue her. Her second thought was even more illogical—that she wanted to turn around and bury her face in his chest.
Other people were gathering, like a drawstring closing tight.
Lord Edmund was yelling. “What are you doing, you cretin—”
“Returning Miss Westhaven to her cousin.” Peter’s voice was sharp, but his hands were calm on Celia’s shoulders.
And it was true. He turned them both, and there was Rose.
Rose, who never touched anyone, opened her arms and Celia tumbled into them. She needed to borrow security, and Rosealways knew exactly who she was. She could still feel Lord Edmund’s hands like worms crawling on her skin.
Peter’s hand rested on the small of her back for just a fraction of a moment, but it helped. “Celia, you’re all right,” he murmured.
Celia’s face was buried in Rose’s shoulder, but she felt her cousin look up, felt the intensity in Rose’s body as she met Mr. Hughes’s eyes. Even she must have realized that Peter was not drunk in the least.
Lord Edmund’s bellow, much too close, made Celia jump. “Don’t touch my—”
“Hercousin, Hargreaves. Her cousin.” Peter’s voice was cold.
Rose pulled them both away from the men, and Celia smelled neroli and comfort, felt Charlotte’s hand on her shoulder. Celia didn’t want to look up, see the faces avid for scandal. She didn’t dare to look at Peter.
She did. Mr. Hughes was standing with his hands on his hips, straight and confident. His face was turned towards Lord Edmund, but the big man stepped away, and then another step back.
“Having any trouble, ma’am?” asked the very large footman, glaring at Lord Edmund, who almost certainly did not have an invitation.
