“Do you play?” Lord Edmund put his hand on Celia’s knee.
Rose swung forward and then out of Celia’s range of vision.
Lord Edmund squeezed. “I shall buy you a violin—”
Crash!
The music staggered to a stop. Everyone turned to stare at them.
“Dear me!” said Rose. “My chair seems to have tipped over!”
She stood, arms akimbo, glaring at Lord Edmund. Her heavy oak armchair lay at her feet, like a Dutchman posed with his foot atop a rhinoceros.
Celia poked Lord Edmund’s hand with her fan and he jerked backwards. The jowly man crossed his arms; the ladies wore looks of shock and sympathy; Henrietta darted several seats closer.
“Oh, Rose, are you hurt?” asked Celia, almost at random, trying to forestall whatever Lord Edmund might do next.
“She clearly is just fine—”
Lord Edmund’s comment was technically correct, but either his assumptions or his tone spurred a flurry of concern for Rose. The fan-waving girls offered their smelling salts, Henrietta slipped next to Charlotte, and the crowd parted for Mr. Hanson, scowling like an avenging angel.
“Miss Thompson! Are you trapped? Let me assist you.” He reached out, and for once, Rose accepted, walking carefully around the stubby chair legs stabbing the air.
Mr. Hanson escorted her closer to Celia, forcing Edmund out of the way. “Miss Westhaven, is this gentleman bothering you?”
Celia was too overwhelmed to speak. She glanced up at him, and happened to see Peter watching her, one shoulder propped on the doorway, glass in hand.
Mr. Hanson put his hand on Rose’s back and Celia wanted Peter fiercely.
Foolishly.
Mrs. Pipperly sailed up, a crowd in her wake, including the Thompsons and Mr. Bigelowe. Celia checked the faces nervously, but everyone’s irritation was turned towards Lord Edmund, not herself. Imagine being the wife of such a man, who ignored social boundaries and drew such ire! She could not bear it, and huddled closer to Henrietta and Charlotte.
“Poor Miss Thompson! Are you well? I am so sorry such an accident has befallen you!” Mrs. Pipperly waded among them, curls and feathers bouncing from her turban.
“I am most sorry for your chair,” Rose answered, loudly.
“Think nothing of it!” Mrs. Pipperly fanned Rose’s flushed face. “It is myself who bears the entire responsibility!”
“Sir, we are ready to leave,” Celia said to her uncle.
“I quite see that.” Mr. Thompson surveyed the situation. He did not return Lord Edmund’s smile.
Aunt Thompson clutched her husband’s arm, her face anxious and tired. “What happened?” she whispered to Celia, while the others fussed around Rose. “Rose is a sensible girl.”
Celia shook her head, too ashamed to speak.
“He can’t keep his hands off Celia,” Charlotte hissed. “He’s frightening her.”
“He’s making a laughingstock of her,” Henrietta added.
Aunt Thompson sucked in her breath sharply. “We must preserve your reputation at all costs,” she whispered.
The burly footman edged through the crowd, bracing his feet in such a way that Lord Edmund had to take another step back. Everyone watched with great fascination while the footman bent, grunted slightly, and heaved the chair to its stumpy legs. The fan-girls clapped.
There was more attention on their party than the poor musicians had earned all night.
Celia glanced at Peter, still watching from the doorway. She couldn’t read his expression.
