“There you go, ma’am,” the footman said. “It has taken no damage.”
“Not that it would discomfit me in the slightest!” Mrs. Pipperly exclaimed. “I merely want to know if myguestsare well!” She patted Rose’s arm and cast a shrewd glance at Lord Edmund.
“I am well enough.” Rose took a deep breath of smelling salts and coughed. “Well enough to make it to my papa’s carriage, I mean.”
“Oh no! You must come and rest! I have a bedroom prepared for such accidents—”
“We were just headed out,” Mr. Thompson said to their hostess.
“And I was—” began Lord Edmund.
“Just heading out,” said Mr. Hanson.
The footman nodded. And the jowly gentleman. And Mr. Thompson.
Lord Edmund glanced around, but not one person encouraged him to stay.
“Goodnight, my lord,” Mrs. Pipperly trilled. “Jenkins here can show you out.” She put her arm around Rose, Mr. Hanson close on her other side.
“Goodbye, Lord Edmund,” Celia said. She meant forever.
Lord Edmund’s face was stormy, but Celia turned away, letting the crowd of friends and family bear her out the door and down the hallway. It was frightening to give up on the one gentleman who seemed sure to offer her his house and income, when her brother trusted him and her cousins needed it so badly.
But look at Mr. Hanson, escorting Rose so tenderly. Just think of Clarence, showing up more and more often when the Thompsons went to parties, always checking for Henrietta. And of course Mr. Cade was still paying calls, not to mention Mr. Penrose with his daily tulip. They had chances. They had choices. They didn’t need Lord Edmund.
Nor Peter either.
Celia followed her uncle to their carriage, kissed Charlotte goodnight, let her aunt tuck blankets around herself and Rose and dropped her aching head on Henrietta’s shoulder.
“That’s enough, Robert,” Aunt Thompson said. “He may be wealthy, but Rose is right. He won’t do any good for our Celia. She can do so much better.”
“Right, dear.” There was a rustle in the dark as Mr. Thompson patted his wife’s hand.
Celia longed for that sort of comfort and ease for herself, but she didn’t trust it.
Hanson and Cade and Clarence and Penrose and Lord Francis’s introduction and Charlotte’s parties and Aunt Thompson’s lists were all well and good, but they weren’t enough. Marriage was the obvious answer, but it couldn’t be the only one. Celia rubbed the frayed blanket, and tried to figure out a solution that didn’t depend on a man.
*
After that disasterwith Celia and Hargreaves, Peter couldn’t spend the evening confined at the Pipperlys’. He paced back and forth in his tiny rooms; he’d opened the connecting door to give himself a few more steps. He punched his fist into his hand, shook his head, threw off his jacket and neckcloth and waistcoat. None of it helped.
Thompson and Kilairne were duty-bound to protect her! How dare they let Celia alone like that?
Peter clenched his bedpost, but impatience and impotence throbbed in his temples. He hit his head against it. Once. Again. Harder. The pain on the outside helped balance the pain on the inside.
Back to pacing. He couldn’t afford go into this pattern again. Not now. Not with James gone, and Elinor and Celia both needing him. Except Celia wasn’t supposed to, or he wasn’t supposed to want her, or—he caught himself before his head hit the bedpost again. Rocked back on his heels, not sure what to do.
Rose—there was an idea—he would go down to the shops and order her a bouquet of flowers. Anonymous, of course. The goddamn men couldn’t do a single damn thing, but at least Rose threw her chair at the damn idiot. He would buy flowers for Rose.
But it was the middle of the night and the shops were closed, and Peter was stuck for the moment. He was too obviously single and eligible; if he spent more time with Celia, it would scare away Cade and Penrose. He’d spent last night at the docks and the morning sipping tea with Mrs. Pipperly; it was all proof of why he couldn’t have her.
And everything that happened tonight was proof of why she needed someone.
Chapter Sixteen
In Which Two People Request a Favor, and Our Hero Must Choose
Peter had touchedher, now.
