“Oh, she is”—hop, hop, hop—“having such a wonderful time—at her first ball!”
“She is the most confident of this year’s debutantes.”
“Have you danced with her?” Celia almost missed a hop, checking his expression nervously. Mr. Thompson had stayed home tonight, and Henrietta needed men looking out for her. Too many thought her bright laughter meant she was forward; that the way she owned her movements meant her body was available.
“Second dance.” Mr. Hughes spun Celia in a circle. “I left her with Mr. Bigelowe.”
“Oh—good!” Family friends would keep Henrietta safe, although of course Charlotte’s husband wouldn’t do any good if Aunt Thompson wanted a marriage.
They had a moment to recover before the Pirouette waltz, the exertion making them grin rather foolishly at each other. Celia placed one hand across Mr. Hughes’s waist as he arched their hands above their heads. If she must dance the waltz, she was glad that it was Mr. Hughes who had found her.
“Now tell me truly, Miss Westhaven”—they began to spin to the stately music—“how are you?”
Well, she didn’t want to dance with him if he started in like that!
“It is not fair play, sir, to use the intimate nature of this dance to make a lady confess her secrets.” Celia smiled sweetly.
“Very well, I will not make you tell me anything. You will merely let me guess.”
Celia did not wish to talk about herself, but she was finding it difficult to drop his gaze. It was the challenge of the pirouette waltz.
“Let me think what could perturb even Miss Westhaven’s famous serenity. Hm.” Mr. Hughes lifted an eyebrow, eyes twinkling, flecks of gold in the clear brown. “Perhaps you havefound a poor wounded dog and your aunt will not let you keep it.”
Celia’s smile flickered.
“None of the shops have India yellow in stock, and so not only can you not see the daffodils for the rain, you cannot even paint them.”
Celia shook her head, warm against his side.
“You tried a new lotion and the patent formula turned your skin orange.”
Celia couldn’t help but laugh.
Mr. Hughes shifted so both their arms were crossing each other, hip next to hip as the dance required. “Your aunt wishes you to marry, and you wish to stay home and take care of your cousins.”
Celia jerked to a halt. The wafting silk decorations were suffocating and the orchestra screeched out of cadence. How dare he say such a thing out loud! He wasn’t a relative, and this wasn’t her drawing room.
“Keep dancing,” he advised softly.
He was an amadán, an idiot, but he had a point. Celia would not let the matrons have another pound of her flesh for gossip. She adjusted her body, precisely upright, the weight of her arm held from her shoulder instead of resting on Peter’s.
“Miss Westhaven, I suspect your aunt was too blunt, but she is right.” His tone was soft but businesslike. “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, and you should leap free while you can. I assume Kilairne can’t take care of you?”
“My brother?” Celia was startled into replying. “Clarence would need to move back to Killyreigh.” Now that—
“I wouldn’t want to see you dependent on that young pup anyhow,” Mr. Hughes continued, a knife edge to his measured tone.
Wait—what was he saying? Had she misunderstood it all? Celia’s eyes fixed on his, soft and very serious. If he minded what happened to her, perhaps his concern was personal after all, perhaps all his visits this winter had meant something—
“You do need to be married,” Mr. Hughes said. “But not to me.”
Celia froze, heart and mind and dancing feet.
How foolish of her. He didn’t mean he wanted her. That wasn’t what he meant.
She lifted her chin. Focused on the solid downbeat from the cellos. Followed Mr. Hughes’s lead without acknowledging him.
“Miss Westhaven, you know I have a job. I have to go where they assign me.”
