Lord Francis bowed. “Then I recant, Lady Kilairne. I shall obey your bidding.”
Celia laughed; she was not Lady Kilairne but Henrietta could be.
*
It was nearlymidnight and Celia didn’t even mind. Marianne would thrive in a place like this, she thought, walking past a discussion of the glassblowers’ strike. This would be where her big heart and busy mind could—
She was face to face with Peter Hughes.
He had a glass in his hand, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was most certainly seeking her out. They were by an alcove with a fountain, and the party seemed to recede into the distance, lost under the burble of water and the intensity of Peter’s gaze.
Celia found her smile. “Mr. Hughes, how pleasant to—”
“Celia, I’m being sent to Italy.”
The whole rest of the world vanished. Only the water. His eyes.
“When?”
“When my current assignment is done. Two weeks. Perhaps three.”
They had only thirty-four days in London, so it didn’t matter if he was leaving, too. Celia tried to shrug, but her limbs had gone stiff.
Peter lifted his glass and took a sip—Celia was an artist, and realized immediately that the image was novel. She waswatching him so closely, she saw his slight wince, the twitch in his throat.
So he actually swallowed—this time. Celia was heartily sick of his confusion and mystery.
“Is that even true?” she asked, meaning the drinking or the job or Italy oranything. Filled with fire and frustration, she reached up and took the glass right out of his hand.
Peter just looked at her. His fire was all gone out.
Celia had meant to put the drink aside, but caught its scent. “This is good Irish whiskey, and you’re wasting it! You don’t even like it.”
His eyes were still on hers.
Tense and tingling with that emotion she could not name, Celia lifted the glass and drank. Their eyes locked over the rim.
It was good whiskey. She took another sip.
Peter’s hand twitched towards her, but he did not touch her. “Enjoy your drink, Miss Westhaven. Your servant. Always.”
His voice was rough, and he forgot to bow before he walked away.
Celia leaned against the fountain and took another swallow of the drink that Peter had held. Had tasted. She was irritated, but also strangely victorious. For once she had discombobulated the ever-graceful Peter Hughes.
“Thank you, I will,” she said to the crowd where he had vanished.
And then she drifted back into the party, towards the people who wanted her company.
Chapter Seventeen
More Men & Mayhem
Henrietta had suggestedit would be better to have Lord Edmund propose so it would be over and done with. Henrietta had been wrong.
At thirty-three days to find a house, Lord Edmund arrived in a coach and four, dressed with evening’s elegance for an afternoon visit. Celia peered over the upstairs balcony, the other women tiptoeing to join her. One of his footmen was carrying an arrangement of flowers so enormous that he could scarcely peek between the stems, the second carried a small velvet case, and the other… well, apparently even Edmund Hargreaves had not thought of a way to make the third appear useful. Lord Edmund’s booming voice carried up the open stairway as he declared his intention of seeing the master of the household, alone, immediately—except he used a great many more words.
Five minutes later, the butler requested that Celia join the men in her uncle’s office. Celia was sick and frightened, and wished she could hold on to a little of her sparkle from the night before. She wished she could laugh at Lord Edmund.
