So he threw a weighted punch. Celia was too cold to know if she cared. “Is he g-g-gone?”
“I believe he is. Listen.” Mr. Hughes held up one finger, focused beyond the hedge. “That’s the latch. Into the gardeners’ compound. There!”
A dog barked, and a man called out “Who’s there?” The accent was Cockney and not at all friendly.
“I believe his escort has arrived.” Mr. Hughes was back to his drawing-room accents, keeping his gaze politely averted.
Celia couldn’t find words to answer him; she tugged at her torn stays but the fabric slipped out of her fingers. She could just imagine the gardener, knobby knees poking out below his striped nightshirt, a grand escort for his lordship—far cry from three footmen and a giant bouquet. She could hardly breathe, but she was giggling, gasping, giggling, couldn’t stop—she flung out a hand to support herself but pawed only air—couldn’t stop laughing—so cold—
“Peter!” Celia cried as her legs gave out.
Her body thumped again, but this time against his human warmth, her forehead dropping into his soft-prickly wool coat. His arms were strong around her, just like she had always imagined. He was solid, he was safe, he was holding her so snug and tender. Celia never cried at the right time; she never cried for her brother, for Lord Edmund, but she cried now, sobs wracking her shoulders, shaking her, hurting her lungs.
“Celia,” said Peter, into her hair. “Oh, Celia.”
He rocked her. Held her.
Celia cried and cried.
He stroked some warmth back into her arms. He spread his hand behind her head, in her tangle of hair, holding her against his shoulder.
Celia sobbed. She was silly, she was foolish, it was all over, but she could not stop.
Peter’s arm secure around her waist, her back. Holding her up, against the warm solid weight of his chest. He held her likehe knew just how they were supposed to fit together, like she was just right.
He murmured something against her hair.
And Celia remembered. He didn’t want to marry her, he had told her so. He could not afford to be caught in a dark garden with a woman, and she did not want to trap him. His embrace felt like safety, but it was false.
Celia pushed herself upright, away from him.
Mr. Hughes stepped back immediately, for he must be glad to be rid of her clinging and crying. He passed her his handkerchief, and Celia dabbed at her face with ladylike delicacy.
“Are you injured? Can you walk?” Mr. Hughes turned slightly, looking up towards the moon, now just visible above the yews.
“I’m fine.” Celia tugged at one shoulder of her dress, but the other side slipped back down. She knew Mr. Hughes was only being polite instead of staring at her bare skin, but it reminded her of how Mr. Cade stared at the skyline as he passed by. Like she didn’t exist, wasn’t worth anything. “I can walk.” She hadn’t tried yet. “Can you—I need to go home.” There, she showed him that she wasn’t asking anything from him.
“There’s a gate in the back of the garden. I’ll have your uncle bring the carriage there.” He spoke to the moon, brisk and efficient. “Miss Thompson and Mrs. Bigelowe are looking for you, and I’ll make sure they know where you are. They’ll wrap you up while I find your uncle. You’ve taken sick in the chill, had a bad tumble, right? Right.”
Celia nodded, dazed.
“You will be all right? Just for a minute.” Mr. Hughes was already moving, steps squelching in the grass.
“What if someone else finds me first?” Celia crossed her arms around herself, but it would fool no one.
He glanced around. “Step behind the folly. No one will see you in the shadows. It’s only for a minute, Ce—Miss Westhaven. I promise, your cousin will be here soon.”
“I am fine.” Proof the embrace was false; he didn’t even want to speak her name. Her wild imagination had exaggerated his kindness; he had told her clearly what he thought of her. She was not worth marrying.
She had been out in the rain before, surely she could wait another minute or two.
In the distance—voices, footsteps. From different directions, too. The whole evening—hours? minutes?—could have taken place on Kathmandu, but now the real world was closing from all sides.
Mr. Hughes jerked to attention. “Your servant.” He bowed, not forgetting his manners before he ducked out.
Celia rubbed her arms, listening to his footsteps. She was cold all over again, the blur of terror clouding her mind, but she had a vague idea that he must get far away. Far from where he could be connected to the mess that was herself.
“Ho there! Halt, young man!”
