“Always tell me if you’re in pain.” Peter spoke close to her ear, like a lover, but Celia knew his anger and disappointment was cascading all around them. She shivered. He didn’t want her but he was yoked to her.
“She is in that much pain,” Charlotte snapped, “but she’s not going to tell you.”
Celia didn’t let her head rest on his shoulder. She wasn’t allowed to, like she wasn’t allowed to cry. She held herself very still.
“Here we are.” Rose opened the gate. The Thompson and Bigelowe carriages were outside in the narrow alley, horses’ breath steamy in the night air. Her aunt and uncle were there with Henrietta. Mr. Hughes rolled Celia into her uncle’s arms. She buried her face in his coat, smelling of cigars.
There were polite words, plans for tomorrow, her aunt fussing. Celia worried she was too heavy.
“I’ll call on you in the morning, sir,” Peter said.
“See that you do.” Mr. Thompson’s voice was a rumble.
Then it was all over, bundled into the carriage, heading toward the home-that-wasn’t-really-home. Celia had not fallen into the ocean, could not fly back to Ireland, was not engaged to Lord Edmund. It was over.
Not yet. Mr. Hughes would come back in the morning, and he knew all her shame.
And he would not marry her. He said he could not help, and now he despised her even more. She was ruined, she had failed her family, she had failed Peter, she had failed everyone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Last Darkness Before Dawn
Peter stayed atthe ball until Mrs. Latham was chivvying the last stragglers out the door. Joking, accepting congratulations, trying to be so merry that people forgot about Celia’s blank panic.
The panic that he, Peter, could have prevented if he had proposed yesterday. He had answered her letter, made an appointment, walked and worried and felt sorry for himself, when he ought to have just gone to her. He ought to have known.
He was walking out when he found the Burnett carriage waiting at the corner.
“Get in,” Francis said from the dark interior. “It’s too late to be out walking.”
The tension of the night hit Peter, stealing his breath, cramping his calves. He obeyed, stumbling as he pulled himself in. “Brennan’s gone home already?”
Francis ignored his conversational tone. “They like the idea that Hargreaves pushed you to a fit of jealousy, which inspired you to propose. And they adore the idea that Celia chose you over an earl’s son.”
“Ha.” Peter was uncomfortable.
“We might”—Francis was cold and bitter—“possibly, if we are lucky, mitigate the damage done in terms of gossip. In terms of Celia’s soul—”
“I know!” Peter grabbed at the door handle. If Francis hated him a tenth part of how much he hated himself, this carriage was taking him straight to the graveyard. The midden pit. The Thames with a rock tied to his—
“Crissakes, don’t touch that door!” Francis lunged forward, jerked Peter’s jacket backwards. “You’ll hurt yourself falling out!”
“As though it would be a loss.” Peter flung himself against the squabs. His eyes were burning, throat tight.
“You did one thing right tonight.” Francis’s voice was clipped. “Keep the upward trajectory, idiot.”
Amadán. A year ago, Peter had made a list of Celia’s words and learned that she had a highly unladylike mouth, but only in Irish. She—
Oh Celia, Celia.
Peter put his hands over his face, dug in his fingertips. “I know. You were right. I should have—”
“No.” Francis was colder than ever. “I was not right, either.”
The carriage jostled over uneven stones.
Peter remembered that he had intended to go to Leavenworth’s tonight. He had his own key, wouldn’t bother him, safety in numbers.
