Peter was dressed in morning clothes, hair combed, but his face was gray with exhaustion and the lines stood out around his eyes, his always-mobile mouth pressed tight.
She had caused him so much trouble and he was such a good man—at the heart of it she was sure he was a good man. She was ruining everything, and under her bruised ribs her heart was pounding through treacle and in some way, somehow, she loved this man and she couldn’t reduce him to a house.
Celia had a speech prepared, and it started with the word Marianne. But her eyes were caught on his, and when she opened her mouth she said, “I will not marry you. I rescind our engagement.”
She had done it. She had done the right thing for Peter and the wrong thing for her cousins, and her hands started to shake and she clutched them together.
Peter’s face flickered through a hundred emotions. “It is out of your hands and mine,” he answered.
That was vague enough to give her courage. “I will not trap you—”
“You did nothing! I was the one to make the announcement.”
“I know, you were very honorable, but I will not hold you to it.” Celia took a shuddering breath, worried about Marianne, didn’t know what to do. “I will say that I changed my mind, the moonlight made me foolish—”
“You will do no such thing!” Peter stepped around to her side of the tea table.
“I won’t let you give up your life for me!”
“Everything is already decided.” Slowly, closer to her.
“I can’t ask you—”
“It’s too late to change—”
“It’s not what marriage means, Peter—”
He was beside her now. “You have no other options—”
“I know!” Celia wailed.
“And neither have I!”
Through her tangled thoughts—“You would hate me and you would think and you—”
“Stop!” Peter raised his hand.
Celia flinched, just a tiny gesture before she froze, breath caught in her throat.
Nothing happened.
Celia realized her eyes were closed, and they were wet with tears. She didn’t feel like crying, she didn’t want to.
“Celia.”
She shook her head. Barely, a twitch.
“Celia. Celia, look at me.”
His voice was so gentle. A sob caught at her, jerked her ribs, bruises aching.
“Celia, I’m not moving. Look at me.”
She didn’t want to cry. Didn’t want to panic, didn’t want him to see her like this. She had things to do today. Celia took another breath and opened her eyes.
Peter was still a pace away, his palm towards her, fingers splayed. It was just a natural gesture of “stop,” just a person who was always moving, speaking with his hands, pacing with his heartbeat. When he saw her watching, he moved slowly, stretched his hand low towards her, palm up.
She looked up at him. She didn’t know what to do. His face was sad but not angry.
