Page 148

W hat have you done? What have you done? What have you done?

Celia stared stiffly at the lake from her picnic spot.

If she could, she’d have avoided the sight, this gathering, altogether, but the duchess hadn’t given her the opportunity.

The woman had surpassed herself once more.

Blankets and pillows had been strewn along the lake, and guests were clustered in small groups all over the place.

She’d chosen an unoccupied blanket and the furthest one away. But that still didn’t shield her eyes from the blanket on the other side that was settled on the exact spot she and Barnaby had...

Urgh!

Don’t think about it!

What would happen to her and Barnaby’s friendship?

Would they ever be able to go back to who they were for each other before?

She could still feel Barnaby’s touch, his breath against her neck, him filling her.

Of course not. That was impossible to go back.

Their night... that night... last night.

.. couldn’t be undone. It would forever be between them, in their memories, their bodies, and this lake. There was no erasing it.

She couldn’t even bring herself to try to discover his whereabouts.

Was he even on the lake?

Was he keeping his distance, too?

She had avoided breakfast and had not run into him all morning, though she had, unfortunately, run into his mother.

Which had brought her here. Where she couldn’t avoid anything.

What would she say to Barnaby now? How would she ever face him again?

He’d kissed her like he had been waiting for it his entire life, his touch had consumed her, and now—now it all felt impossible .

But did she want to go back?

“Ah, Lady Celia.”

Celia looked up to find the Marquess of Knoxley smiling down at her. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not. Please do.” Perhaps he might offer her a bit of distraction.

He settled beside her, his movements graceful.

She glanced over at him, studying his profile—the man was everything a lady could want in a suitor.

Polished, composed, and sort of refined, except, perhaps for his reputation.

The opposite to Barnaby’s brooding disgruntlement and rolled up sleeves.

Even so, it was Barnaby who, from yesterday evening—or perhaps from their first accidental kiss—was the man who made her forget herself, who had a way of looking at her that felt like a spark to dry tinder.

Barnaby. The thought of him set her pulse racing. There was no reason to compare the two men, but she couldn’t help herself. Most of all, she and Barnaby were friends— were friends. She didn’t know what they were at the moment, but he was still so much more than the marquess could ever be.

Celia started.

He was?

Yes . He was.

Knoxley’s voice broke her from her thoughts with a question. “You are not in the mood to join the festivity?”

“You could tell?”

“Why yes,” he said, his grin widening. “Well, you are sitting here all by yourself.”

“I was simply... admiring the scenery.” Hah! What are you even saying, Celia? She might as well be made of glass, she was so transparent.

He dipped his head slightly, watching her with curiosity. “Forgive me for pointing it out, but you seem to be struggling with a decision.”

Her fingers clenched in her lap. A decision. If only it were that simple. She was knotted in a pool of regret, longing, and the sharp realization that nothing—nothing—would ever be the same between her and Barnaby.

But hadn’t she always known that? Hadn’t she been the one to push the boundaries of their friendship, toying with something reckless, something dangerous after she went into that lake?

But the heat .

No! Do not blame the heat! Heat or not, now here she was, trying to pretend she wasn’t sitting at the edge of a ruin she’d brought upon herself.

She forced a light laugh. “Do I?”

“I’m rather perceptive.” He gestured toward her. “Your brow is furrowed just so, your lips pressed together as though you are contemplating something either profoundly important... or utterly ridiculous.”

Perceptive. And rather blunt. Celia huffed. “Can it not be both?”

The marquess grinned. “Now, that intrigues me.” He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Do tell. What grave matter has Lady Celia so lost in thought?”

You wouldn’t understand.

The words almost left her lips. Because how could she explain this mess? How could she put into words the way Barnaby’s touch had set her whole world alight—only for the morning to bring nothing but uncertainty?

She exhaled. “It is nothing.”

“Nothing, you say? That, my dear, is precisely what someone says when they are thinking of something terribly interesting.”

Celia smiled in spite of herself. “Are you always this insufferable?”

“I consider it a talent,” he replied smoothly. “Some might even call it a gift.”

For the first time all day, she felt the tightness in her chest ease—if only a little. Perhaps a bit of meaningless conversation wasn’t the worst thing right now. Perhaps, for just a moment, she could relieve her mind of some of its burden.

Knoxley might have been—a very big might —a reasonable candidate for a suitor, but she would never be able to ignore what had happened, what had passed between her and Barnaby last night.

And then there was also one undeniable fact.

No matter how charming or diverting he was, this wasn’t the conversation she longed to have.

And the man beside her wasn’t the one she wished were here.

*

Barnaby scowled in Celia’s direction.

He hadn’t slept. Not a wink. Not after Celia had slipped away into the night, leaving him alone with the madness of what had happened between them.

He had searched for her all morning, but it was as if she had vanished.

No sight of her at breakfast, no stolen glances in the corridors, no trace of her laughter drifting through the halls like it always did.

For a moment, he had thought she had run off, and he had enquired with the stable hands. But she hadn’t.

Now, here she was.

Not alone. Not seeking him out.

Sitting beside Knoxley, smiling, laughing, looking every bit the picture of easy companionship. And he wanted to punch the tree, hating the sight. Hated the way she angled her body toward him, the way she tipped her head at something he said, as if he were the most interesting man alive.

You are imagining it, man.

Was he?

This was the man she had meant to kiss the night of the masquerade ball, wasn’t it?

The same one she’d laughed with the next day.

And now? Now here they were again. Celia had been avoiding him.

That much was clear. And if he had any sense, he would let her.

He would not look for her, would not wonder what last night had meant, what it had changed.

Even though he knew as well as he knew that the sun rose every day that everything had changed.

He had made a mistake giving into that madness. A terrible mistake.

A hand clamped onto his arm, dragging him from his spiral.

“What are you glaring at so intently?” his mother asked.

Barnaby exhaled through his nose, adjusting his stance as if that might ease the unbearable tightness in his chest. “Nothing.”

She arched a brow before following the direction in which his gaze had lingered for the past quarter of an hour. A smile touched her lips. “They make a handsome couple, do they not?”

He grunted. A nonanswer. Because the truth was, yes, they did. On the outside. A perfect picture of what should be. A poised, effortless balance of Celia and a possible husband. Knoxley, scoundrel though he may be, was everything a suitor ought to be. Not a mad, blundering fool like him.

Barnaby clenched his jaw. “I hadn’t noticed.”

His mother scoffed. “And yet, you cannot seem to look away.”

He was silent. What was there to say? He couldn’t look away.

Celia laughed at something the man said. Laughed.

He had spent the morning looking for her, turning corridors with anticipation, searching everywhere in vain.

And yet here she was, sitting so easily, so at peace, while he had spent the last twelve hours in pure torture.

And she? Did she not care? Did this not bother her?

He couldn’t tell. Or rather, from what he could tell, she didn’t.

After all, she’d told him to forget the kiss.

So, was she forgetting last night, then, too? Was she going to pretend nothing ever happened?

That would be the wise choice, would it not?

He tore his gaze away. He should leave before he did something foolish, something reckless—something Celia would surely hate him for. Like flinging Knoxley into the lake. Challenging him to a swordfight. Proclaiming before God and man that Cecelia Bloom belonged to him and him alone.

“Barnaby.” His mother’s voice was light, but there was a hint of steel beneath it. “I cannot help but notice the way you hover whenever Celia is concerned. I assume you will be telling me why.”

Barnaby stiffened. “I do not hover.”

“Oh, my dear son. You have been hovering for years. Though, in truth, I am not entirely sure whether you are circling to protect her or yourself.”

His grip tightened at his sides. “You are mistaken.”

“Am I?” She hummed, thoughtful. “Tell me, then. If Celia were to accept the marquess’s attentions, would that please you?”

No. The word clawed its way up his throat, threatening to escape. But he swallowed it down. “That is none of my concern.”

His mother sighed. “You are very good at many things, Barnaby, but lying is not one of them.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “This is absurd.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But tell me this. Do you truly wish to remain friends forever?”

The question landed like a blow.

Friends forever? As if last night belonged to another world? Another life? As if she hadn’t looked at him with desire as he filled her, as if her hands hadn’t traced over his skin, as if she hadn’t whispered his name in the dark?

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

But friendship . . .

Then marriage? He’d propose in a heartbeat.

He didn’t just want her in his life—he wanted her beside him, always.

But she had made a choice by avoiding him, hadn’t she?

Whatever had happened between them last night, it hadn’t changed how she saw him—not truly.

She had made it clear with this distance that anything more was unthinkable to her.

So, while he wanted to kiss her again, hold her, ask her for forever, he wouldn’t survive hearing no .

So if all she wanted was distance, then he’d give it to her. If that was the only way she could breathe, he would step back. But God help him, he’d find a way to overcome the distance. One way or another. As a friend. As something more. As anything she would let him be.

Because letting go entirely?

That, he could not do.