Aloysius had quickly made the rounds, Celeste by his side. He’d exchanged niceties with a number of guests, including Garrity and a man Harry did not recognize but who had waltzed with Tessa. Aloysius also spoke at length with Ransom, who’d danced a set with Celeste.
Aloysius had departed a quarter hour ago, leaving his daughter with her chaperone. Harry had thought his presence had gone undetected. Apparently, he’d underestimated Celeste…for a second time.
He forced himself to turn around.
Celeste had always suited her name, and tonight was no exception. Her swan costume accentuated her angelic grace, the white, feather-trimmed frock perfectly draped over her tall, slender frame. Her pale blonde ringlets quivered; she stared at him with eyes that he’d once compared to the color of heaven.
When he looked at her now, however, it was through the eyes of a man not a lad. She was still beautiful, but he saw how fragile that beauty was. How it didn’t have the bones for endurance, the character that would enhance and deepen attractiveness over time.
When he removed his mask, shadows flitted through her eyes. Or maybe it was the candelabrum flickering on the side table.
“I thought it was you,” she whispered. “Were you going to leave without speaking to me?”
She must be joking.
Anger flared. Knowing there was no way to avoid the interaction, he calculated his options. Going to the nearest door, he looked inside. The music room was empty.
Wordlessly, he gestured for her to enter. Once they were both inside, he left the door open. If anyone happened upon them, he would play the part of a footman assisting a guest.
“What do you want?” he demanded curtly.
“I want to talk to you.” Her voice quivered. “To say…how sorry I am. For what I did.”
Did she really think he wanted her apology?
His jaw clenched. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”
“I know what I did was unforgiveable. That you must hate me.” Her eyes welled. “I didn’t want to tell those horrid lies, but Papa made me.”
Two discordant thoughts struck Harry simultaneously. One was that Tessa wouldn’t blame someone else for the choices she’d made. She wasn’t above untruths and trickery, but she usually had a good reason for it. Regardless, she took responsibility for her actions.
His other thought was that he had a chance now to try to uncover De Witt’s plans. Looking at Celeste’s pleading expression, he didn’t know if she was party to her father’s nefariousness; either way, he didn’t trust her. Yet it would behoove him to try to get some answers.
“Was it your papa’s idea for you to try to seduce me, to distract me while he went into the laboratory that night and stole my work?” he said evenly.
She licked her lips, her gaze darting then returning to his. “Yes…but I wanted to go to your room that night, Harry. You’re the only one who’s ever been truly good to me,” she said in a shaky voice. “The only one who listened and cared. The only one I’ve ever—”
“Was it his idea also for you to lie the next day? To destroy the only alibi I had?”
“I didn’t want to.” A single tear spilled over. “I’ve regretted my actions ever since.”
Not as much as I have.
He forced himself to play along. “If that is true—”
“Itis. How I hated deceiving you.” She took a step closer, one hand held out beseechingly. “Despite what I did, my feelings for you were true. As true as the feelings you once professed having for me. I kept those poems you wrote, Harry, hid them from Papa.” Her gaze searched his. “I read them every night before I say my prayers.”
If she had any sense, she wouldn’t have reminded him of the damned verse. The words he’d so painstakingly and awkwardly penned. Yet his mortification no longer flowed like fresh blood, only itched like a healed-over scab. Ambrose had been right: he’d been a lad when he’d fallen in love with Celeste. He could forgive his younger self for trusting too readily. For being blinded by beauty.
What mattered was that he saw things clearly now.
And Tessa, he realized, had been the catalyst. With her spirit, humor, and honesty, she’d taught him to feel again. To trust again.
“What happened here?” Celeste extended a gloved fingertip toward his scarred eyebrow, not quite daring to touch him.
“What has your father done with my formula?”
Fear dilated her pupils. Her hand fell to her side, and she retreated a step. “I… I can’t…”
