Chapter 1
Chapter One
“Wait, My Lady. A moment!” The man’s voice cut through the din of the masquerade, urgent and far too close.
Celine Huntington’s heart pounded as she wove through the swirling crowd, her silk slippers skidding across the polished parquet. The air was heavy with the scent of beeswax candles and her own Fleur de Minuit, the forbidden French perfume clinging to her so intensely that it almost made her dizzy.
“I only wish to know your name!” the stranger called again, his masked face bobbing above the sea of feathered headdresses and glittering domino masks.
Celine’s breath hitched, her fingers clutching the emerald-green skirts of her daring new dress—cut low at the neckline, with a continental flair that had already drawn gasps from the ton’s matrons. She dodged a couple dancing a lively quadrille.
What was I thinking, following that wretched list?
She and her closest friends, Helena and Dahlia, had come up with a seemingly innocent, if a tad daring, list. The items, now burned in her memory, made her blush anew.
Attend a masquerade ball, with no one knowing it’s you. Wear that dashing green dress and a French perfume.
Foolish, reckless, she’d wanted freedom, not this.
“Pardon, miss, might I have this dance?” Another voice, this one from a portly gentleman in a gold mask, blocked her path. His eyes lingered on her cleavage, making her skin crawl.
“No, I am afraid you may not.” Celine tried to control the ice in her voice, grateful now more than ever for the black lace mask concealing her face.
The man stepped forward, his mask glinting as he grabbed her by the elbow, swaying with the effects of too much alcohol. “Such fire! One dance, my dear, and I’ll be your servant.”
“I wouldn’t hire a leery man like you even if I were to be paid,” she retorted, sidestepping him.
Her temper was getting the better of her at his disregard.
The crowd pulsed around her, a kaleidoscope of silk and velvet, laughter and violins. Her perfume, that heady jasmine and amber, seemed to draw them in like moths. Or was it her dress, the bodice scandalously snug, the skirts whispering rebellion?
The ton ignores me as a spinster, but hide my face and I’m suddenly the most intriguing lady in the room.
“Please, My Lady!” the first man’s voice rang out again, closer now. “You can’t vanish without giving me a name!”
“Oh, can’t I?” Celine muttered to no one but herself, her blue eyes narrowing behind her mask.
She pushed past a gaggle of debutantes, their giggles grating on her nerves.
This was meant to be fun—freedom from the ton’s judgment. Instead, she felt like a deer in a hunt, her anonymity a magnet for every bored lord and fortune-hunter in Lady Ashford’s ballroom.
“There she is!” A third man, younger, joined the chase, and her stomach lurched.
She ducked behind a marble pillar, the cool stone grounding her for a moment.
I should’ve burned that list. Helena was right—champagne makes fools of us all.
“Miss, one word!” The first man, wearing a blue domino mask, was gaining on her, his boots clicking loudly on the floor.
Celine scanned the room and spotted a hallway beyond a velvet curtain.
Freedom.
She darted forward, her skirts swishing, ignoring the gasps of a matron whose wine she nearly spilled.
“Pardon me!” Celine shouted over her shoulder.
The mask on her face gave her a lot more confidence than she usually had, which was, on its own, more than usual for a young woman her age. On any other night, she would have been much more soft-spoken, but not tonight.
She slipped through the curtain, the hallway dim and blessedly quiet. Her slippers echoed as she ran, passing gilt-framed portraits, until she spotted a cracked door.
A library, its shelves looming in the candlelight.
She slipped inside, shut the door with a soft thud, and leaned against it. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her chest heaved, her perfume mingling with the scent of old leather and wax.
“Please, let me escape this without a scandal,” she prayed quietly, her fingers trembling. “And I promise to never be so reckless again.”
Reckless. That was what this entire ordeal was.
When she wrote her list of dares on that cold night, Helena, the rational one of their trio, had told her that she was merely acting under the influence of champagne. But she knew it was more than that.
She was a spinster whom many considered past her prime. She wanted to challenge the ton and their rules. She wanted freedom. Her list of scandalous activities should have been burned that night, but Dahlia, her more mischievous friend, had egged her on.
Helena would have my head if she knew I was actually doing this. She would have done everything in her power to stop me.
Footsteps thundered past the door, a man’s voice fading. “Where did she go?”
“Animals,” she muttered under her breath.
She had turned down several advances since she had arrived at the ball, but somehow her resistance spurred them on. If she weren’t fearing for her dignity, perhaps even her virtue, she would have laughed at the sheer irony.
They never looked her way twice at any other ball. No one would approach the Stone Cold Spinster.
She stood still for a few more minutes, feeling the cool wood pressing against her back, calming her ragged breathing. She couldn’t hear any more voices.
“Thank God,” she whispered.
Relief washed over her, but it was short-lived.
“A pity,” a deep voice drawled from above, rich with amusement. “I was getting intrigued.”
The voice echoed around her, surrounding her completely.
Celine’s eyes snapped open, her heart lurching when she saw no one around her.
“God?” she asked timidly, wondering if her unchaperoned presence was so scandalous that the divine was forced to intervene.
A low chuckle echoed, and a figure descended the library’s spiral staircase, his boots deliberate on the oak steps.
“I wouldn’t go as far as to claim to be a god,” he said, his voice dripping with the cockiness of a man who had never wanted for anything in his life, “but I think I recall others calling me one.”
Celine scoffed, her fear giving way to irritation. She’d recognize this man anywhere. She’d heard too many people fawn over him, watched from corners as he toyed with the hearts of several girls, each one waiting like a lovesick puppy to get the chance to dance with him.
Even though he wore his black velvet mask firmly on his beautiful face, she knew him. She couldn’t mistake those broad shoulders for anyone else, the dark brown hair curling at the nape of his neck, the arrogant tilt of his head.
Rhys Harken, the Duke of Wylds.
“You,” she almost snarled.
He represented everything she despised about the ton. The Wild Duke himself, a notorious rake and a thorn in the side of every mother with a good head on her shoulders. And a notorious trap for every mother without one, blinded by his status.
Her mask hid her identity, but his presence set her teeth on edge.
“Me,” he responded, like he was taunting her.
He watched her every move with amber eyes. The black velvet surrounding them highlighted their golden tone to an almost predatory gleam.
“So tell me,” Rhys drawled, his voice as smooth as the claret he likely savored, “who do we have here?”
Celine’s pulse hammered, her back pressed against the library door, the oak still cool even though her hands were now trembling.
The low candlelight threw shadows over towering bookshelves, their leather spines exuding a musty scent. Beyond the door, music thrummed, but here, the silence was broken only by the deliberate tread of boots descending the spiral staircase.
The Duke of Wylds moved with an ethereal grace, his black velvet mask accentuating the arrogant curve of his lips and the glint in his eyes.
“No one that concerns you,” Celine replied, her voice clipped.
“A mysterious lady hiding in my refuge? I have every right to be concerned.” His voice was sultry.
She had never stood so close to him while he spoke, never been this close to him.
Such flawless skin. No wonder every lady is losing her mind over him.
“Let me guess, a debutante who escaped her chaperone, craving a night of danger?”
Celine’s scoff cut through the dim room, as sharp as her masked gaze. “Wrong, Your Grace. And your reputation precedes you, so spare me the theatrics. I expected more wit from the infamous Wild Duke.”
He paused on the bottom step, his broad shoulders filling the space, his dark brown hair catching the candlelight. “So you have heard of me.”
His smile was a blade, charming and dangerous. She hated how it made her stomach flutter.
Why did it have to be him?
“Don’t flatter yourself. Everything I’ve heard about you has been strictly against my will.”
“Not a debutante, then. They’re never this cold toward me. A widow, perhaps, tasting the freedom of anonymity?”
“Wrong, again,” she snapped, her blue eyes flashing behind her lace mask. “And you’re less dazzling than gossip claims. A rake should at least be clever.”
Her words were cold, but her heart betrayed her, quickening as he stepped closer.
“Your words are sharp, but your eyes tell a different story.” He laughed.
Curse him for noticing.
Her cheeks flushed beneath her mask.
Rhys chuckled, the sound rich and warm, bouncing off the bookshelves. “But still not clever? You wound me, My Lady. Yet I’ve struck a nerve, haven’t I? You’re here for freedom—escaping the ton’s chains, chasing a thrill.” His voice dipped, teasing. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Celine’s jaw tightened, his words hitting too close.
That wretched list brought this chaos upon her, and now its weight felt like a rock in her reticule. She had meant to cross some things off her list after the ball, but now everything was spiraling into chaos.
“You’re insufferable,” she said, her tone glacial despite the heat in her chest. “I’m not chasing thrills. I’m here because I choose to be, not to entertain rogues like you.”
“Rogues like me?”
He took a step closer to her and tilted his head, like a predator surveying his next meal. The simple act somehow made heat pool in her belly.
How could he make something so mundane effortlessly attractive?
“Harsh words for a man you’ve just met. That dress though…” His gaze swept over her emerald silk dress, its low neckline a scandalous nod to the continental fashion she had admired among the tourists last summer. “… and that perfume screams rebellion. You’re no ordinary wallflower, are you?”
“You know nothing about me,” she snapped, stepping forward to reclaim the space, her skirts brushing against the rug.
“And I’d wager you’re no stranger to rebellion, given the tales of your…
adventures.” Her voice dripped with disdain, but her heart raced at his proximity even though she kept a straight face.
His sandalwood cologne, mingled with her own scent, made her feel almost lightheaded.
He laughed again, softer now, closing the distance until only a breath separated them.
Don’t stare at his lips. Don’t stare at his lips.
She wasn’t going to back down, but she couldn’t deny the fact that his presence was…
She couldn’t find the right word. Intimidating? Intoxicating?
“Adventures? You flatter me. But you’re deflecting.
Let’s try another guess—runaway heiress, dodging an unwanted betrothal?
No, too tame. A secret poetess, penning scandalous verses under the moonlight?
Yes, that seems more like it. Will you write me something?
I’ve been told that my beauty brings a wave of inspiration. ”
“You’re right. I’m inspired,” she started, watching as a smug smile crossed his face. “Inspired to tear out my eardrums if that’s what it takes to spare me from the torture that is this conversation.”
Rhys let out a deep, hearty laugh that took her by surprise. “It was but a jest. Who knew you’d take it so seriously? Does that mean I’m close? Are you a poetess?”
“Keep guessing,” Celine said, her lips twitching despite her resolve. “You’ll exhaust yourself before you come close. I’d sooner write treatises on chemistry than verses for arrogant rakes.”
“Chemistry?” His eyebrows rose above his mask, his tone intrigued. “A bluestocking in a ball gown. Now, I’m truly smitten.”
Enough of the ton had mocked her with that label—bluestocking. But somehow, this man made it sound like a compliment.
She rolled her eyes, though her heart was pounding at his flirtation.
“Smitten? Save your charm for someone who believes it. I have no use for rakes who think a smile solves everything.”
“And yet,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, sending shivers down her spine, “you’re still here, trading barbs with me. Admit it, you enjoy the spar.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Or is that flush on your neck telling another story?”
Celine’s breath caught, her cheeks burning beneath her mask.
He sees it, damn him.
She was no simpering debutante, yet his words unraveled her, her icy facade cracking under his gaze.
“You’re delusional,” she said, her voice sharp but unsteady. “I’m here to avoid bores, not to add to their number.”
“Bores?” Rhys’s smile widened, his eyes dancing. “I’m wounded. One more guess, then. A lady spy, weaving secrets in the ton’s shadows?”
She snorted, a sound unladylike but fitting her mood. “A spy? You’ve read too many novels. Try again when you’ve got something worth hearing.”
“Oh, I could go all night,” he said, his tone suggestive enough to make her pulse leap. “But I’d rather hear your story. What drives a lady to hide in a library, mask or not?”
“I’ve had enough of you,” Celine declared, turning around sharply, her emerald skirts swishing. “My carriage awaits, and I have no patience for your games.”
She reached for the doorknob, desperate to escape before he unraveled her further.
His hand caught her wrist, firm but careful, halting her mid-step. She spun back, fury flaring, her eyes blazing behind her mask.
“Unhand me, you cad!” The word slipped out, sharp and defiant, propriety be damned.
Rhys’s expression shifted, his playful smile fading into something serious, his amber eyes flicking to the door.
“Hush,” he whispered, his grip loosening slightly. “Listen.”
Celine froze, her anger cooled by the low murmur of men’s voices, growing louder in the hallway.
“She went this way, I’m certain,” one man said, his tone eager. “That green dress, that perfume—unmistakable.”
Her stomach sank, the specter of scandal looming.
“Don’t you dare rat me out,” she hissed, her voice low but fierce. “I was never here.”
Rhys’s lips curved, his cockiness returning as he leaned closer. “Tsk, tsk. Asking for favors already, My Lady? And here I thought you wanted me to ignore you.”
“I’m not asking for favors,” she snapped, yanking her wrist free. “Just pretend that I don’t exist.”
He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with challenge. “Not certain I can. You’re rather… unforgettable.”
The footsteps grew louder, the doorknob rattling faintly as the men’s voices sharpened.
She was a heartbeat away from discovery.