Chapter Five #2
“You haven’t seen the best parts yet.” Was there amusement in his voice? “Morrison, have tea sent to the blue drawing room. I’ll give her ladyship a tour.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
He led her through a series of rooms, each more imposing than the last. The formal dining room could seat thirty, but looked as though it had not hosted a dinner in years.
The ballroom was magnificent but dusty, its mirrors draped in sheets like ghosts.
The library was the first room that showed signs of life—books precisely arranged but clearly read, a desk with neatly stacked papers, a chair positioned to catch the afternoon sun.
“You spend time here,” she observed.
“Most of my time. You’re welcome to it, of course. The collection is extensive.”
She skimmed the shelves—German, French, Italian, even Greek. Treatises on philosophy, agriculture, law. A well-worn volume of Byron surprised her.
“You read German?”
“And French, Italian, and a little Greek. Languages are patterns. Once you understand the structure, the rest follows logically.”
“Like people?” she asked, sliding the Byron back into place.
“People are rarely logical.” He stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the warmth of him despite not quite touching. “They act against their own interests. They choose emotion over reason. They convince themselves of the most extraordinary lies.”
“Is that what I’ve done? Convinced myself of a lie?”
“That depends on what you’ve told yourself about this marriage.”
She turned to face him. “I’ve told myself it’s a business arrangement. That we’re each gaining something we need. That it doesn’t have to be more than that.”
“And is that enough for you?”
The question hung between them, heavy with meanings she wasn’t ready to face.
“It will have to be,” she said at last.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It will.”
Morrison appeared in the doorway with impeccable timing. “Tea is served in the blue drawing room, Your Grace.”
The blue drawing room was, unexpectedly, very much blue—soft powder-blue walls with white moulding, furniture upholstered in deep sapphire. It was the first space in the house that felt intended for comfort rather than intimidation.
“This was my mother’s favourite room,” the Duke said, gesturing for her to sit. “One of the few that my father permitted her to arrange as she liked.”
“It’s lovely.” Celine accepted the tea Morrison poured, noting the delicate china, the silver polished to a mirror sheen. “Your mother had excellent taste.”
“She had opinions,” he corrected. “Whether they amounted to taste is debatable.”
“You did not approve?”
“I was seven when she died. My approval was not sought.” He took his tea black—no sugar, no milk—which somehow did not surprise her. “But I kept the room as she left it. Sentiment, I suppose.”
“You don’t strike me as sentimental.”
“No?” He set his cup down with his usual precision. “And what do I strike you as?”
It was a dangerous question, but she was tired of being careful.
“Controlled. Calculating. A man who has built walls so high he has forgotten what they’re protecting.”
His expression didn’t shift, but the air between them did—subtly, unmistakably.
“And what do you think they’re protecting?”
“I don’t know. Not yet.”
“But you intend to find out.”
“Perhaps.” She met his gaze levelly. “Unless you would prefer I didn’t.”
“What I would prefer…” He rose abruptly and moved to the window. “What I would prefer is irrelevant. The bargain is made. The terms are set.”
“Including separate bedchambers.”
“For a month, yes.” He turned back to her, something unreadable in his eyes. “I’ll show you to your rooms. You’ll want to rest before dinner.”
He led her up the grand staircase to the third floor and down a corridor lined with portraits of severe-looking ancestors. At the far end, he opened a door to a suite that took her breath.
It was everything the rest of the house was not—warm, inviting, flooded with light. Pale gold paper on the walls, cream-and-rose furnishings, crystal vases overflowing with roses, peonies, sweet peas.
“This is… unexpected,” she managed.
“I had it prepared.” He stood back as she entered. “If you dislike anything, it can be altered.”
“It’s perfect.” She crossed to the window overlooking the garden. “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That I would like this—these colours, these flowers.”
A brief pause. “You wore a rose-coloured gown to the Ashford ball last Season. It suited you. And you spent most of the evening in the conservatory rather than the ballroom.”
“You noticed that?”
“I notice everything.” He stepped toward a connecting door. “My chambers are through here. The door locks from your side.”
She stared at the door, understanding its significance. “And after the month?”
“After the month, we renegotiate.” He drew a small key from his pocket and placed it in her hand. “Your privacy, my lady. Guard it well.”
Then he was gone, leaving her alone in her beautiful cage with a key that felt uncomfortably like a chain.
She sat on the bed—her bed, in her room, in her new life—trying to make sense of what had just unfolded. She was married. To the Beast of Berkeley Square. Who read Byron, noticed dress colours worn once a year ago, and granted her a locked door.
Nothing about this was what she had expected.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. A young maid entered, dropping a curtsey. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I’m Sally. His Grace said I’m to be your lady’s maid, if that suits you.”
“Of course.” Celine offered a reassuring smile. “And you needn’t worry—I’ve no intention of being overly exacting. We shall manage perfectly well between us.”
Sally’s shoulders loosened, just a little. “I… thank you, my lady. Shall I help you change? Dinner is at eight, and His Grace is particular about punctuality.”
“I’m beginning to understand His Grace is particular about everything.”
Something like amusement flickered at the corners of Sally’s mouth. “That’s one way of putting it, my lady.”
As Sally helped her out of the wedding dress, Celine caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked the same but different—something in her eyes had changed, though she couldn’t say what.
“Sally,” she said impulsively, “what is he like? Truly like—not what people say.”
Sally’s hands stilled. “His Grace is… exact, my lady. Everything in its place, everything according to schedule. But he’s fair. Pays well. Does not beat the servants or take liberties. There are far worse masters in London.”
“But is he kind?”
Sally considered this seriously. “I wouldn’t say kind. But he isn’t cruel. He’s simply… himself.”
Which told Celine everything and nothing all at once.
***
Dinner was an exercise in careful navigation.
They sat at opposite ends of a table built for twenty, the distance between them feeling at once protective and isolating.
The food was excellent—clearly a French chef presided in the kitchen—but Celine tasted very little, too aware of the silence stretched taut between them.
“You’re not eating,” he observed.
“Wedding-day nerves,” she said, setting down her fork.
“Are you nervous?”
“Aren’t all brides?”
“I wouldn’t know. You’re my first.”
“How reassuring.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Would you prefer I were practised at acquiring wives?”
“I would prefer to know what to expect.”
“Ah.” He studied her over the rim of his glass. “You want rules. Guidelines. Order.”
“Is that so strange?”
“Not at all. I appreciate clarity myself.” He set his wine aside with precise care. “Very well. Breakfast at eight, luncheon at one, tea at four, dinner at eight. You may keep whatever schedule you please, but inform Morrison if you intend to miss a meal.”
“That’s it? Those are the rules?”
“For now. Others may be required.” A pause. “You are free to go where you wish during the day, though I expect notification if you leave the house. For your safety,” he added, “not my control.”
“The distinction matters?”
“Immensely.” He rose to pour himself a brandy. “Will you take some? Or sherry?”
“Brandy,” she said—surprising them both.
He brought her a glass himself. As she took it, their fingers brushed—only for a heartbeat, but the touch was unexpectedly warm, deliberate by necessity yet somehow intimate in its brevity.
That same bright shock she’d felt in the church flared again, quick and unbidden, travelling up her arm before she could school her expression.
“To unexpected arrangements,” he said.
“To surviving them.”
“Survival is only the minimum.” His eyes glinted. “I’d hope for something more.”
“Such as?”
He studied his drink. “Understanding, perhaps. Or at least a cessation of hostilities.”
“Are we at war?”
“Aren’t we? You’ve been forced into marriage with a man you mistrust. I’ve acquired a wife who looks at me as though I might devour her. That is either war or an armed truce.”
“I don’t fear you,” she said—and found it true.
“No?” He turned to look at her fully. “Then what is it I see in your eyes when you look at me?”
She took a sip of brandy to buy time, feeling it burn down her throat. “Curiosity.”
“About?”
“Who you are behind all this.” She gestured lightly. “The walls. The rules. The armour. The man who reads Byron, keeps his mother’s favourite room untouched, and remembers a dress worn once last Season.”
“And if there is nothing beneath the armour?”
“Then you wouldn’t work so hard to maintain it.”
He went very still, and for a moment she thought she’d gone too far. Then he smiled—a real smile, not the knife-edge version she’d seen before.
“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”
“Probably,” she admitted.
“Good.” He finished his brandy. “I despise boredom above all things.”
He set down his glass, moving toward the door. “I have business to attend to. Don’t wait up.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He paused at the door. “One more thing. We’re expected at Lady Ashford’s soirée two days hence. Our first public appearance as husband and wife. Can you manage it?”
“Can you?”
“I have been managing society for years, wife. The question is whether you can smile and behave as though you are madly in love with the Beast of Berkeley Square.”
“I thought we agreed on ‘privately attached for months.’”
“Same fiction, different chapter.” His gaze swept over her. “Wear something that complements the sapphires. Blue or grey, I think. Not pink.”
“You’re choosing my clothing now?”
“I’m ensuring we present a united front. Unless you’d prefer to face the gossips alone?”
He was right, though she disliked conceding it. “Blue, then.”
“Excellent. Sleep well, Lady Rothwest.”
And he was gone, leaving her alone with the dying fire and a half-finished glass of brandy.
Lady Rothwest. She would have to get used to that name, to this house, to him.
But as she climbed the stairs to her beautiful new rooms, she realised she was not thinking of what she had lost. She was thinking of what she might discover.
The Beast of Berkeley Square had layers—depths, complexities, secrets—and she had a month of locked doors to decide whether she wished to uncover them.
She prepared for bed with Sally’s help and dismissed her as soon as possible. Alone in the dark, she listened to the house settling, imagining him in the room next door—separated by a wall, a locked door, and certain promises that would expire in exactly thirty days.
Her wedding night, spent alone in a beautiful chamber in a cold house with a dangerous man just out of reach.
She had thought she knew what she was agreeing to when she signed that contract. But lying there, the new ring catching what little moonlight found its way through the curtains, she realised she had no idea what she had truly begun.
And perhaps that was for the best. If she had known—truly known—what awaited her in Rothwest House, would she have had the courage to sign?
The question followed her into sleep, where she dreamed of grey eyes, dangerous smiles, and doors that locked—and unlocked—from both sides.