Chapter Six
“My lady, it’s nearly eight o’clock.”
Sally’s voice pierced the cocoon of concentration Celine had woven around herself in the library. She looked up from the volume on medieval architecture she’d discovered, blinking in the lamplight.
“Is it?” She made no move to rise from her place curled in the window-seat. “How time flies when one is reading about flying buttresses.”
Sally shifted, wringing her hands. “His Grace is very particular about punctuality, my lady. Especially at dinner.”
“So I’ve been told.” Celine turned another page, admiring an illustration of Notre-Dame. “Morrison informed me at breakfast, Mrs Vanceley at tea, and even the footman who delivered my post felt compelled to caution that ‘His Grace appreciates promptness in all things.’”
“They only wish to help, my lady, Sally murmured. “The last time someone was late to dinner…” She stopped abruptly, eyes widening as though the words had escaped her.
“What happened?” Celine asked, setting down her book.
“It was one of the kitchen maids. She was serving in place of an ill footman, and she didn’t know…
well, she arrived three minutes late with the fish course.
” Sally lowered her voice to a whisper. “His Grace didn’t say a word.
Not one. But the temperature in the room dropped so sharply that the wine actually chilled in the glasses. She gave notice the very next day.”
“Because she was three minutes late with fish?”
“Because she couldn’t bear the way he looked at her. As though she had disrupted the natural order of things.”
Celine glanced at the clock on the mantel.
Three minutes to eight.
If she left immediately and walked at a normal pace, she would arrive precisely at the hour. Perhaps a few breaths after.
She picked up her book again.
“My lady,” Sally pleaded, “please.”
“I’ll be along shortly.” She found her place on the page. “You’re dismissed for the evening.”
“But your hair—your dress—”
“Are perfectly adequate.” She did not look up. “Good evening, Sally.”
The maid bobbed a curtsey and hurried out—no doubt to inform the household that the new countess had taken leave of her senses on her third day of marriage.
Celine continued reading, though she absorbed nothing about ribbed vaults or Gothic arches. Her attention was fixed entirely on the clock’s ticking. Eight o’clock. One minute past. Two. Three.
At five minutes past, she rose, smoothed her afternoon dress—she had not changed for dinner, another deliberate choice—and made her way to the dining room at an unhurried pace.
At eight minutes past, she paused outside the door, inhaled, and entered.
The Duke sat at his end of the table, a glass of wine in his hand, studying it as though it were a particularly absorbing specimen. He did not look up. The footmen, arranged like statues along the walls, seemed to hold their breath.
“Good evening,” she said pleasantly, taking her seat.
He still did not look at her. “Morrison,” he said, voice perfectly calm, “pray pour Lady Rothwest some wine.”
Morrison moved with the measured tread of a man walking through a roomful of sleeping lions. He filled her glass with claret—the 1811, she noted, the exceptional vintage they had shared the previous night. Only when the task was complete did the Duke finally raise his eyes.
“How thoughtful,” she said, sipping. “This is excellent.”
“It should be.” He set down his glass with characteristic precision.
“It has been breathing for precisely fifteen minutes—the optimal time for this vintage. It was meant to be enjoyed at eight o’clock, when its temperature would have been ideal.
Now it is slightly too warm. The flavour has altered.
What ought to have been sublime is now merely adequate. ”
“How very disappointing for you.”
“Indeed.” He nodded, and Morrison signalled for the first course. “I trust your reading justified the sacrifice?”
“Medieval architecture is endlessly fascinating. Notre-Dame took nearly two centuries to complete, did you know?”
“I did.” He lifted another measured spoonful of soup. “I also know that centuries of labour can be endangered in an instant. Notre-Dame suffered a fire during its early construction—one careless ember on the scaffolding, and half the roof beams were lost.”
“One might argue it survived because it was built strong enough to withstand human fallibility.”
“One might,” he allowed. “One might also argue it is senseless to invite error merely to test one’s foundations.”
Silence fell as the soup was cleared and the fish set before them. The quiet felt charged, like the stillness after lightning.
“In my house,” he said at last, setting down his fork with geometric exactitude, “time obeys me.”
The words were quiet, conversational even, but Celine felt them slide down her spine like cold water. There was something in his tone that made her understand why that kitchen maid had given notice.
“That must be very convenient,” she managed, proud that her voice remained steady.
“It’s not about convenience. It’s about order. Discipline. The understanding that chaos begins with small infractions.” He lifted his wine glass, studying the way the candlelight played through the liquid. “Ten minutes today. Twenty tomorrow. An hour next week. Where does it end?”
“Perhaps,” she said, “with a life lived rather than scheduled.”
“Chaos,” he replied, “in disguise.”
“And we certainly wouldn’t want a moment of chaos disturbing Rothwest House.”
He smiled then—that sharp, unsettling curve she was beginning to recognise as his version of amusement. “You did this intentionally.”
Not a question. Still, she answered. “Yes.”
“To test me.”
“To understand you.”
“And what have you learned?”
She considered him across the expanse of polished mahogany and glittering crystal. “That you’re not angry. You’re afraid.”
The temperature in the room did drop then, just as Sally had described. The candle flames seemed to dim, and even Morrison shifted uncomfortably.
“Afraid,” the Duke repeated, voice a silken threat. “How fascinating. Pray, elaborate on your diagnosis after a mere three days of marriage.”
“You fear disorder,” she continued steadily. “Unpredictability. Anything that lies beyond your ability to control through rules and schedules. The question is—why?”
He rose with fluid grace. Every servant in the room seemed to retreat without moving. Instead of coming toward her, he strode to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy with controlled precision.
“You may test me once,” he said quietly, his back still turned. “Do not make a habit of it.”
“Or what?”
He turned then. Something flickered in his eyes—not anger, but something more dangerous.
“Or I might forget that I am attempting to be civilised.”
The words hung between them like the poised edge of a blade. Then he drank, set down the glass, and left the room without another word.
“Shall I serve the meat course, my lady?” Morrison asked, discreetly clearing his throat.
“I believe I have lost my appetite,” Celine said, rising. “Pray convey my compliments to the chef.”
She left the dining room, but instead of going to her chambers, she found herself following the path the Duke had taken. She caught a glimpse of his coat disappearing into his study.
She approached carefully, peering inside. He stood at the window, one hand braced against the frame, his shoulders tense beneath his perfectly tailored coat.
“You are not particularly skilled at being ignored,” he said without turning.
“Neither are you,” she replied.
A short, sharp laugh. “No, I suppose not.” He faced her, every line of him taut with contained emotion. “Why did you do it, Celine? Truly?”
“Would you believe boredom?”
“No.”
She stepped inside, taking in the immaculate order—books aligned by height and subject, papers in perfect formation, hearth stacked with mathematical care.
“I wanted to see what would happen,” she admitted. “Everyone warned me about your rules. Your schedules. Your exactness. But no one could tell me why. Or what happens when those rules are broken.”
“And now you know.”
“Do I?” She moved closer. “All I know is that my arriving ten minutes late to dinner appeared to unsettle you almost as profoundly as my father losing eight thousand pounds. That is… interesting.”
“Your father’s losses were predictable. I knew the outcome before he sat.” He adjusted an already-straight sheet of paper. “Your lateness was not.”
“And the unpredictable is intolerable?”
“In my experience, unpredictability begets destruction.” The words were flat, factual—yet something lived beneath them.
“What happened?” she asked softly. “What made you need this much control?”
For a moment, he seemed on the verge of answering. Then the shutters came down behind his eyes.
“We are expected to depart for Lady Ashford’s soirée within the hour,” he said. “You should change.”
“Should I? Or is my afternoon dress another unpredictable element you must endure?”
“Your attire reflects on us both. Your punctuality at dinner reflected only on me.” He opened the door in unmistakable dismissal. “The blue gown. With the sapphires I sent up this afternoon.”
“You sent jewellery to my room?”
“You are the Countess of Rothwest. You will be properly adorned.”
She paused in the doorway. “And if I choose to wear the green gown instead?”
“Then you will clash dreadfully with the sapphires, look ridiculous, and provide ample fodder for the gossips.” He leaned in—close enough for his cologne to curl around her, smoke and winter. “But if small rebellions make you feel powerful, wear the green.”
She should have been insulted. Instead, she nearly smiled. “You’re calling my bluff.”
“No.” His voice softened, wickedly amused. “I am recognising a pattern. You push, I respond, you push harder. A dance of sorts.” His breath brushed her skin. “The question is whether either of us knows the steps.”
“I’ve always been good at improvisation.”