Chapter Eight
“You are fidgeting.”
The Duke’s observation cut through the gentle quiet of the breakfast room. Celine stilled her fingers—traitorous things tapping against her teacup—and met his gaze across the table.
“I do not fidget,” she said.
“You have done nothing but fidget since you sat down. You have rearranged your silverware three times, adjusted your napkin twice, and you have stirred your tea so vigorously I am astonished the bottom of the cup remains intact.”
She set down her spoon with precise deliberation. “Perhaps I am merely ensuring everything is in proper order. You appreciate order, do you not?”
“I appreciate honesty more.” He leaned back, studying her with that focused attention that always made her feel as though she were a specimen under glass. “What troubles you?”
The truth was that everything about this morning felt…
altered. Yesterday, they had opened his father’s study together, faced twenty-year-old ghosts, and shared a kiss that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with desire.
Yet here they sat, in the bright propriety of breakfast, as though intimacy were something that could be folded away like linen.
“I am wondering what happens now,” she admitted.
“Now we eat breakfast. Then I have estate business to attend to, and you have whatever pursuits occupy a lady’s morning.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” He took a sip of his black coffee. “But I find the quotidian far easier to discuss than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“That we opened doors yesterday that perhaps ought to have remained closed.”
“The study? Or something else?”
His eyes darkened slightly. “Both.”
Before she could respond, Morrison appeared in the doorway. “Your Grace, the morning post.”
The Duke accepted the silver salver, sorting through the correspondence with his usual economy.
Bills, invitations, business—each arranged into its place according to some internal order she could not decipher.
Then he paused, holding an envelope of such quality that even from her seat she could see the gilt edging.
“What is it?” she asked.
He broke the seal and unfolded the heavy paper. His expression, always composed, went utterly still.
“The Winter Solstice Ball,” he said quietly. “December twenty-first.”
She frowned faintly. “That is… soon.”
“Soon enough.” He set the invitation on the table between them. “We shall decline, of course.”
“Why of course?”
“Because by the day of the ball, you will have been my wife for exactly twenty-nine days.” His gaze met hers, sharp with unspoken arithmetic. “And our appointed span of separate bedchambers will be drawing to its close.”
The implications settled over them like a held breath. They would be expected to appear as a fully married couple, with all of Society watching—curious to see whether the ardour displayed at the Ashford soirée had endured or faded as swiftly as gossip suggested.
“We cannot hide forever,” she said.
“I am not hiding. I am being strategic.”
“You are being cowardly.”
The temperature in the room seemed to dip. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” She lifted the invitation, tracing its elegant script. “The Duke and Duchess of Haverford request the pleasure of the company of the Duke and Duchess of Rothwest at what will be the most watched ball of the winter season—and you would decline because you are afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of a ball.”
“No. You are afraid of what comes after. When the month ends and we must decide what we truly are to one another.”
He stood abruptly, moving to the window. “We are what we’ve always been. A business arrangement that became complicated by proximity and certain... biological imperatives.”
“Biological imperatives?” She laughed—light, but with no amusement. “Is that what you call what happened in the study yesterday?”
“What would you call it?”
“Honesty. Connection. The beginning of something that terrifies you because you cannot control it.”
He turned, and for one unguarded heartbeat she saw everything—desire, fear, bewilderment, hope—before his expression closed again.
“We are leaving for the country estate tomorrow,” he said.
The shift was so abrupt she blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rothwest Manor. It is time for the annual estate review, and the tenants will expect to meet their new countess.” He moved toward the door. “We shall be gone for a week. That should afford ample time to settle how we intend to approach the ball.”
“You are creating a distraction.”
He paused at the threshold. “I am providing a necessary diversion. There is a difference.”
“Is there? Because from where I sit, it appears the great Duke of Rothwest is quite eager to flee into estate matters because he kissed his wife and liked it far too well.”
“Celine—”
“Will there be locked doors at the estate as well?” she cut in. “Or will you trust the sheep and cows to serve as chaperones?”
His jaw tightened. “You are being deliberately provoking.”
“And you are being deliberately blind. We cannot outrun this, Elias.”
It was the first time she had spoken his given name aloud.
He went completely still, fingers whitening around the doorframe.
“Do not,” he said softly.
“Do not what? Use your name? You are my husband.”
“In name only.”
“By your choice, not mine.”
“By our agreement. Twenty-five more days, Celine.”
“And if I said I did not wish to wait?”
He turned, crossing the room in three swift strides. He pulled her from her chair—not roughly, but with unmistakable urgency. For a breath, she thought he would kiss her. Instead, he held her at arm’s length, his grip firm but not unkind.
“You do not know what you are asking,” he said, voice low.
“Then tell me.”
“You are asking me to break the last thread of control I possess where you are concerned. To stop pretending I do not think of you constantly. To admit that every night I stand at that locked door and fight the urge to pick the lock myself.” His hands tightened slightly on her shoulders.
“You are asking me to become the beast they believe me to be.”
“No,” she whispered. “I am asking you to be the man I know you are.”
He released her suddenly and stepped back. “Pack for a week. We leave at dawn.”
Then he was gone, leaving her alone with cooling tea and an invitation that felt less like a social summons and more like a countdown to something inevitable.