Chapter Nine
Sally arrived within the hour, armed with trunks, tissue paper, and an expression of barely contained excitement.
“The country estate, my lady! How wonderful. Mrs Morrison says it’s ever so beautiful this time of year.”
“Mrs Morrison?” Celine watched as Sally began lifting gowns from the wardrobe. “I did not know Morrison was married.”
“Oh yes, my lady. Twenty years now. She’s the housekeeper at Rothwest Manor. Keeps everything running smooth as silk—though they say she’s as particular as His Grace about schedules and the like.”
“A matched set, then.”
Sally giggled, then flushed. “Begging your pardon, my lady.”
“No need. I rather like the idea of Morrison having a wife. It makes him seem more human.” Celine’s fingers brushed a morning dress of soft green wool. “Tell me about the Manor.”
“Well, I’ve never been myself,” Sally confessed, folding carefully, “but the other servants speak of it. It’s grand, they say, but warmer than the London house. Her late ladyship—the Duke’s mother—she loved it dearly. Spent most of her life there, only coming to town when necessary.”
“And the Duke? Does he love it too?”
Sally paused mid-fold. “Hard to say, my lady. He goes regularly for estate business, but he never stays long. Always seems eager to return to London, though for what reason, I couldn’t say—he doesn’t seem to care for Society at all.”
“Perhaps it holds memories,” Celine suggested.
“Perhaps,” Sally agreed, her voice low.
As Sally continued to pack, Celine’s thoughts drifted—not for the first time—to the Duke. Elias. The name rose unbidden, though she doubted she would dare speak it aloud again after his reaction.
A knock at the door drew her back. Morrison appeared in the doorway with his usual impeccable composure. “My lady, His Grace requests your presence in his study.”
Celine followed him down the corridor, her pulse quickening for reasons she refused to examine. She found the Duke at his desk, surrounded by ledgers and correspondence, his pen moving with the precise, controlled script she was beginning to recognise. He did not look up as she entered.
“We need to discuss the ball,” he said.
“I thought we were declining.”
“You were right—we cannot hide.” He set down his pen at last and lifted his gaze to hers. “But if we are to attend, we do so properly. No half measures. No uncertainty. We present a united front.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you will require appropriate attire.” He reached for a sheet of paper and slid it across the desk. “I have arranged for several gowns to be sent to the Manor for your review. You may choose whichever you prefer for the ball.”
She looked at the list—five different modistes, all the finest in London. “This is excessive.”
“This is necessary. The Winter Solstice Ball is one of the most anticipated gatherings of the winter season. Every eye will be on us, looking for cracks in our facade.”
“Our facade,” she repeated. “Is that all this is?”
“You know what I meant…”
She rose, circling the desk until she stood before him. “Not entirely. Pray elaborate.”
He drew in a slow breath, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. When he spoke, his voice was measured, as though he were choosing each word with care. “Reality and marriage rarely coincide.”
“Your parents’ marriage, perhaps,” she said gently. “But we are not them. Not inevitably. Not without choice.”
“Aren’t we?” He rose as well, and suddenly the space between them felt charged. “Tell me how we’re different.”
“Your mother may not have chosen your father,” she answered quietly. “But I chose you.”
He stilled—subtly, but unmistakably.
“You chose survival,” he said.
“I chose you as part of my survival,” she corrected gently.
“Both truths can exist at once. I could have refused. Could have bargained, delayed, appealed to anyone else. But I didn’t.
I looked at you that night in my father’s house and thought…
there is something there. Something worth discovering. ”
His expression flickered—scepticism, longing, fear, all colliding.
“And what have you discovered?”
“That you are brilliant and guarded and far more tender than you allow anyone to suspect. That you read poetry and compose music and plunge into freezing water to remember you are alive. That you fear becoming your father and fear never escaping him just as much.” She stepped closer.
“That you want me—but you cannot bring yourself to want anything you cannot control.”
His breath caught. “Stop,” he murmured, the word almost a plea.
“And that when you kissed me yesterday,” she continued, her voice trembling like a bowstring drawn near to breaking, “you felt what I felt—and it frightened you.”
He moved before she could finish.
The kiss that followed was not gentle this time. Nor cautious. It was the sudden, shattering surrender of two people who had held themselves too tightly, too long. He caught her mouth with his, not violently but with a fierce, unfiltered urgency that stole her breath.
The world seemed to tilt. She felt his restraint finally give way—slowly at first, then all at once—as though the tension that had stretched between them for days had finally snapped.
His hands framed her face, then slid to her waist, drawing her against him with a hunger that came not from impatience but from long denial.
She clutched at his coat, not to anchor herself but because she needed him closer—needed to feel the truth of this moment after so many carefully measured silences. The warmth of him, the steadiness of his hold, the way he kissed her as if it cost him something—everything—made the room fall away.
He was losing control.
And she—every nerve alight—was letting him.
His hand swept around her ribcage, sliding up, bold and sure. Through the silk of her bodice, his fingers found her breast, cupping it, testing the weight, thumb brushing across the already-tightened peak until she gasped into his mouth again.
“Elias—” Her voice broke on his name.
He rested his forehead against hers, breath ragged, as though fighting himself even now. “I know,” he whispered. “I know I shouldn’t…”
But he didn’t pull away.
And neither did she.
He pressed his palm firmer, rougher, fingers pinching just enough to make her whimper. The sound undid him. His mouth found the delicate curve of her throat, kissing, biting, then soothing the same place with his tongue.
Her knees buckled. He caught her, strong arms holding her upright as he manoeuvred her back against the edge of his desk. The wood bit into her spine through her dress, but she barely noticed. He was everywhere—hands, mouth, breath, voice—and she was burning.
One of his legs pressed between hers, parting them, anchoring her. Her skirts tangled as he wedged his thigh upward, not crudely, but deliberately, slowly, until the pressure settled exactly where she was aching.
She shuddered.
The friction—oh, the exquisite friction—was maddening. Her hips bucked of their own accord, seeking it, and he cursed softly, a low sound that vibrated against her collarbone.
“Celine,” he ground out, voice hoarse with restraint. “If you keep moving like that—”
“Then stop me,” she whispered, dazed and drunk on him.
His forehead dropped to hers. Their breaths mingled, short and ragged. Sweat beaded at his temple despite the chill in the air. He looked at her then—really looked—and the sight undid them both.
Her hair was half-down, her bodice askew, eyes wide and wet and burning.
His cravat hung loose. His coat had slipped off one shoulder. His pupils were blown wide, mouth reddened and trembling with restraint.
And yet he held himself back—just barely.
“I want—” he began, but the words failed him, too raw, too dangerous.
Celine lifted her hand, threading her fingers through his hair, urging him toward her again. “Then take.”
The sound he made was almost a groan—not frustration, but surrender.
He kissed her again, slower yet deeper, a kiss that trembled with longing and reverence.
A kiss that felt like a promise on the edge of breaking.
His hands slid down her sides, over her hips, gripping them as if anchoring himself to the last thread of sanity.
When he tore himself away at last, his breath broke against her cheek—pained, wanting, tormented.
They stood like that for several heartbeats, foreheads touching, both shaking under the weight of what they’d unleashed. It wasn’t rejection. It was unbearable desire fighting equally unbearable fear. A silent battle, drawn taut between them.
At length, he whispered, voice cracked and unguarded, “That is why we need distance. Why the country. The locked doors. The cold rules. Because if I stay here—if I stay like this—I will not stop.”
“Maybe the rules shouldn’t matter,” she murmured. “Not with us.”
His laugh was soft, broken, disbelieving. “They matter most with us.” He brushed his thumb along her lower lip, a touch so tender it nearly unmade her—and him. “You undo me. Entirely.”
He stepped back—not abruptly, but slowly, as if it cost him something to release her. He moved behind the desk again, needing the barrier not to push her away, but to protect them both from what he knew he would do otherwise.
“We leave at dawn,” he said, voice still ragged. “Be ready.”
Celine left his study on unsteady legs, the echo of his touch humming through her.