Chapter Ten
The next morning arrived grey and misty—an apt backdrop for a journey that felt like both escape and pursuit.
Celine dressed carefully in a travelling gown of deep blue wool and pinned her hair in a style meant to withstand hours in a jolting carriage.
When she descended to the entrance hall, she found the Duke already waiting, dressed in travelling clothes that managed to be both practical and impossibly elegant.
“Good morning,” she said, the words formal on her tongue as servants bustled about with last-minute preparations.
“Lady Rothwest.” He bowed slightly. “I trust you slept well?”
It was the politest of fictions. She had scarcely slept at all—too aware of him in the room next door, of the locked door between them, of how completely they had come undone in his study and how impossible it felt to return to polite distance now.
“Perfectly,” she lied.
“Excellent. The journey is roughly three hours, depending on road conditions. I’ve had a kitchen maid prepare refreshments for the journey.”
So formal. So controlled. As if he hadn’t held her desperately in his study just the day before.
The carriage waiting outside was the same that had borne her to Rothwest House on her wedding day—all dark wood and luxurious leather.
But this time, instead of taking the opposite bench, the Duke sat beside her.
The seat was wide enough that they did not touch, yet his presence radiated like heat from a banked fire.
As London slowly gave way to open countryside, the silence between them grew heavier, thicker. At last, she broke.
“Are you going to ignore me for the entire journey?”
“I am not ignoring you. I am maintaining appropriate distance.”
“We are trapped in a carriage together. There is no distance.”
“Physical proximity and emotional distance are entirely different matters.”
“How convenient,” she said lightly, “that you can separate them so neatly.”
He turned to her then. She saw the shadows beneath his eyes—shadows that mirrored her own. “You think this is easy?”
“I think you are making it more difficult than it need be.”
“Am I?” His voice darkened. “We have an agreement, Celine. One designed to protect you—”
“I do not need protection.”
“Don’t you?” His tone dipped into something low, something dangerous. “You have no idea what you are asking for. What I am capable of. The things I—want.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because once I begin, I will not stop. And we have twenty-four days left.”
“Who’s counting?”
He looked away, jaw tightening, and said nothing.
They stopped at a respectable coaching inn for luncheon, where the proprietor all but tripped over himself upon noticing the Duke’s crest and immediately provided a private dining room.
The meal was good—roast chicken, warm bread, winter vegetables—but Celine tasted none of it, too aware of every slight movement he made, every breath.
“You are not eating,” he observed.
“Neither are you.”
“My appetite has been… uncertain of late.”
“Since when?”
“Since I acquired a wife who insists upon challenging every boundary I set.”
“Perhaps you set too many.”
“Perhaps you recognise too few.”
A knock interrupted the standoff. A well-dressed matron entered, accompanied by a younger lady who bore her likeness.
“Your Grace!” the older woman exclaimed. “What a delightful surprise! We heard you had married, though I confess we hardly credited it.”
The Duke rose, expression smoothing into polite neutrality. “Lady Vanceley. Miss Vanceley. May I present my wife, Lady Rothwest?”
Celine rose as well, curtseying appropriately while her mind raced. These must be local gentry, the kind who would spread news of their meeting across three counties before sunset.
“Charming!” Lady Vanceley gushed. “Utterly charming. We had all but given up hope of the Duke ever marrying—he has refused so many suitable young ladies.”
“Perhaps His Grace had his reasons,” Celine said with a sweet smile.
“Oh! Oh, indeed—yes, well…” Lady Vanceley fluttered. “And how do you find married life, Lady Rothwest?”
“Educational,” Celine said—and felt the Duke place a steadying hand at the small of her back. It looked supportive. It felt like warning.
“How… unique.” Lady Vanceley’s eyes gleamed with the promise of gossip. “Are you travelling to the Manor? How delightful! We are neighbours, you know—our estate borders Rothwest land.”
“Then we shall be sure to call once we are settled,” the Duke said with a tone that conveyed the opposite.
“Oh, you must dine with us! Thursday? I insist!”
“We shall send word,” the Duke replied smoothly. “If you will excuse us, we must continue our journey.”
He guided Celine out with a hand that never left her back. Once inside the carriage, she expected him to reclaim the careful distance between them. Instead, his hand remained, his thumb tracing small, deliberate circles that burned through her dress.
“That was well done,” he said.
“What was?”
“Managing Lady Vanceley. She is the greatest gossip for miles. By tomorrow, everyone will know that the new Countess of Rothwest possesses a sharp tongue and her husband’s unmistakable support.”
“Is that what you were demonstrating? Support?”
“Among other things.” His hand slipped slightly higher, finding the small gap between her gown and spencer where only a thin chemise lay between his fingers and her skin.
“We were being watched. Through windows, from the stables. Everyone eager to see whether the Beast’s marriage is real or merely convenient. ”
“And what are we showing them?”
“What do you think?”
She turned toward him, bringing their faces dangerously close. “I think you are using performance as an excuse to touch me.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I am touching you and calling it performance.” His eyes fell to her lips. “The distinction blurs.”
“Everything blurs with you.”
“That is what happens,” he replied, “when one ventures too close.”
The carriage struck a rough patch, jolting her into him. He caught her instantly—one arm around her waist, the other bracing the wall. For a moment, they were pressed together, her palms on his chest, his breath warm against her cheek.
“Celine,” he said—her name a warning, a plea.
“We should—”
“Yes.”
Yet neither moved.
They remained suspended in that breathless moment, bodies aligned, hearts racing, until the carriage smoothed and sense returned. He helped her to sit properly again, though his hand lingered at her waist.
“How much farther?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
“An hour. Perhaps less.”
She nodded but said nothing.
How much longer, she wondered, before either of us can maintain this performance no more?
The last hour passed in charged silence. His hand remained at her back; she found herself leaning into him despite the warning bells.
When Rothwest Manor came into view, Celine gasped. It was nothing like the austere London residence—this was a sprawling Elizabethan manor of honey-coloured stone, its windows gleaming gold even in the weak afternoon sun, surrounded by gardens that spoke of care even in winter.
“It is beautiful,” she breathed.
“It was my mother’s favourite place,” he said quietly. “She spent most of her time here after… after my father died.”
“And you?”
“I come when necessary. Estate business. Tenant meetings.”
“But you do not love it?”
A pause. “I do not allow myself to love places. They can be taken too easily.”
Before she could reply, the carriage rolled to a stop before the main entrance, where a line of servants waited. The Duke helped her down, his hand lingering a heartbeat longer than propriety required.
“Welcome to Rothwest Manor, wife,” he said formally. Then, lower—just for her—“Do try not to become too comfortable. We are here only a week.”
But as Celine looked up at the warm stone and gleaming windows, she thought one week might be more than enough time for everything to change.
***
Mrs Morrison was indeed particular, but she was also warm in a way her husband never revealed. She greeted Celine with a curtsey that managed to be both respectful and genuinely welcoming.
“My lady, such a pleasure to meet you at last. We’ve prepared the Countess’s suite, of course, for His Grace said…” She hesitated, uncertain.
“Separate chambers,” the Duke said firmly. “As in London.”
“Of course, Your Grace. This way, my lady.”
The Countess’s suite was magnificent—three rooms in soft creams and golds, with windows overlooking the gardens and, beyond them, a gleaming silver lake.
“The lake,” Celine murmured.
“Yes, my lady. Beautiful, is it not? His Grace...” Mrs Morrison caught herself. “That is, the views are quite spectacular in all seasons.”
After she departed, Celine explored the suite, noting the connecting door that must lead to the Duke’s chambers. Locked, predictably. She was beginning to hate locked doors with a passion she barely understood.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. “Come in.”
The Duke entered, pausing just inside the doorway. “Are the rooms satisfactory?”
“They’re lovely,” she said. “Your mother had excellent taste.”
“She redesigned them when she married my father. Full of hope and plans.” His expression shadowed. “Before she learned what she had married.”
“And what had she married?” Celine asked softly.
“A man who loved gambling more than his family. Who could charm anyone but couldn’t control himself. Who left her to clean up his disasters while he took the coward’s way out.”
“That is one interpretation.”
His eyes narrowed, though not unkindly. “What is another?”
She stepped closer, though still leaving air between them. “A man fighting demons he could not defeat. Who loved his family, but loved his addiction more. Who chose death because he saw no path that spared anyone further pain.”
“That is generous.”
“That is human,” she corrected. “People are complex, Elias. Even the ones who hurt us.”
He flinched slightly at the sound of his name, but he did not tell her not to use it.
“Dinner is at eight,” he said instead. “We dress for dinner even here.”
“Of course we do.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” she said with a faint smile. “Simply… predictable. Everything in its place, everything according to schedule—even here, where no one is watching.”
“The servants are always watching. And the tenants hear everything. The Vanceleys are probably already composing letters about our luncheon encounter.”
“So we are never offstage? Never allowed to simply be?”
“We are the Duke and Duchess of Rothwest. The stage is our permanent residence.”
He left then, and Celine was reminded of something her mother had told her once: The nobility do not enjoy private lives. Everything is performance, even the moments that feel real.
But as she dressed for dinner—in a gown of deep green silk that Sally insisted brought out her eyes—she wondered if perhaps the opposite was true. Perhaps everything that felt like performance was actually real, disguised as duty to make it bearable.
Dinner was more intimate than in London.
The dining room was smaller, the table only meant for twelve, and though they still sat at opposite ends, the distance felt less vast. The Duke had changed into evening attire, and Celine was struck anew by how arresting he could look when he put in effort.
The candlelight softened his sharp features, lending him a gentler, almost vulnerable air.
“Tell me about the tenants,” she said as the soup was served.
“There are twelve primary families who’ve been on Rothwest land for generations. Tomorrow, we ride out to visit them.”
“Ride?”
“You do ride, I trust.”
“Adequately.”
“That will not do. The Countess of Rothwest should ride excellently.” He sipped his wine. “We shall have to improve that.”
“We shall? And what else will we improve during our week of exile?”
“It is not exile. It is—”
“Diversion. Yes, you’ve mentioned it.” She set down her spoon. “What frightens you so that we must observe this diversion at all?”
“I’ve told you—”
“No,” she said calmly, “you have given me vague warnings about control and beasts and shadows I cannot see. But you have told me little of substance.”
He was silent for a long moment.
Then: “My father was not only a gambler. He was an addict in every sense. Gambling, women, wine—anything that gave him a moment’s thrill. He had no restraint. He consumed everything in his path.”
“And you think you are like him?”
“I do not think. I know.” He held her gaze, unflinching. “I have the same intensity, the same hunger. I simply learned to contain it.”
“Or deny it entirely.”
“Denial is a form of control.”
“Denial is a form of death,” she countered. She rose, moving toward him. “You’re so afraid of feeling that you’ve stopped living.”
“I live quite well—and have had this conversation before.”
She’d reached his chair now, standing close enough to see the pulse beating rapidly at his throat despite his controlled expression.
“What would you have me do?” he asked quietly.
“Stop counting days. Stop maintaining distance. Stop pretending this is merely a business arrangement.”
“And what is it instead?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’d like to find out.”
He rose abruptly, bringing them nearly chest to chest. “You do not know what you are asking.”
“Then tell me,” she whispered. “Show me. Stop protecting me from something I might very well want.”
“Might?” His hand rose to cradle her cheek. “You don’t even know—”
“I know enough,” she breathed. “I know that when you touch me, I feel more alive than I ever have. I know that when you kiss me, everything else disappears. I know that these locked doors between us feel like punishment for sins neither of us has committed.”
“Celine—”
“I know,” she said, voice trembling, “that I lie awake at night wondering if you’re awake too. Wondering what would happen if those doors weren’t locked.”
His thumb traced her cheekbone, soft, reverent. “This is dangerous.”
“Everything worth doing is.”
For one suspended moment, she thought he would kiss her. His gaze dropped to her mouth; his hand tightened fractionally.
Then voices sounded in the hall—servants clearing the course—and the spell fractured. He stepped back, the armour of control snapping into place.
“We should retire,” he said stiffly. “Tomorrow will be long.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t wish to disturb the precious schedule.”
“Celine—”
“Goodnight, Elias.”
She left before he could answer.
Her suite was beautiful, but painfully empty. The connecting door stood like a taunt—locked, unyielding.
As she prepared for bed, she heard movement through the wall: footsteps, pacing, a chair dragged across the floor. Someone fighting the same battle she was.
Celine pressed her palm to the connecting door, wondering if he stood on the other side.
“Goodnight, Elias,” she whispered to the wood.
She thought—just faintly—she heard a reply. But perhaps it was only the wind.