Chapter Eleven
The next morning dawned bright and cold, frost silvering the gardens beyond her window. Celine dressed in her riding habit—deep blue wool that had clearly weathered a number of seasons but was all she possessed—and made her way to the breakfast room.
The Duke was already there, appropriately attired for riding in clothes that managed to be both practical and impeccably fitted. He glanced up from his newspaper, something flickering in his eyes before he masked it.
“Good morning,” she said, taking her seat.
“You look…” He paused, searching for a diplomatic phrasing. “That habit has certainly seen better days.”
“It is what I have.”
“We shall remedy that. I’ve arranged for the local modiste to visit tomorrow with samples.”
“That isn’t necessary—”
“It is. You’ll ride out regularly as Countess; you require appropriate attire.”
“For the week we’re here?”
“For whenever we’re here.” He returned to his paper—though he glanced at her over the top of it more often than he read. “Eat something substantial. We’ll be out most of the day.”
After breakfast, they walked to the stables, their breath misting in the crisp air. Celine pulled her spencer closer around her shoulders.
“Cold?” he asked.
“Invigorated.”
“Liar.”
But he stepped closer, offering warmth without quite touching her.
The stables were immaculate—naturally—everything arranged with the Duke’s characteristic precision. A groom held two saddled horses: a steady mare for her and a magnificent black stallion for him.
“He’s beautiful,” she said, approaching cautiously.
“He’s temperamental. He threw three grooms before I took him in hand.”
“And now?”
“Now he tolerates me. Barely.” He helped her mount, his hands at her waist lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Can you manage?”
“I told you—I ride adequately.”
“We shall see.”
They set out across the estate, the Duke pointing out boundaries and landmarks with matter-of-fact precision barely concealing pride. The first tenant farm lay a few minutes’ ride through countryside so beautiful it made Celine’s chest ache.
“It’s magnificent,” she breathed.
“It’s profitable,” he corrected, but she saw the way his eyes swept the landscape with something approaching affection.
The tenant family—the Weatherbys—were clearly nervous about meeting the new Countess. Mr Weatherby kept tugging his forelock while Mrs Weatherby curtseyed so many times that Celine grew dizzy watching.
“Please,” Celine said gently. “There’s no need for such formality. I’m here to learn, not to judge.”
“Very kind, my lady,” Mrs Weatherby said, relaxing. “Would you care for some tea? It’s not fancy, but it’s hot.”
“That would be lovely.”
She saw the Duke’s surprise at her easy acceptance, but he said nothing, following her into the modest farmhouse.
Over tea and simple cake, the Weatherbys gradually opened up, telling her about their struggles with the wet spring, their hopes for next year’s planting, their eldest son, who was learning his letters at the village school the Duke funded.
“His Grace’s been right, generous,” Mr Weatherby said. “Reduced the rents when the crops failed, sent the physician when our youngest took ill. Not many landlords would do as much.”
Celine glanced at the Duke, who shifted uncomfortably. “I protect my investments,” he said stiffly.
“Is that what you call it, Your Grace?” Mrs Weatherby smiled. “Protecting investments? When you sat up all night with our Sarah when she had the fever?”
“That was... an exceptional circumstance.”
“Exceptional,” Celine murmured. “Naturally.”
They visited three more farms that morning, and at each one, Celine discovered more evidence of the Duke’s hidden kindness. Roofs repaired at his expense. Seed provided after a bad harvest. Children’s school fees quietly paid.
“You’re a fraud,” she said as they rode between farms.
He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Beast of Berkeley Square. The cold, calculating Duke who cares for nothing but control. You’re a complete fraud.”
“I am exactly what I appear to be.”
“You’re a man who sits up all night with sick children and pretends it’s about protecting investments.”
“It is about—”
“It’s about caring. About being human. About all those feelings you claim to have locked away.”
He reined in his horse abruptly. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“Caring is dangerous. It makes you vulnerable. It gives others power over you.”
“It makes you real.”
“I don’t want to be real. Real hurts too much.”
The raw honesty of it stole her breath. She moved her mare closer, reaching for his hand where it gripped the reins.
“It also feels too much,” she said softly. “The good parts, I mean.”
He looked down at their joined hands. “The good parts never last.”
“Nothing lasts forever. That doesn’t mean it isn’t worth having.”
“Doesn’t it?” he whispered.
Before she could answer, shouts erupted from the farm ahead. They spurred their horses forward, finding chaos in the yard. A barn had partially collapsed, trapping someone inside.
The Duke was off his horse before it had fully stopped, throwing off his coat and joining the men attempting to lift the heavy beams.
“Who’s in there?” he demanded.
“Young Marcus, Your Grace—went in to check the animals just before it came down.”
Without hesitation, the Duke began directing the rescue—sharp, decisive, controlled. But not cold. This was control born of urgency, not detachment.
“There!” someone called. “I see him!”
The Duke didn’t wait. He squeezed through a gap far too small for comfort and disappeared into the wreckage.
“Elias!” Celine cried, but he was already swallowed by shadows.
Long, agonising minutes passed. Men widened the gap. Just as Celine prepared to go in herself, he emerged, carrying a boy of perhaps ten, both covered in dust and blood.
“Fetch the physician,” he ordered, laying the boy carefully on a blanket someone had spread. “Quickly.”
Celine knelt beside them, noting the gash on the Duke’s forehead and the tear in his shirt.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.” He focused entirely on the boy. “Marcus? Can you hear me?”
The boy’s eyes fluttered open. “Your Grace?”
“You’re safe now. Don’t try to move.”
“The horses—”
“Are fine. You saved them by getting them out first.” The Duke’s voice was warm, reassuring. “That was very brave.”
“Not brave,” the boy whispered. “Scared.”
“The brave ones always are.”
Celine watched, heart aching. This was the man beneath the walls.
The physician arrived within the hour and pronounced the boy bruised but not gravely hurt. The Duke, he said, needed stitches.
“Later,” the Duke said dismissively.
“Now,” Celine countered. “Or I’ll hold you down while the physician does it.”
He stared, startled. “You’re ordering me?”
“I’m insisting. As your wife.”
“My wife in name only.”
“Your wife nonetheless. And wives don’t tolerate stubbornness that results in blood loss.”
The physician wisely began without waiting for further debate. When the stitches were done and the boy settled, they rode back to the Manor slowly. The Duke was silent, tension radiating from him.
“That was heroic,” Celine said quietly.
“It was necessary.”
“It was both.”
“Anyone would have done the same.”
“No,” she said firmly. “They wouldn’t. Most men of your station would have directed from a distance. You went in yourself.”
“The gap was too small for the other men.”
“It was too small for you too. But you went anyway.”
He was quiet for a moment. “The boy would have died,” he said at last.
“And that mattered to you. Despite everything you claim.”
“Of course it mattered. He’s ten. He has his whole life ahead of him.”
“A life you risked your own to save.”
“Stop trying to make me into some sort of hero. I’m not.”
“No,” she agreed. “You’re something rarer. You’re a good man pretending to be a beast because it’s easier than admitting you care.”
They reached the Manor. He dismounted stiffly, then helped her down. But once she was on the ground, he didn’t release her immediately.
“You could have been killed,” she whispered.
“Would that have mattered?”
“You know it would.”
“Do I?”
She reached up, touching the bandage on his forehead gently. “You matter to me, Elias. Beast, man, whatever you want to call yourself. You matter.”
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or fear. “Celine—”
“Your Grace! My lady!” Mrs Morrison hurried out. “We heard about the accident. Hot baths are drawn, and Cook has prepared a meal.”
The moment shattered. The Duke stepped back, his control reasserting itself. “Thank you, Mrs Morrison. We’ll dine in our rooms tonight. It’s been a trying day.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
As they climbed the stairs to their separate suites, Celine thought about locked doors and missed opportunities. But then the Duke paused at her door.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For insisting on the physician. For… caring.”
“Always,” she replied.
He looked as though he might say more. Instead, he nodded once and retreated to his own rooms. Another locked door. Yet after today, it felt less like a barrier and more like a postponement.
Twenty-three more days.
But counting was beginning to feel futile when every moment drew them nearer to something neither could name—something gathering like a storm on the horizon.
***
That evening, alone in her rooms with dinner on a tray, Celine couldn’t settle. She kept thinking about the Duke disappearing into that collapsed barn, the way he’d held that injured boy, the blood on his forehead that he’d ignored to tend to others.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Come in.”
But it was not the maid or Mrs Morrison. It was the Duke himself, still in his shirtsleeves, the bandage on his forehead stark white against his dark hair.
“I wished to be certain you were well,” he said, hovering in the doorway.
“I am not the one who was injured.”
“No,” he conceded, “but you were frightened. I saw your face when I went into the barn.”