Chapter Twelve
One Week Later
“You’re staring.”
Celine’s voice drifted through the quiet morning air of the breakfast room, amused and knowing. She did not look up from her correspondence, but she could feel the weight of the Duke’s gaze as surely as a touch.
“I’m observing,” he corrected, though he made no attempt to deny it.
“And what, precisely, are you observing?”
“The way you bite your lower lip when you concentrate. The faint furrow between your brows when a letter displeases you. The pattern your fingers tap upon the table—it matches your breathing.”
She did look up then, finding his grey eyes already fixed on her, intense and unblinking. “That is rather invasive.”
“That is marriage.”
He lifted his coffee, still watching her over the rim. “We leave for London in two hours. Go pack.”
She left the breakfast room on unsteady legs, her skin still burning where he’d touched her. Two hours to prepare for three hours of exquisite torture in a carriage with a man whose control was visibly fracturing.
She couldn’t wait.
Betty—her maid during their days at Rothwest Manor, a stay that had extended beyond its first intention—was already packing when Celine reached her rooms, humming cheerfully as she folded gowns into tissue paper.
“Such a lovely time with you here, my lady,” Betty said. “And the country air’s done you good. You’re positively glowing.”
“It’s been... educational,” Celine managed, thinking of all the things she’d learned about her husband. His hidden kindnesses, his heroic nature, the way his control could crack to reveal something molten beneath.
“His Grace seems altered as well,” Betty continued, not looking up from her work. “More... present, if I may say so.”
“Present?”
“As though he is here, my lady—rather than shut away inside his own thoughts. Mrs Morrison says she has not seen him so for years. Not since before his mother passed.”
“He was different then?”
Betty paused her folding.
“From what I hear, he was quite the wild young boy. Before his father… well, before everything changed. They say he used to laugh. Imagine that—the Duke, laughing like an ordinary person.”
Celine could imagine it. She’d seen flashes of that man—briefly, brilliantly—before he rebuilt his walls.
“Betty… may I ask you something?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“What do the servants think of our marriage?”
Betty flushed. “Oh, my lady, I couldn’t—”
“Please. I need to know.”
Betty glanced at the door, then lowered her voice.
“At first, they thought it was merely business. His Grace’s way of sorting out a difficulty with money and contracts. But now...”
“Now?”
“Now they’re placing bets on when the locked doors will come down.”
Her blush deepened. “Beg pardon, my lady. That’s terribly improper.”
“But accurate?”
“Well… the way His Grace looks at you… and the way you look back…”
She shook her head. “Cook has five pounds on the doors lasting less than a week once you’re back in London.”
“And you? What is your wager?”
Betty’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my lady, I would never wager on such a thing—far too improper.”
Celine arched a brow.
Betty hesitated… then allowed herself the smallest, most conspiratorial smile.
“But if someone were inclined to speculate, purely in theory… they might say the doors will come down the night of the Winter Solstice Ball.”
“And why, in theory, would they say that?”
“Well, because it’s such a grand occasion,” Betty said, flustered but earnest. “All the dancing and candlelight and music… It seems the sort of night when things might… change.”
She blushed. “For newlyweds, I mean.”
Celine felt her pulse stir. “I see.”
But as she watched Betty finish packing, she wondered if either of them would last that long. The tension between them was becoming unbearable, each day adding another layer of want that threatened to combust at the slightest spark.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Come in.”
It was the Duke, dressed for travel in a greatcoat that emphasised his broad shoulders. He paused in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over her travel dress—deep burgundy wool that clung to her curves before falling in elegant folds.
“New?” he asked.
“The modiste delivered it this morning.”
His expression tightened almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing.
Betty made a faint, startled sound and hurried out, mumbling something about luggage.
“You’re alarming the servants,” Celine said mildly.
“I’m alarming myself.” He stepped inside, though he kept a deliberate span of distance between them. “The carriage is ready. Are you?”
“Of course.”
There was no bite to her answer—only weariness.
Outside, the carriage waited in the pale morning light. The Duke handed her up, his touch perfectly proper except for the subtle linger of fingers at her elbow, the faint brush of his thumb against the sensitive skin of her inner arm.
Inside, he took the seat beside her rather than across from her.
“The roads are rough,” he explained. “You’ll be steadier on this side.”
“How considerate.”
“I am invariably considerate, it seems.”
“You are invariably controlling, too.”
He turned to look at her as the carriage began to move. “Tell me, wife—where does protection end and control begin?”
“Intent,” she answered without hesitation. “Protection comes from care. Control comes from fear.”
“And which am I guilty of?”
“Both, I should think.”
She let the words settle for a beat, then added lightly—too lightly—“You know, the servants at the Manor have begun placing bets.”
He stilled. “On what subject?”
“When our locked doors will come down.”
His grip on the edge of the seat tightened ever so slightly. “What odds do they give?”
“Cook says within a week of our return to London.”
“Cook underestimates my control.”
“Or,” she said softly, “she overestimates mine.”
He looked at her sharply, but said nothing.
They sat in silence for several minutes, their shoulders nearly brushing despite the width of the bench.
“Tell me about the Winter Solstice Ball,” she said at last.
“What of it?”
“What should I expect? Who will be there? What dangers should I anticipate?”
He seemed grateful for the shift. “The Duke and Duchess of Haverford host it annually. It concludes the social calendar before families retreat for Christmas. Everyone who matters attends.”
“And we matter?”
“We are currently the most discussed scandal in London.” His tone was dry. “Of course we matter.”
“Because of our swift marriage?”
“Because of our apparent passion despite it.” He glanced at her. “That waltz at the Ashford soirée is still being dissected in Mayfair.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Better that than the terms of our practical arrangement.”
“True.” He shifted, considering. “There will be those who seek to provoke trouble. Lord Ashworth, whom you rejected. Matrons who had… ambitions. And of course the Vanceleys—we met them at the inn. They will have taken pains to report their observations.”
“And what did they observe?”
“That the new Countess of Rothwest appears to have a certain influence over her husband.”
She arched a brow. “Do I?”
He didn’t look away. “I expect you know you do.”
The quiet between them shifted—charged, but no longer brittle.
“It goes both ways,” she said softly.
Something flickered in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or something warmer. “Does it.”
“You know it does,” she continued. “The way you watch me. The way you—temper yourself. It’s plain enough you’re giving me room I haven’t earned yet.”
“I’m not giving you anything,” he said, though without heat. “You’ve simply taken it.”
“Then stop me.”
He exhaled, the sound low, almost a laugh, almost a growl. “If I could, I would. That’s the difficulty. I’ve spent half my life keeping myself in perfect order, and you walk in and… undo it without even trying.”
She held his gaze. “I don’t consider that a difficulty.”
“No. I imagine you wouldn’t.”
He looked away briefly, then back at her. “You think it’s a triumph that I cannot put my mind to a single clear thought when you’re in the room? That I lie awake imagining what you look like under those perfectly proper dresses? That every time you say my name, I—”
He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening with the force of what he refused to say.
“Finish it,” she murmured.
“Not a wise request.”
“Why not?”
“Because the answer is not fit for polite conversation in a moving carriage.”
“I doubt it would shock me.”
“Celine—”
“I am not a na?ve girl fresh from the schoolroom. I am your wife.”
“My wife in name only.”
“By your insistence.”
“By necessity,” he corrected, raking a hand through his hair until it lost its perfect order. “If I allowed myself to touch you now—truly touch you—I would not trust myself to stop. That is the truth of it. And you deserve… better restraint than mine presently is.”
“Or perhaps I want less restraint.”
A sound escaped him—half laugh, half strangled breath. “You are determined to undo every scrap of sense I possess.”
“Or to coax you into admitting you have feelings beneath all that iron control.”
He drew a slow breath, straightened, and—almost visibly—set the conversation back on its rails.
“The ball,” he said, clearing his throat. “We were discussing the ball.”
She recognised the retreat but allowed him the escape. For now.
“Yes. The politics. The players. What else must I understand?”
“The Duke of Haverford is one of my few actual friends—if friendship exists in any meaningful form among the ton.”
A slight pause. “His wife, however, despises me.”
“Why?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.
He looked out the carriage window, the countryside blurring past.
“Because she loved my mother. And she believes, rightly or not, that I contributed to her decline.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? I was sixteen, angry at the world, determined to prove I was nothing like my father by being exactly like him—passionate, uncontrolled, dangerous.”
“You were a child who’d lost his father in the worst possible way.”
“I was old enough to know better.”