Chapter Twelve #2
She reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers despite his initial resistance. “You were in pain.”
“Pain doesn’t excuse cruelty.”
“Were you cruel?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I was careless. With money, with people’s feelings, with my mother’s health. I thought if I could just feel enough, do enough, be enough, it would fill the hollow place my father’s death had left.”
“And did it?”
“No. It just created more hollow places. Until eventually, I decided it was better not to feel at all.”
“And now?”
He looked at their joined hands. “Now you’re here, making me feel everything I’ve spent twenty years avoiding.”
“Is that so terrible?”
No answer.
They rode in silence for a time, their hands still linked, the air between them less volatile but no less charged. When she spoke again, her voice was lighter.
“What shall I wear to the ball?”
“Burgundy,” he said promptly. “With diamonds. Not rubies—the effect should be refined, not flamboyant.”
“You’ve given this thought.”
“Of course.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “We are presenting ourselves as a united household. The styling must reflect that.”
“And you?”
“Dark blue. Silver waistcoat.”
“We will complement without matching.”
“Precisely.” He paused. “And we shall dance.”
“How many times?”
“Three. Any more invites gossip. Any fewer invites commentary.”
She smiled. “Calculated affection?”
“Strategic,” he corrected softly. “But real enough to be believed.”
She held his gaze. “Is it real?”
His voice dropped. “Far too real.”
The carriage slowed, approaching an inn. He withdrew his hand, the mask of propriety slipping back into place—but only just.
“We’ll stop here briefly,” he said. “Stretch our legs, take refreshment.”
“Together?”
His brow lifted. “Of course. We are married, are we not?”
He helped her down from the carriage, his hands firm at her waist. For a moment neither moved. They stood in the inn yard—his hands still on her, hers on his shoulders—something unsaid sparking between them like a dare.
“Your Grace, my lady,” the innkeeper interrupted, bowing low. “The private parlour is free, if you’d care for it.”
The Duke stepped back at once, mask restored. He offered his arm with impeccable formality. “Shall we, wife?”
“Lead the way, husband.”
The dining room was small but comfortable, a fire crackling in the grate, a simple table laid for two. The innkeeper poured wine, announced the dishes, and finally withdrew, leaving them alone.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Celine removed her gloves one finger at a time, aware of his gaze but pretending not to be. He sat opposite her—farther than necessary—his posture crisp, his expression unreadable.
At first, silence held. Then he cleared his throat.
“You handled Lady Vanceley remarkably well the last time we were here.”
She glanced up. “It was nothing,” she replied lightly. “A bit of polite fencing.”
“You were more than merely polite,” he said. “You were… assured.”
She blinked, unsure whether to take it as praise. “I was only being myself.”
“That,” he murmured, “is precisely what unsettles me.”
The words hung in the air—intimate, honest.
Celine felt a prickle low in her stomach. Recognition.
“You speak,” she said quietly, “as if my presence is a problem you must solve.”
His mouth tightened. “It was easier, before.”
“Before what?”
“Before I had a wife who looks at every corner of my life and sees more than is comfortable.”
Her breath caught.
The innkeeper returned with the first course—a simple stew and fresh bread—and departed again. They both picked up their spoons; neither ate.
“It seems,” she said after a moment, “that we keep circling the same questions.”
“Because we are avoiding the answers.”
She set her spoon down. “Then perhaps it is time we stopped avoiding them.”
He looked at her then—properly, directly. His eyes were tired, but clear.
“I am trying,” he said, “to remain the sort of man who does not act rashly. Who does not take without thought. Who does not repeat his father’s mistakes.”
“That is admirable,” she said softly.
“It is maddening,” he replied with equal softness.
Another silence. This one warmer. Closer.
She rose slowly, as sitting felt suddenly too still. He tensed as she approached, but didn’t move away.
She stopped beside his chair, close enough to feel his heat.
“I am not here to tempt you into being reckless,” she said quietly. “Only into being honest.”
He studied her for a long moment. She felt the weight of it, not possessive— searching. Struggling. Wanting to understand.
At last he spoke.
“Honesty,” he said, “is precisely what I am trying to manage carefully.”
“Why?” Her voice stayed soft. “What are you afraid will happen if you speak plainly?”
His jaw worked, but the truth came.
“You will expect more.”
She exhaled. “Elias… I expect nothing beyond what you freely give.”
That landed. She saw it in the way his shoulders shifted, just barely.
He looked down at his hands. “I prefer structure. Rules. They keep my world in order.”
“And do they help?”
“They did,” he said quietly. “Before you.”
Something eased in her. Not triumph—connection.
She reached out and placed her hand on the back of his chair. A gesture of presence.
“I am not here to unravel you,” she said. “Only to meet you where you are.”
His breath caught—the smallest, briefest sound.
“Celine,” he murmured, the word careful, almost reverent.
She smiled—small, sad, sincere. “Let us eat. Before the innkeeper assumes we despise the stew.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—the closest she’d seen to a genuine smile.
They resumed their meal. They ate a little. They talked—lightly, cautiously—of roads and weather and horses and the tenants they’d met.
But beneath it all, the room pulsed with restrained heat.
Not rushed.
Not forced.
Simply… inevitable.
By the time they stepped back into the cold air of the yard, Celine no longer wondered whether their arrangement—those locked doors and the vow of distance—would hold. She wondered only when it would break.
The final two hours of the journey were exquisite torture.
They sat side by side, precisely as propriety demanded, yet every shift of the carriage brought them near enough for her sleeve to brush his coat, her skirt to whisper against his boot.
Neither spoke of it. Neither acknowledged it.
But the air between them felt taut, every jolt of the wheels a threat to whatever fragile restraint they maintained.
At last, unable to bear the silence, he said quietly:
“You’re thinking very loudly.”
She turned her head, one brow lifting. “How can you tell?”
“The way you’re gripping your reticule. You’re going to strangle that poor bag.”
She loosened her grip, laughing slightly. “I’m thinking about the ball.”
“Liar.”
“Fine. I’m thinking about after the ball.”
“Twelve days after?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” He shifted slightly, his thigh pressing against hers. “And what happens then?”
“You tell me.”
“The agreement ends. The doors unlock.”
“And?”
“And we see what we truly are to each other.”
Her pulse jumped. “What do you think we are?”
His silence stretched long enough that she wondered if he meant to answer at all. Then, quietly:
“Inevitable.”
Heat curled low in her belly. “Inevitable?”
“From the moment you walked into that room, chin lifted like a challenge. From the moment you looked at me and saw something other than the Beast. From the moment you agreed to this marriage when every rational instinct ought to have had you fleeing.”
“I don’t flee.”
“No. You stand and fight.” His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before lifting again. “Even when the fight is already lost.”
“Is it? Lost?”
“We shall find out in twelve days.”
London’s distant skyline appeared through the carriage window, a grey smudge rising against the horizon.
Celine felt a pang—relief and disappointment tangled so tightly she could not separate them.
With the city came obligations, scrutiny…
and the end of the closeness that carriage walls had forced upon them.
“When we return,” the Duke said, “things will be different.”
“In what way?”
“We’ll have callers. Invitations. Preparations for the ball. Every gesture will be watched.” His tone carried no particular irritation—only weary certainty. “They’ll pick apart our marriage the moment we step through the door.”
“They already were,” she reminded him.
“It will be worse in London. Servants talk. So do their friends. Every household in Mayfair trades gossip like currency.”
“So we perform.”
“We perform,” he agreed. “The devoted newlyweds.”
“And in private?”
His jaw tightened. “In private, we maintain our agreement.”
“For twelve more days.”
“Eleven days,” he corrected quietly, “and approximately fifteen hours.”
She turned to him, surprised. “Who is counting now?”
“We both are,” he murmured. “We always have been.”
Rothwest House rose before them, all stern angles and dark stone—unchanged, yet no longer forbidding. It felt, in some strange, impossible way, like returning to something familiar.
He helped her down from the carriage, his hands firm at her waist. They lingered a fraction longer than necessity allowed.
“Welcome home, wife.”
“Such enthusiasm.”
“Should I have arranged trumpets and fanfare?”
“That would certainly set the servants whispering for weeks.”
“They hardly lack material.”
Morrison opened the door with practiced precision. “Your Grace, my lady. Welcome home. I trust your journey was pleasant?”
“Tolerable,” the Duke replied, removing Celine’s cloak with quiet care.
“There have been numerous callers in your absence, Your Grace. Their cards are arranged on your desk.”
“Of course.” His gaze slid to Celine. “The vultures circle early. Eager to see whether the Beast has been tamed.”
“And has he?” she asked softly.
His answer was low. “You tell me.”
The question hovered between them, charged, until Morrison’s patient presence compelled them back to propriety.
“Dinner at eight?” the Duke said at last.
“Unless you prefer dining privately, after travelling.”
“No. Together.” He turned to her. “Unless you are too tired?”
“Never too tired to dine with my husband.”
Something shifted in his eyes—not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. “Eight o’clock, then. Do not be late.”
“I would not dare.”
She climbed the stairs, aware of his gaze at her back. In her chamber, the locked door stood silent and immovable—a symbol of the pact they were clinging to with less conviction every day.
Eleven days and fifteen hours.
But as she laid her hand against the wood, imagining his palm pressed to the opposite side, she no longer doubted the outcome.
Those locks would fall.