Chapter Thirteen
Sally had already drawn the bath when Celine entered her chambers, humming the same cheerful tune she’d been humming all morning.
“Oh, my lady, it is very good to have you home,” she said brightly. “The house hasn’t felt the same without you and His Grace.”
“Hasn’t it? Rothwest House is always quiet.”
“A different quiet.” Sally tested the water with expert fingers. “Empty quiet, not peaceful quiet. Will you wear the blue silk for dinner?”
“The green, I think,” Celine said.
“The one with the lower neckline?” Sally’s tone was innocently casual; her expression in the mirror was not.
“Is that a problem?”
“Not for me, my lady.” Sally folded a towel with prim precision. “But James—His Grace’s valet—mentioned that after you wore it last, His Grace could not keep his attention on a single ledger. Pacing his study, quite out of sorts, disturbing all his perfectly arranged papers.”
Celine lifted an eyebrow. “Did he?”
“Indeed, my lady,” Sally said with the satisfaction of someone delivering delicious intelligence. “Quite out of sorts.”
“How… interesting.”
Celine sank into the bath, letting the heat ease the knots of the journey. She should not have felt so pleased by the image of Elias pacing, undone by a dress—but she did. It wasn’t the dress, of course. It was everything simmering between them, rising by degrees.
“My lady…” Sally hesitated, then pressed on. “If I may be so bold, the staff believes you’re bringing His Grace back to life.” She lowered her voice. “Mrs Collins—she’s been here since His Grace was in leading strings—says she hasn’t seen him so engaged with anything since before his parents died.”
“Engaged,” Celine echoed, raising a brow. “Or simply frustrated?”
“Both, I daresay.” Sally helped her rise from the bath, wrapping her in warm towels. “James says His Grace mentions you constantly. ‘Has Lady Rothwest breakfasted?’ ‘Ensure Lady Rothwest has everything she requires.’ ‘What is Lady Rothwest’s schedule today?’”
“That sounds more like surveillance than sentiment.”
“Oh no, my lady. James said it was the way he said your name. As if he ought not linger on it, and yet—could not help himself.”
A warmth entirely unrelated to the bath unfurled beneath Celine’s ribs.
By the time Sally had dressed her, the green gown was perfectly fitted—suggestive in its lines without straying into impropriety. Her hair was arranged in an elegant twist, a few soft curls framing her face.
“Perfect,” Sally declared. “His Grace won’t know what’s struck him.”
***
Celine descended to dinner at exactly eight o’clock, finding the Duke already in the dining room. He rose as she entered, and she saw his eyes darken as he took in her appearance.
“Punctual,” he said, though his voice was not as steady as usual.
“I learn from the best,” she replied lightly.
He moved to pull out her chair—closer than before, she noted. Only three places separated them now, not the long expanse of the table.
“The full distance seemed… excessive,” he said, catching her glance.
“And three seats is permissible?”
“Three seats allows conversation.” His eyes flicked briefly to her neckline before returning to her face. “That dress ought to be outlawed.”
“It is perfectly respectable.”
“It is perfectly designed to drive me mad.”
“Is it working?”
“You know it is.”
Morrison appeared with the wine, and they fell into safer topics—the correspondence that had arrived, the callers they’d need to receive, the preparations for the ball.
But underneath the mundane conversation was an awareness that sparked with every glance, every accidental touch as dishes were passed.
“Lady Ashford called three times,” he said as the fish was served. “She wishes for a report of our stay in the country.”
“And what shall we tell her?”
“The truth—that we visited tenants, reviewed accounts, and behaved with unimpeachable decorum.”
“How very disappointing for her.”
“The truth often is.” He took a small sip of wine, watching her over the rim. “She also mentioned a new dance from Vienna. Apparently, everyone will attempt it at the ball.”
“The one we practised?”
“No. Something… closer. Partners maintain contact throughout.”
“How scandalous.”
After dinner, they retired to the blue drawing room. She picked up her embroidery—still dreadful—while he selected a book he immediately neglected. The fire crackled; silence stretched warm and thick between them.
“You are staring again,” she said without looking up.
“I am memorising.”
“What, precisely?”
“The way you look in firelight. The way you wield that needle as if it offends you. The sound you make when the thread knots.”
“That is—”
“Invasive. Yes.”
“I was going to say romantic.”
He closed the book, his gaze steady. “Romance requires gentleness. What I feel for you is nothing of the sort.”
“Then what is it?”
“Consuming.”
Heat rippled through her. “Elias—”
“I’m going to retire,” he said abruptly, standing as if the chair had become dangerous. “Early morning tomorrow. Meetings with solicitors, estate business.”
“Of course.”
He left her alone with the fire and her racing pulse. Above, she heard him pacing in his chamber—steady footsteps matching the frantic beat of her own thoughts.
Eleven days.
And she no longer knew whether they were counting down to a beginning—or an explosion.
***
The next days fell into a pattern that was both routine and exquisitely torturous.
Mornings brought callers—curious, avid creatures eager to inspect the newly returned couple. Celine played the attentive wife to perfection, while the Duke wore his composure like armour… armour that looked thinner by the day.
“You’re enjoying this,” he accused one afternoon, after Lady Weatherby and her daughter had finally been shown out.
“Enjoying what?”
“Tormenting me.” His gaze dipped deliberately to where her gloved hand rested on the back of a chair. “The way you kept touching my arm. The way you looked at me when they asked about the ball. The way you said ‘my husband’ as though it were an endearment.”
“Is it not?”
They were alone in his study; the air felt suddenly too close, as though the walls had inched inward.
“Ten days,” he said roughly.
“Nine days, eighteen hours.”
“Your selective precision is going to kill us both.”
“Or save us.”
He advanced until the desk pressed into her hips. “How could counting possibly save anything?”
“It reminds us this—” she gestured lightly between them “—has an end. That we’re surviving a temporary torment.”
“Is it temporary?” he asked quietly. “What happens after the days pass? Do you imagine this feeling simply… evaporates?”
“No.” Her throat tightened. “I think it gets worse.”
“Or better.”
“In our case, that may be the same thing.”
He braced his hands on either side of her on the desk, caging her without touching her. “You’re probably right.”
“I usually am.”
“Modest, too.”
“I learned from you.”
“You drive me slowly insane.”
“That’s a skill in itself,” she said lightly.
He leaned in until she could feel his breath stir a tendril of hair. “Nine days, eighteen hours.”
“And counting.”
“Always counting.”
A knock shattered the moment. Morrison’s voice followed: “The modiste has arrived with Lady Rothwest’s ball gown, Your Grace.”
The Duke stepped back instantly, composure sliding back into place like a mask.
“Send her up,” he said.
Celine moved toward the door, pausing beside him. “Will you come approve it?”
“That would be inappropriate.”
“Since when has that stopped you?”
He made that sound again—half groan, half laugh, wholly undone. “Go. Before I forget every good reason for waiting.”
***
The ball gown was breathtaking. Deep burgundy silk that shimmered like wine in candlelight, gold embroidery catching the eye without ostentation. Daring, but impeccable. The modiste fussed with the hem.
“His Grace has impeccable taste,” she said.
“He chose this?”
“Every stitch. He had very precise opinions on the colour, the line, the placement of the embroidery.”
Celine stared at her reflection—elegant, poised, entirely transformed. The perfect Countess of Rothwest.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“You’re beautiful, my lady. The dress is just fabric.”
After the woman departed, Celine lingered in the gown, unable to resist the pull of the connecting door. On impulse, she knocked.
“Yes?” His voice sounded strained.
“I’m wearing the gown.”
A beat of silence. Then: “And?”
“And I think you should see it. To ensure it meets your… specifications.”
“Celine…”
“You need only look. You need not even step inside.”
The key turned. The door opened a fraction. He stood in his shirtsleeves, hair mussed, eyes burning.
His gaze travelled from hem to face, slow enough to steal her breath. His hand tightened on the door frame until his knuckles whitened.
“Turn,” he said hoarsely.
She did, letting him take in every angle.
“Well?” she asked softly.
“You know you’re magnificent.”
“I know you chose every detail. Why?”
“Because I wanted to see you in something that existed first in my imagination.” His voice dropped, unbearably raw. “And now that I’ve seen it, all I can think about is unfastening every clasp.”
Heat flooded her. “Nine days.”
“Nine days and fifteen hours.”
“You’ll drive us mad with this deadline.”
“I suspect we’re both quite mad already; and the counting is merely… scaffolding.”
***
The remaining days before the ball passed in a blur of preparations.
The Duke buried himself in business with a focus that looked far more like avoidance than necessity.
Celine received callers, reviewed household accounts, and tried very hard not to recall the way he had looked at her in the burgundy gown—as though it had stripped him of breath and sense alike.
“You are both wound tighter than clock springs,” Lucy declared when she called the day before the ball. “It is quite the spectacle.”
“I’m delighted our torment provides entertainment.”
“Oh, it isn’t torment,” Lucy said breezily. “It looks rather more like… preliminaries.”
“Lucy!”