Chapter Fourteen
The burgundy silk whispered against Celine’s skin as Sally fastened the final hook, each small movement a reminder that tonight would be different.
Tonight, all of London would watch the Beast and his bride dance, looking for evidence that their shocking marriage was either a grand passion or a terrible mistake.
What they wouldn’t know—couldn’t know—was that it was both, and neither, and something else entirely that defied classification.
“You’re trembling, my lady,” Sally observed, stepping back to assess her handiwork.
“It’s cold,” Celine lied, though the fire blazing in the hearth made her chamber almost stifling.
“Of course it is,” Sally agreed diplomatically, though her knowing smile suggested otherwise. “Shall I fetch your wrap?”
“Not yet. I need a moment to... compose myself.”
Sally bobbed a curtsey and withdrew, leaving Celine alone with her reflection.
The woman in the mirror looked like a countess—elegant, sophisticated, untouchable.
The burgundy gown fit perfectly, as she’d known it would, given the Duke’s exacting specifications.
The diamonds at her throat and wrists caught the firelight, sending rainbows across the walls.
Her hair was swept up in an elaborate style that had taken Sally an hour to perfect, with small diamond pins scattered throughout like stars.
She looked beautiful. She looked expensive. She looked like everything the Countess of Rothwest should be.
She looked nothing like herself.
A knock at the connecting door made her heart skip. “Come in,” she called, though she knew he wouldn’t. He would maintain the locked door religiously, even as everything else about their agreement crumbled around them.
“Are you ready?” His voice through the wood was rough, as if he, too, had been fighting nerves.
“Nearly. Are you?”
A pause. “I’m never ready for these things. The performance of it all, the false smiles and empty conversations, the constant observation and judgment. I despise every moment.”
“Then why attend?”
“Because not attending would be worse. It would suggest weakness, or that the rumours about our marriage have merit, or that I’m still the broken boy who couldn’t hold his own.” His voice dropped lower. “And because, with you there, it will be… bearable.”
Celine moved closer to the door, pressing her palm against the wood. “That’s quite an admission from the man who claims to need no one.”
“I’ve made a lot of admissions lately that contradict my previous positions. You seem to have that effect on me—making me reconsider everything I thought I knew about myself.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Ask me after the ball tonight.”
Heat pooled in her stomach at his words.
Before she could respond, she heard his footsteps moving away from the door. “Fifteen minutes, Celine. Don’t be late.”
“I’m never late anymore. You’ve trained me too well.”
“I haven’t trained you at all. You’ve trained me—to want things I’d convinced myself I didn’t need, to feel things I’d sworn never to feel again, to hope for things that terrify me more than any beast reputation ever could.”
His footsteps faded, leaving her alone with the echo of his words and the rapid beating of her heart. She took a deep breath, then another, trying to compose herself for the performance ahead.
The burgundy silk swirled around her as she made her way to the stairs, each step a reminder that tonight would test them both. The Duke waited in the entrance hall, and when she saw him, her breath caught.
He wore midnight blue as promised, the coat fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The silver waistcoat caught the light like armour, and his cravat was tied in an intricate knot she didn’t recognise—something that looked both elegant and vaguely threatening.
His dark hair was perfectly arranged, his jaw freshly shaved, and when he looked up at her descent, his grey eyes went almost black.
“My goodness,” he breathed, the words seeming to escape without his permission.
“Is something wrong with the gown?”
“Nothing wrong. The gown is perfect. You’re perfect. That’s the issue.”
She reached the bottom of the stairs, and he moved forward to meet her, his eyes travelling slowly from her hem to her face, lingering on the diamonds at her throat.
“The diamonds were the right choice,” he said, his voice carefully controlled. “They catch the light but don’t overpower. Elegant restraint.”
“Unlike us.”
“Exactly unlike us.” He helped her with her velvet cloak, his fingers brushing against her bare shoulders. She felt him pause, his hands hovering for just a moment before he stepped back. “The carriage is waiting.”
The ride to Haverford House was silent but charged, the space between them humming with unspoken words and barely contained desire.
Celine could see him in the intermittent gaslight—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hands clenched and unclenched on his thighs, the way he kept stealing glances at her as if reassuring himself she was real.
“You’re nervous,” she observed.
“I’m contemplating.”
“What?”
“The narrative we are creating tonight.”
“And what narrative are we creating?”
He turned to face her fully, and the intensity in his gaze made her breath catch.
“That the Beast of Berkeley Square is completely, utterly, irrevocably consumed by his wife. That every rumour about our marriage being a business arrangement is not only false but laughable. That you’ve tamed me, claimed me, transformed me into something almost human. ”
“And is any of that true?”
“All of it. Most of it. Does the truth matter when the performance is all anyone sees?”
“It matters to me.”
“Then here’s your truth—I am consumed by you.
Every waking moment and most of the sleeping ones revolve around thoughts of you.
The scent of your perfume haunts me. The sound of your laugh makes my chest tight.
The way you say my name...” He shook his head.
“A few hours feels like an eternity and an instant all at once.”
“Elias—”
“Don’t. Not now. Not when we’re about to walk into that ballroom and pretend we’re not one breath away from destroying everything proper and appropriate about our arrangement.”
The carriage pulled to a stop outside Haverford House, blazing with light and crawling with arriving guests. Celine could hear the music drifting from the open doors, the sound of hundreds of voices raised in conversation and gossip.
“Ready?” the Duke asked.
“Never. Always. I don’t know anymore.”
“That makes two of us.” He helped her from the carriage, his hand at her waist proprietary and protective. “Remember, we’re performing. Every look, every touch, every word is for their consumption.”
“And between the performances?”
“Between the performances, we try not to let the truth destroy us.”
They joined the receiving line, and Celine was immediately aware of the attention they drew. Whispers followed in their wake, fans raised to hide gossiping mouths, eyes tracking their every movement.
“They’re staring,” she murmured.
“Let them stare. You’re magnificent, and I’m the beast who somehow captured you. Of course they’re fascinated.”
“You’re not a beast.”
“No? Then what am I?”
“Mine,” she said without thinking, then felt heat flood her cheeks.
His hand tightened on her waist. “Careful, wife. Statements like that may make me forget we have an audience.”
They reached the Duke and Duchess of Haverford before she could respond. The Duke was a pleasant-looking man in his fifties, with kind eyes and an easy smile. The Duchess, however, looked like she’d been carved from ice—beautiful, cold, and sharp enough to cut.
“Rothwest,” the Duke said warmly, clasping the Duke’s hand. “Good to see you out in society again. And this must be your lovely bride.”
“Lady Rothwest,” the Duke said formally, “may I present the Duke and Duchess of Haverford.”
Celine curtseyed perfectly, but she could feel the Duchess’s eyes dissecting her, looking for flaws, weaknesses, evidence that she wasn’t worthy of her position.
“So you are the young woman who has at last captured the uncatchable Duke,” the Duchess drawled, as though Celine had committed a social offence rather than entered a marriage. “How… diverting.”
Celine smiled, serene as polished marble. “I prefer to think he captured me, Your Grace. After all, it was His Grace who pursued the matter with such determination.”
“Pursued?” The Duchess’s brows arched. “That is not the version currently circulating.”
“Gossip so seldom troubles itself with accuracy,” Celine replied pleasantly. “The truth is generally far more interesting—but it requires knowing the people involved, rather than merely speaking of them.”
The Duke coughed—perhaps a laugh disguised as decorum. The Duchess’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Indeed. And how do you find married life, Lady Rothwest? It must be something of an adjustment—passing from a baron’s household to a countess’s rank with such… speed.”
The barb was barely veiled. Celine met it with soft steel.
“Oh, the adjustment has been quite seamless. My husband has been particular—most particular—about ensuring I possess everything necessary for my new position. He is exceedingly attentive. At times almost overwhelmingly so.”
A subtle stroke of the Duke’s thumb at her waist conveyed both warning and approval.
“Attentive,” the Duchess repeated, eyeing the Duke as though he were a puzzle she disliked. “One does not often hear that word applied to His Grace.”
“Perhaps because no one ever gave him reason for attention before,” Celine said sweetly. “Remarkable what the proper inspiration can accomplish, is it not?”
The Duchess looked ready to combust, and the Duke wisely inclined his head.
“We ought not monopolise Your Grace’s time,” he said smoothly. “Others await their turn.”
As they moved away, he bent his head. “You are playing with fire, provoking her so.”