Chapter Seventeen
The sunlight in London had the audacity to be cheerful.
It spilled through Celine’s curtains in bright, buttery waves, warm against her skin despite the cold December morning. She lay awake long before Sally entered—awake enough to know sleep had abandoned her entirely.
Her body still remembered the heat of Elias’s hands.
Her lips still tingled from the kiss on the terrace.
Her heart still thrummed with the strange, reverent restraint of the night before.
If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the moment at her door, the weight of his forehead against hers, the quiet agony in his voice when he said—
It’s too important to spend tonight.
She had expected hunger.
She had expected eagerness, perhaps even impatience.
She had not expected reverence.
She had not expected to feel cherished, rather than simply wanted.
A soft knock sounded.
“My lady?” Sally entered, her expression somewhere between scandalised delight and worried fascination. She carried a folded newspaper as if it were a fragile relic—or an explosive.
“It is The Morning Gazette,” she said carefully. “You… may wish to see it.”
Celine sat up. “Oh dear.”
“Indeed, my lady,” Sally agreed as she handed over the paper.
SENSATION AT THE WINTER SOLSTICE BALL
Five Dances, A Disappearance to the Terrace, And the Beast of Berkeley Square Tamed at Last
Celine stared. Her stomach dipped and warmed at once.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh dear.”
Sally nodded gravely. “They printed a full column, my lady.”
Celine’s pulse flickered. “A… full column?”
“Two,” Sally corrected. “Shall I… read it aloud?”
Celine rubbed her temples. “I suppose you must.”
Sally unfolded the paper importantly.
“Last night’s Winter Solstice Ball, hosted by Their Graces of Haverford, witnessed a spectacle the ton shall be recounting for a decade.
The Duke of Rothwest—long feared, long pitied, long considered untouchable—astonished all present by dancing not once, not twice, but four times with his lady wife. ”
“Their united display caused such murmurs that the orchestra faltered—twice. Observers report that the pair moved as though no one else existed, their every step dripping with ardent devotion.”
Sally glanced at Celine over the edge of the paper, eyes wide.
“Dripping, my lady.”
“Thank you, Sally. Continue.”
“Their prolonged absence upon the terrace did little to quell speculation. It is now universally accepted that the Beast of Berkeley Square has at last been soothed—if not tamed—by his new Countess.”
“Stolen moments were witnessed. A heated embrace reported. Society awaits confirmation of an impending heir with considerable anticipation.”
Celine buried her face in her hands. “Oh wonderful. They have us producing heirs on the terrace.”
Sally cleared her throat delicately. “If I may say so, my lady… you do seem rather pleased.”
Celine lowered her hands. “I am not pleased. I am horrified.”
But she wasn’t horrified.
Not truly.
Something inside her fluttered—embarrassment, yes, but also something warm, and shy, and dangerously close to… joy.
Joy that the world had seen him choose her.
Joy that the world had seen her choose him.
Joy that their intimacy—though yet uncosummanted—had been undeniable.
A discreet knock interrupted her thoughts.
Sally opened the door to reveal Morrison, impeccable as ever, though his composure seemed strained, as if he had been swimming through a sea of gossip since dawn.
“My lady,” Morrison said with a perfectly correct bow, “His Grace requests the pleasure of your company for breakfast.”
Celine blinked. “Breakfast? Of course.”
“It would appear, my lady,” Morrison said carefully, “that His Grace is rather… lost this morning.”
Celine sighed, smoothing her dressing gown. “Thank you, Morrison. I’ll be down shortly.”
“His Grace is in the small breakfast room,” Morrison added. “He chose it for… increased privacy.”
Of course he had.
Celine felt her pulse quicken—not with fear, but with everything unsaid between them.
***
Elias stood when she entered.
He never stood for breakfast.
He didn’t look angry, or anxious, or embarrassed.
He looked… certain.
As if he had made a decision in the night, and only she needed to hear it.
“Good morning,” she said softly.
“Good morning,” he echoed—steady, purposeful.
He gestured for her to sit. She did. He resumed his place across from her, though he didn’t reach for the coffee the footman had poured.
Instead, he nudged the morning paper toward her with two fingers.
“Have you seen it?” he asked, perfectly mild.
“Yes. Sally brought it in.”
“Good.” He folded his hands. “I simply wanted this tended to before we speak of… other matters. Did you read the others?”
“I assume they’re all calling me a shameless creature and you a besotted fool.”
“More or less,” he said calmly. “Some variation of tamed beast, quarrelsome bride, impropriety, rapturous devotion, and inexplicable marital enthusiasm.”
She laughed. “We did dance four times.”
“We did,” he agreed.
Celine met his eyes directly. “The gossip doesn’t trouble me.”
“Nor me,” he said. No hesitation, no bravado—just truth. “Scandal is the least interesting part of last night.”
“Agreed.”
A quiet moment stretched between them—comfortable, intimate, charged.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Celine… the papers are merely stating the obvious.”
“And the obvious is?”
“That we are no longer pretending restraint.”
Her breath hitched—but she didn’t look away. “We haven’t been restrained for weeks.”
“No,” he said. “But until last night, I didn’t realise how… inevitable we’ve become. Not because of attraction. That was always there.” He paused. “But because somewhere along the way, you stopped being part of the performance.”
“And you,” she said quietly, “stopped being untouchable.”
His eyes softened—a rare, unguarded expression. “Did I?”
“Yes.”
Elias inhaled slowly, deeply, as though steadying something too precious to mishandle.
When he spoke again, his voice held an intimacy that seemed to warm the air itself.
“I asked you here because I wanted to know… if you regret anything about last night.”
Celine’s lips curved. “Not one moment.”
He shut his eyes briefly, the relief subtle but undeniable.
When he opened them again, he looked at her the way he had looked on the terrace—reverent, consuming, almost disbelieving.
“And the paper’s… enthusiasm?” he asked wryly.
She waved a hand. “Let them write what they please. They merely saw what we allowed them to see.”
Something in him answered that—something deeper than heat, something older than the arrangement, something steadier than desire.
He rose.
So did she.
They met in the middle of the small room, neither touching, but close enough that the world and its gossip seemed impossibly far away.
“What now?” she asked softly.
“Now, we—”
A discreet knock cut the moment clean in two.
Morrison appeared in the doorway, his posture impeccable but his expression tighter than usual. “Your Grace. You have callers.”
The Duke closed his eyes briefly, the smallest sign of thwarted frustration. “Already? It is barely past eight.”
“Lady Jersey, Your Grace. She insists the matter is urgent.”
A single heartbeat passed between them—Celine’s breath catching, his jaw tightening—the fragile almost-confession shattered by reality’s intrusion. Of all people, Lady Jersey. Patroness of Almack’s. An arbiter of propriety. A woman whose raised eyebrow could topple half the ton.
“Show her to the blue drawing room,” the Duke said, his tone clipped, already rebuilding his armour. “We’ll attend her momentarily.”
“Excellent, Your Grace.” Morrison bowed and disappeared.
Silence settled again, different this time—thicker, heavy with everything that had gone unsaid.
Celine drew a slow breath, smoothing her morning dress with unsteady fingers. “I should change.”
“You look perfect.”
***
Lady Jersey was waiting in the blue drawing room, resplendent in a morning dress that probably cost more than most people’s yearly income. She rose when they entered, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of their appearance.
“Your Grace, Your Grace. How good of you to receive me so early.”
“Lady Jersey,” the Duke said formally. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Pleasure might be overstating it. I’ve come about last night.”
“Ah.”
“Ah, indeed.” She resumed her seat, waiting for them to do the same. “Four dances, Your Grace. Four. In all my years as a patroness, I’ve never seen such a display.”
“We’re married,” Celine pointed out. “Surely married couples are allowed some latitude.”
“Some latitude, yes. But four dances borders on the indecent. It suggests a lack of control, a disregard for propriety, a certain... heat more commonly kept for private moments.”
“And if such heat exists in both private and public moments?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
One of Lady Jersey’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Then I should advise greater discipline in public—for your own sake. The ton is always armed and eager to wound.”
“We have both survived worse,” Celine replied.
“Separately, yes,” Lady Jersey said. “Together, you represent something new—an alliance that is either formidable or fragile. I came to discern which.”
Celine inclined her head. “And what have you discerned?”
“That you have the potential to turn last night’s indiscretion into advantage. London adores a romance—provided it is presented neatly.”
“In what manner should it be presented?” the Duke asked.
Lady Jersey studied them, weighing, measuring. “By leaning into the appearance of devotion, not recklessness. Let them gossip about your attachment; it is considerably preferable to the other subjects they might revive.”
Celine stilled. “And those subjects would be?”
“The circumstances of your marriage. Your father’s financial difficulties. The haste of your wedding. The—” Her lips tightened faintly. “—locked doors.”
“How do you know about that?” Celine asked, voice low.