Chapter Twenty
The Becketts arrived precisely at noon.
That alone told Celine everything.
Her mother believed punctuality a virtue only when delivering judgments or extracting confessions.
Her father was only punctual when anxious.
Lucy, at seventeen, considered punctuality a sign of moral decline.
And Anne, at fifteen, rarely managed to arrive anywhere at any time without a misbuttoned hem or streak of ink on her fingers.
But here they all were—standing on the marble tiles of Rothwest House’s entrance hall like an arranged portrait, stiff with purpose and held breaths.
“Celine,” Lady Broker exclaimed the moment her daughter appeared, sweeping forward to kiss her cheeks and inspect her as though expecting scars. “My love, are you well?”
“Mama—”
“You’ve been in the scandal sheets quite a lot these days.” Lady Broker clutched Celine’s hands. “Your… enthusiasm in public with your husband—well. Your father and I feared you were either deliriously happy or being coerced. And given your reputation for sense, we suspected it was the latter.”
“Mother,” Celine said patiently, “I assure you I am neither delirious nor coerced.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed with terrifying acuity. “Then you are happy.”
Celine opened her mouth—only to find heat climbing her neck at the accuracy of the assessment.
Behind Lady Broker, Lucy let out a delighted, unhelpful “Ha! I knew it,” while Anne peeked around her sister with wide, adoring eyes.
“Celine,” Anne breathed, “this house is enchanting. Do you really have a grand ballroom? And servants who bring chocolate at any hour? And a library with more books than Father has ever owned?”
“We do,” the Duke said politely as he approached. “Good day, Lady Broker. Lord Broker.” He nodded. “Miss Lucy. Miss Anne.”
Lucy bobbed a curtsy with theatrical solemnity. “Your Grace. Thank you for surviving the scandal sheets long enough to receive us.”
“Lucy,” Lady Broker warned.
“I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking.”
Lord Broker cleared his throat. “Rothwest. Thank you for receiving us on such short notice.”
“It is no trouble,” the Duke said, “family is always welcome. Shall we retire to the morning room?”
They did. Tea was poured. Cake was offered. Anne nearly swooned at the pastries alone.
Lady Broker wasted no time.
“Your Grace,” she said, folding her hands in a way that meant she intended absolute seriousness, “I must ask directly: is my daughter being treated well?”
“Mother—”
“No, Celine. A mother’s duty is to be vigilant. Particularly when her daughter becomes the talk of London for… displays.”
Lucy coughed. “Displays is generous.”
Elias, to his credit, did not so much as flinch.
“Lady Broker,” he said evenly, “your daughter is the mistress of this house. She commands its respect, as she commands mine. What the gossip sheets choose to invent is nothing more than that—gossip.”
Lady Broker studied him with hawkish scrutiny.
Finally, she nodded once. “Very well.”
Celine exhaled.
Anne clapped. “Splendid! That’s settled. Celine, may we see everything now? I want to see the gardens and the gallery and the grand staircase and—”
“We shall take a tour,” the Duke interjected with admirable calm. “If that suits you.”
Lucy perked up. “Will there be any scandal-disguising along the way? I should very much like to witness how high society attempts to conceal enthusiasm.”
“Lucy,” Lady Broker sighed. “Must you?”
“Constantly.”
***
The house tour proceeded with suitable decorum—at least until Anne gasped at every corridor, Lucy paused before each portrait to declare, with perfect seriousness, that “this ancestor looks as though he has just smelled something dreadful,” and Lady Broker subjected the butler to a near-military interrogation regarding dusting schedules and window-polishing rotations.
Lord Broker, however, was unusually quiet.
Celine noticed it.
So did the Duke.
When they reached the long gallery overlooking the gardens, the Duke paused.
“If you will excuse my daughter and me,” he said to the others; and with a particular look at Lucy, he added firmly, “please remain within sight of the footmen.”
“Of course,” the Duke said. He offered his arm to Lady Broker and followed the others down the gallery, leaving Celine alone with her father.
The moment they were out of earshot, Lord Broker stopped walking.
“Celine,” he said softly. “I owe you an apology.”
Her throat tightened. “Papa—”
“No. Let me speak.” He ran a hand down his coat as though smoothing years of regret. “I wronged you. I put you in a position no father ought to put his daughter in. I told myself I was giving you a choice, but the truth—” His voice broke. “The truth is, I left you none. I failed you.”
She stepped closer, touched by the rawness in his eyes.
“Papa, you were desperate. I understood.”
“But you should not have had to.” He swallowed. “And after reading those scandal sheets, I feared—I feared you were suffering for my mistakes.”
Her heart softened. “I am not suffering.”
He looked deeply at her, searching. “Are you… happy?”
She hesitated—only because the happiness was so new it felt fragile.
Then she nodded. “Yes.”
A slow breath left him, heavy with relief. “Then thank goodness. Thank goodness your marriage has turned into a blessing rather than a sentence.”
She smiled faintly. “It has not been dull.”
He laughed then, soft and shaking. “You deserve joy, my girl. You always have. And I will try. I will try to be better.”
***
Luncheon was taken after the tour in the sunlit breakfast room, where Anne tried every dish with enthusiasm bordering on dangerous, Lucy regaled the household with a story involving a broken parasol and three offended vicars, and Lady Broker debated window treatments with Morrison as though she owned the house.
The Duke, Celine noticed, watched her more than he watched his plate.
Not possessively.
Not in hunger.
But with the quiet, steady awareness of a man counting the hours until a vow might be kept.
Celine felt the answering hum low in her chest.
Tonight.
Her pulse fluttered.
Soon.
But for now, she smiled at Anne’s commentary on the syllabub, listened to her father’s relieved laughter, and let herself feel—perhaps for the first time—that her two worlds might finally fit together.
The Becketts departed precisely as punctually as they had arrived.
Lady Broker insisted on leaving “before the lamps are lit—it is unbecoming to linger,” while Lucy declared she would write Celine immediately with her impressions of their visit.
Her father was the last to step into the carriage. He took Celine’s hands quietly.
“You are stronger than I ever deserved,” he murmured. “Thank you… for being happy.”
Then he climbed in, the footman shut the door, and the carriage rolled out into the bright winter street.
Silence settled over the entrance hall—soft, warm, unexpectedly intimate after the bustle.
Celine exhaled.
“Your family,” the Duke said at last, stepping to her side. “They are… spirited.”
“That is the gentlest term anyone has ever used.”
Lucy’s laughter echoed faintly from down the street.
He gave her a sidelong look. “Your mother is formidable.”
“She interrogated Morrison on his polishing schedule.”
“I am aware.” Elias paused. “He may never recover.”
Celine smiled. “Anne will likely dream of ballrooms and galleries for several days.”
“And your father…” The Duke grew thoughtful. “He seemed… changed.”
She glanced at him, surprised by the gentleness in his expression. “You spoke with him?”
“A little.” He hesitated. “I think… he did not deserve you for a long time. But he loves you. And that counts for much.”
Warmth spread through her chest. “Thank you.”
They stood together on the marble tiles as the last faint rumble of wheels faded.
The house seemed quieter. The air sharper. The moment fuller.
Elias’s gaze swept over her then—slowly, deliberately—as though he were allowing himself a luxury he’d long been denied.
“Celine.”
His voice was lower than before, almost rough.
She felt it more than heard it.
“Yes?” she whispered.
He stepped closer—just a breath, nothing outwardly improper, yet enough that she felt the heat of him through layers of silk and wool.
“We handled today admirably,” he said. “Your family. The scrutiny.” His eyes held hers. “All of it.”
“Together,” she said softly.
“Together,” he echoed.
A beat—charged and quiet.
Then—
“Prepare yourself.”
Her breath caught. “For…?”
“For the night ahead.”
The words were calm. Steady. Almost formal.
But beneath them burned something that made her pulse flutter and her knees feel unsteady.
She swallowed. “Elias—”
“Tonight,” he said, voice low, “we end the waiting. All of it.”
Her heart thudded once—hard and bright.
“Are you certain?” she whispered, though she already knew the answer.
His gaze darkened. “I have been certain for a long time.” He offered his hand—not as command, but as promise. “Go and ready yourself. I will do the same.”
She drew a breath, feeling equal parts tremor and anticipation.
“Yes,” she said.
He inclined his head, a gesture surprisingly reverent. “Until tonight, wife.”
“Until tonight, husband.”
She turned toward the stairs, every step feather-light and full of sparks.
Behind her, she felt his gaze follow her—not with hunger alone, but with something deeper.
Tonight.
At last.
The waiting was over.