Chapter Two
Celine did not go to her room. Instead, she climbed the narrow stairs to the attic—the refuge she had claimed as a child whenever the world grew too heavy to bear.
It was smaller than she remembered, cramped and dusty, but the window still looked out over the rooftops of London, and the ancient rocking chair still creaked in precisely the same way.
She drew her shawl close and tried to think past the roaring in her ears.
The Earl of Rothwest.
She had seen him, of course. One could not spend three Seasons in London without crossing his path at some ball or another, though “crossing” was far too generous a term.
He attended social events the way a wolf might attend a gathering of sheep—present, yet fundamentally apart.
Watching. Assessing. Those cold grey eyes missing nothing.
Perhaps a dozen times they had occupied the same room.
He had never once looked at her. Or at least, she had never caught him doing so—though now and then she had felt the uncanny weight of being observed, like cold fingers trailing down her spine.
He spoke rarely, danced never, and smiled only in a way that made people fervently wish he wouldn’t.
The stories about him were legion, each more elaborate than the last. That he’d killed three men in duels—or was it five?
That he had driven a mistress mad with his peculiar tastes—though no one could agree on what those tastes might be.
That he had rebuilt his ancestral estate into something resembling a fortress, with locks upon every door and rules governing everything from flower arrangements to the temperature of soup.
And now her father had sold her to him—for eight thousand pounds.
No, she corrected herself. Not sold. Wagered. Lost. I am the marker in a game of cards.
The thought should have brought tears, but they would not come. Instead, a strange, icy resolve settled over her, crisp and sharp as frost upon a windowpane.
She could run. Pack what little jewellery remained, gather whatever coins she could manage, and disappear into the night.
But where would she go? She had no references, no employment prospects, no relatives willing—or able—to shield her from an earl’s pursuit.
And what of her sisters? Lucy was seventeen, Anne barely fifteen.
What would become of their futures if she fled?
She could refuse. Stand her ground and let the consequences fall where they might.
But she had seen debtor’s prison. She had visited a friend’s father there once.
The smell alone—unwashed bodies, despair, slow decay—had haunted her for weeks.
Could she condemn her father to that? Could she watch her mother’s heart break, her sisters’ futures crumble?
Or she could submit. Sign whatever papers required signing. Speak the necessary vows. Become the Countess of Rothwest—wife to the Beast of Berkeley Square.
Wife.
The word lodged in her throat like glass.
Wife suggested intimacy, partnership, affection—or at least cordial regard.
What manner of wife would the Earl expect?
A decorative one, perhaps, to host his dinners and warm his bed and produce the requisite heir and spare.
The thought made her stomach turn, though she couldn’t quite say whether from fear or something more complex.
She’d had offers before, of course.
Lord Ashworth had written sonnets about her eyes—mediocre ones, but earnest. Mr Faxtone had proposed twice, though his mother had been exceedingly clear in her disapproval.
Sir Gerald had courted her for an entire Season, until she discovered his unfortunate penchant for gambling—much like Papa, which had ended that attachment immediately.
But none of them had been the Earl of Rothwest.
None of them had looked at the world as though it were a chessboard and everyone else merely pieces to be arranged according to his will.
A sound from below caught her attention—voices raised, sharp with distress. She crept to the stairs and listened.
“—cannot simply appear at this hour!” her mother cried, the pitch of her voice trembling on the edge of panic.
“I believe you’ll find I may do precisely as I please.”
A masculine voice—deep, controlled, with an undercurrent that made the hairs on Celine’s neck rise. “I’ve come to discuss terms with your husband. The hour is irrelevant.”
He had come. Now. At past midnight.
Before she could think better of it, Celine was descending the stairs, her stocking feet silent on the worn carpet. She paused at the landing and peered into the entrance hall.
He stood in their modest foyer like a dark prince in a nursery—too large, too vital, too everything for such humble surroundings.
He hadn’t removed his greatcoat, as though courtesy were a courtesy he did not intend to indulge.
Her mother, in her dressing gown and cap, looked small beside him, pale as a frightened wren.
“Lord Rothwest,” her father said, emerging from his study with the careful tread of a man approaching a temperamental beast. “This is most irregular—”
“As was your wager this evening,” the Earl replied without heat. “I have come to add a stipulation to our agreement.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything,” Celine said, stepping into view.
Three faces turned toward her, but she kept her gaze fixed on the Earl.
This was the closest she had ever been to him, and the effect was…
unsettling. He was not handsome in the conventional sense—his features were too sharp, too angular, as if he’d been carved from winter itself.
But there was something compelling about the way he inhabited his own skin, the absolute certainty of his presence.
“Miss Beckett.” He inclined his head exactly the correct degree for their ranks—no more, no less. “I apologise for the lateness of the hour.”
“Do you?” She descended the remaining stairs slowly, aware that her hair was unbound, that she wore only a morning dress and shawl, that this was all highly improper. “Or is this merely another demonstration of your… particular interpretation of social convention?”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or possibly approval. “Both, I suspect. Your father has informed you of our arrangement?”
“He’s informed me of your ultimatum.” She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, keeping the newel post between them like a shield. “There is a difference.”
“Is there?” His head tilted slightly, assessing her with the kind of cool focus that explained why lesser men quailed beneath his gaze. “An ultimatum suggests no choice at all. I have offered your father a very clear choice. Granted, neither option is pleasant, but a choice nonetheless.”
“Between poverty and utter ruin, you mean?”
Her father made a strangled noise.
But the Earl… the Earl smiled. Only a slight lift of one corner of his mouth, but enough to transform his face from marble to something startlingly human.
“Poverty and marriage,” he corrected with a mildness more unnerving than anger. “Though I admit, your phrasing does possess a certain dramatic flourish. Do you read novels, Miss Beckett?”
“When I’m not being bartered for gaming debts, yes.”
“Celine!” her father hissed, purple with mortification. “Apologise at once!”
“For what? Speaking truth?” She did not look away from the Earl. “Isn’t that what this is? A transaction? My freedom for your eight thousand pounds?”
“Your family’s freedom,” Rothwest corrected. “Yours was forfeit the moment your father sat at that table. The only question was whether you would lose it to destitution—or to me.”
“And you are the better option?”
“Infinitely.”
No hesitation. No modesty. Just cool, incontrovertible certainty.
“I can provide comfort, stability, a position your family desperately requires. Debtor’s prison provides none of those things.”
“And in return?” she asked, her voice a near-perfect mask of composure.
His eyes narrowed, not in threat but in precision.
“In return, you become my wife. With all that entails.”
The words hung between them like a dare.
Celine felt heat rise to her cheeks but refused to look away.
“Which brings me to my additional stipulation,” he continued, drawing a folded document from his coat. “I require your written consent as well. Not merely your father’s. Your own—freely given, or as freely as circumstances allow.”
“…Why?” The question escaped in a whisper.
“Because, despite what the gossips say, I am not a monster.” He placed the document on the hall table. “I have no interest in an unwilling bride. Resentful, perhaps. Reluctant, certainly. But not unwilling. The distinction is important.”
She stared at him, attempting to reconcile the man before her with the legends whispered across ballrooms.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then your father’s debts remain—with all their consequences.” He pulled on his gloves, each motion precise, practised. “You have until tomorrow evening. I will call at a civilised hour—let us say eight o’clock. We may sign the papers then… or not, as you choose.”
He turned toward the door, then paused.
“One more thing. Should you accept, the wedding will proceed within the fortnight, as agreed. However, I am prepared to negotiate certain… aspects of the arrangement. Within reason.”
“Such as?”
He looked back, and for the briefest moment, she thought she glimpsed something almost gentle.
“Separate bedchambers, for the first month at least. Time to… acclimate. Despite popular belief, I do not eat innocent young ladies for breakfast.”
“Just for dinner, then?”
The retort slipped out before she could stop it.
His smile broadened, wicked and disarming in equal measure.
“Only on special occasions.”
He left then, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence settled over the hall, broken only when her mother burst into tears, and her father reached—shakily—for the brandy.
Celine picked up the document, noting the neat, uncompromising handwriting, the legal phrasing, the empty space awaiting her signature.
I, Lady Celine Broker, do hereby consent to marriage with Elias West, Fifth Earl of Rothwest…
Her hands began to tremble. She’d wanted adventure, hadn’t she? Spent three Seasons dismissing perfectly respectable suitors because they bored her?
Well. Whatever else the Earl of Rothwest might be, boredom seemed unlikely.
“I need air,” she murmured and fled to the garden.
***
The garden was little more than a courtyard with aspirations, but it had a bench, a trellis of dying roses, and enough space to walk without feeling confined. Celine paced its perimeter once, twice, three times, thoughts tumbling like loose stones.
She could still feel the weight of his gaze, the manner in which he had looked at her—as though committing every detail to memory. There had been something almost clinical in it, yet beneath that…
Beneath that had been heat. Carefully controlled, rigidly contained—but unmistakably present. Like coals banked for the night—not extinguished, merely waiting.
The sensation ought to have terrified her. Instead… she found herself curious.
What would it take to stir those embers?
What happened when the Beast’s renowned control slipped?
“You’re considering it.”
She spun. Lucy stood in the doorway, clutching her wrapper around her nightdress, bare feet pink with cold.
“You should be in bed,” Celine said automatically.
“So should you.” Lucy crossed the courtyard with her usual lack of ceremony and perched beside her on the bench. “Yet here we are, contemplating gift-wrapping yourself for the most intimidating man in England.”
“He is hardly the most intimidating.”
“No. He is worse. The merely intimidating ones sometimes trouble themselves to be pleasant.”
Lucy tucked her feet beneath her. “Remember at the Ashford ball? He made Lord Charles cry simply by looking at him.”
“Lord Charles was drunk.”
“Lord Charles was terrified.” Lucy tilted her head. “And you’re actually considering marrying him.”
“What choice do I have?”
“There’s always a choice. We could run away, join a travelling theatre. You’ll play the tragic heroine; I’ll be the comic relief.”
Despite everything, Celine smiled. “And we shall live on what? Our staggering lack of theatrical ability?”
“We have other talents. You’re clever with figures; I can sew. Anne can… well, Anne can be pretty and marry rich.”
“Lucy—”
“I know.” Her sister’s voice sobered. “I know why you’ll do it. For us. For Mama. Even for Papa, though goodness knows he doesn’t deserve such devotion.” She took Celine’s hand gently. “But what about doing something for you?”
A fair question.
What did she want?
At three-and-twenty, she was already teetering on society’s shelf. Perhaps she had dismissed suitors not merely because they bored her, but because she sought… something more. Someone more. Someone who might match her wit, her will, her restless yearning for—what, precisely? She did not even know.
“Did you know,” she said quietly, “that he offered separate bedchambers for the first month?”
Lucy’s eyes widened. “He did?”
“To let me ‘acclimate,’ he said.”
“That’s… unexpectedly considerate.”
“That was my thought.” Celine stared at the roses, brittle and brown. “Everything about him tonight was unexpected. He might have forced the matter with Papa alone, but he came to ensure that I had a choice. A terrible one, yes—but a choice all the same.”
“You’re talking yourself into it.”
“Perhaps.” She squeezed Lucy’s hand. “Or perhaps I am acknowledging that, of all the cages available to women like us, this one might be the most… intriguing.”
“Intriguing,” Lucy echoed. “That is certainly one word for it.”
They fell silent, listening to the distant pulse of London—the rumble of wheels, the faint cry of vendors, the laughter of those whose lives were not collapsing.
“If you do it,” Lucy said at last, “if you marry him—promise me something.”
“What?”
“Don’t let him change you. Don’t fade into his shadow. Fight him if you must. Argue. Be yourself, even if—especially if—he dislikes it.”
Celine drew her sister close and kissed her temple. “I promise. And I suspect the Earl of Rothwest has no idea what he is bargaining for.”
“Good.” Lucy’s smile was fierce. “Let the Beast learn what happens when he cages a Broker woman.”