Chapter Ten
Kate was reading some interesting correspondence regarding one of her investments when she felt the air change.
Celine was here.
Her head whipped up to the study doorway. It was empty, the door closed.
She knew Celine was here. She could feel it, like a file dragged over her skin. It was late, and the study was lit by warm lamplight, the faces painted in their gold medallions between bookshelves looking on in the benevolent glow.
She stood, then cocked her head to listen.
Nothing.
But still she was certain. Celine was here, come to disturb Kate’s peace and solitude, come where she had no right to be. Kate had endured the afternoon by Celine’s side. She had done what needed to be done and could not be expected to do more today.
Swiftly, her boots ate up the floor. Celine should not be here. Must not be here.
She flung open the door and there was Celine—present suddenly in flesh as well as sensory knowing—leaning insolently against the wall opposite, waiting.
Her large green eyes were full of distaste, like she knew exactly what Kate would do when she reached her.
And yet she wasn’t running down the hall, screaming.
Guts and sheer bloody nerve.
Kate took Celine in more thoroughly. Not just a pair of witching eyes and an insolent attitude.
Glossy black hair brushed out and falling straight to her bottom.
A modest nightgown, unbuttoned at the neck.
A heavy brocade dressing gown hanging open, held up almost negligently by a shoulder and elbow. Bare feet.
This was not the wholesome beauty who had taken tea with Lady Pecke. Here was Celine Genet with all her wits and wiles about her.
Her hair had grown so long.
“Is that it?” Celine snorted when Kate had been silent too long. “I thought you would grab me by the arm and march me back to my room. I intended to enjoy it.”
“Have I not complied?” she said, her voice burning. “Am I not making every effort of money and influence to get you what you want? You will allow me a measure of peace, madam.”
Celine made a small, derisive sound from her nose and said, “That’s not up to you.”
Kate had learned a number of early, brutal lessons about keeping her own counsel, about expecting no quarter, about defending what was hers at all costs. But Celine held the most difficult, vulnerable piece of her past, and Kate was helpless against her.
She felt a violent desire to extinguish the threat physically. How dare this woman— And yet, such was the nature of blackmail. This woman dared, and Kate must allow it, until the moment Celine pushed her too far.
Given the particular letter Celine had in her possession, Kate was uncertain she could be pushed too far.
“What do you want?” she said grimly.
“Just to talk.”
She moved aside to allow Celine to enter the study, because she must. Because, incredibly, the balance of power between them fell to Celine. Did Celine have a copy of the letter on her even now? Kate’s heart pounded, blindly reaching for the thing that had been lodged in her since she was a child.
Just inside the doorway, Celine turned to her and said, “Who’s the dashing woman downstairs? I spied on her for ages and she barely moved. I think she’s napping, but maybe she’s dead.”
Good Lord, Royce. Kate had told Shaw to dismiss Royce this morning and hadn’t thought of her again since. Royce had waited all this time? She said sharply, “You didn’t speak to her, did you?”
“I thought about it. She looked lonely and sad. And extremely parched.”
What a fanciful portrayal of the Marquess of Royston, the most shameless rake in all London. “She’s been here for some time, though it was made perfectly clear I wouldn’t see her today.” Or any day.
“Who is she?” Celine asked with more interest.
She said curtly, “That is the worst person in London. Nobody could be more dangerous to your fledgling reputation. She’s the antithesis of everything you’re here to achieve, and you will stay away from her.”
The thought of Celine and Royce anywhere near each other was bloodcurdling.
Celine made a humming sound of interest, and Kate realised suddenly how close they stood to each other. Awfully, she could feel the heat from Celine’s body. She slipped out of the doorway and went to the sideboard, where she poured herself a generous glass of whisky.
After the briefest hesitation, Celine sauntered into the study after her, then hoisted herself up to sit on the desk, bare feet swinging. She was braced forward on her arms, and the neck of the nightgown gaped a little, revealing the bruise where Kate had pinched her last night.
Kate felt a perverse thump of interest deep in her stomach.
“What did you want to talk about?”
Celine pursed her lips, as though deciding how to begin. “You have gone to some effort in finding me a husband,” she said at last, “but I think you know I’d prefer to marry a woman. My own lady wife to drive me about the park when I’m grey.”
The image startled her. Celine, in London. Celine, grey and still beautiful. “If you want to marry nobility, it’ll have to be a man. I had assumed those were your aspirations.”
Celine’s brows drew down. “A lord would suit me very well, but why can’t she be a woman?”
“Aside from your lack of name, title, and country? There are fewer female lords than male, and none who can afford to marry you, even with your twenty thousand pounds.”
“What about you, then? Will you marry a man?”
“I won’t marry.”
“Why not?”
How to explain it in a way that didn’t sound deranged? Because I’m a monster? Because I burn everything I love to the ground?
“Marriage wouldn’t suit me. This is what you came to tell me? That you wish to marry a woman?” There were few enough independently wealthy women, never mind those who wanted a wife. “It narrows your choices considerably, and you’ll have to give up on a title. It could take time.”
Celine looked down, and the only part of her expression Kate could make out was the depression of her lip where she was biting it.
Perhaps—why did the thought ache?—perhaps Celine was truly looking for love.
But when Celine at last looked up, Kate could see the words had worked their magic.
A title. She laughed. “No, I see a title is worth more to you than happiness.”
Celine’s lip was darker where she’d bitten it, and wet.
“If you don’t scorn the nobility for their choices, you can hardly scorn me.
Besides, my title shall make me very happy indeed.
Maybe”—Celine’s brows slanted wickedly over her sparkling eyes—“I shall even become a duchess. Who will look down on me then?”
The idea of Celine as somebody’s duchess hit in the solar plexus. Even as Kate’s ward, it shouldn’t be possible for an unknown miss from Paris to catch the attention of a duke. But what if she did?
“I will know who you are,” Kate said, something dark singeing her voice. “What you are. I will always know.”
“That’s all right,” Celine said breezily, “I shall avoid you as much as possible. I shan’t be your duchess.”
No, by God. She wouldn’t.
And what if Kate had to attend a dinner hosted by Celine and pay her the proper courtesies?
What if Kate and Celine were invited to the same country party, and she had to sleep next door to where Celine and her husband slept—knowing her husband could not satisfy her—and encounter her in the breakfast room?
She glimpsed for the first time how this torture might not end when she retrieved the letter, and it made her want to smash everything.
She had known better. Never expose yourself. Maintain control at all costs. And yet she had succumbed to Celine’s attractions; she had given herself up for a night of fantasy.
What thin enamel the irresistible shine of that night had proved itself to be, easily scratched off.
“Then we will proceed as planned,” she said, without inflection or feeling, “and get you Lord Burnley.”