Helena’s voice was soft but firm. “I understand, Celine. I do. My sisters are why I’ve sworn off marriage. I can’t abandon them to the ton’s wolves, not with our parents absent. But a marriage on paper? It’s not a terrible idea.”
“You’re both mad. He’s a rake, not a savior. He’d probably expect… things, even in a marriage of convenience. And I’d rather die than let a man control me.”
“Control you?” Dahlia laughed. “You? You’d have him on his knees in a week. I say, call his bluff. See if he’s serious or just playing.”
Helena’s smile was wry. “Or ignore him entirely. He’ll move on, as you said. But you don’t seem convinced that he will.”
Celine’s cheeks burned, her mind flashing to Rhys’s amber eyes, his breath on her wrist.
“He will,” she said, her voice firm but uncertain. “He’s a rake, after all.”
Helena and Dahlia’s carriage rattled away, leaving Celine alone in the quiet hall, the scent of scones and tea lingering. Her blue muslin dress swished as she turned to the butler, who stood by the door.
“Stokes, has Father eaten yet?” she asked, her voice soft but edged with worry.
Mr. Stokes’s expression tightened, his eyes sympathetic. “Not yet, My Lady. His Lordship hasn’t come down for dinner again. He’s been in his study since breakfast.”
Celine sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Of course he has.”
Even now, the Earl of Woodsworth was warm-hearted but absent, lost in his books and papers, forgetting meals as easily as he forgot the passage of time.
“I’ll take a tray up. Thank you, Stokes.”
She moved to the kitchen, assembling a tray of cold roast beef, bread, and a wedge of cheese, the clinking of china steadying her nerves.
Her mind churned with Dahlia’s teasing, Helena’s words, and most of all, Rhys’s audacious proposal, the word ‘Duchess’ echoing in her head like a taunt.
Shaking her head, she climbed the oak staircase, the tray’s weight grounding her as she approached her father’s study. The door was ajar, spilling candlelight into the dim hallway.
“Father?” Celine called, nudging the door open with her hip.
The study was a chaos of papers, books stacked precariously on the desk, ink bottles teetering, and dust motes dancing in the flickering light.
Lord Woodsworth sat hunched over a ledger, his graying hair disheveled, his spectacles slipping down his nose. The room smelled of wax and old parchment, the air stale despite the spring evening.
“Hmm?” He looked up, blinking his warm brown eyes as if waking from a dream. “Celine, my dear! Is it supper already?”
“It’s past supper,” she chided gently, setting the tray on a clear spot. “You forgot to eat again. Look, I’ve brought roast beef. You must be starving.”
He sniffed the air, his face brightening like a child’s. “Oh, that smells divine! I hadn’t realized I was hungry till now.” He reached for the bread and tore off a piece with a grin. “You’re too good for your old father, my girl.”
Celine smiled, her heart aching at his frailty. His once-robust frame had thinned, his cheeks sallow from too many hours indoors, shunning the ton’s balls and even the fresh air of Hyde Park.
“You’d waste away without me,” she teased, moving to the heavy drapes. “This room’s a tomb. Let’s let in some air.”
She tugged the curtains aside and pushed open the windows. A cool breeze drifted in, stirring the papers.
“Careful!” her father protested, his voice rising as a page fluttered. “You’ll send my papers flying!”
“They need to fly a bit,” Celine retorted, her hands on her hips, her blue eyes scanning the clutter. “Have you been refusing the maids again? This place is a disaster.”
“They mess everything up!” he said, waving a hand, crumbs falling from his bread. “I know where I leave my things, and if they move them, it’s a cluttered mess! I can’t find a blessed thing after they’ve been through.”
Celine sighed, picking up a stack of books, their spines worn from his endless reading.
“You sound like me, avoiding the ton’s nonsense. But you can’t hide in here forever, Father. You’re… not well.” Her voice softened, her gaze lingering on his trembling hands, the pallor beneath his warmth. “A walk in the garden, just once?”
He chuckled. “You worry too much, my dear. I’m fine with my books and ledgers. The world outside’s too loud, too cruel. You know, your mother…” His voice faltered, his eyes distant.
