Celine’s throat tightened, her fingers pausing on a dusty tome.
“I know,” she said quietly, moving to tidy his desk, stacking papers with care. “But you’re letting this house—this room—swallow you. It’s not healthy.”
“Healthy?” He laughed, a weak but genuine sound, before taking a bite of cheese. “I’m an old man, Celine. My health’s the least of my worries. It’s you I think of—always have—since that night we lost her.” He reached for her hand, his grip surprisingly firm. “I kept you close, perhaps too close, but I couldn’t lose you too. Maybe all those years I spent raising you by myself are the reason why you’re so eccentric.”
“Come on, Father. I’m not eccentric. It’s alright not to like what everyone else is into. Besides, you’re never going to lose me,” she said, squeezing his hand, her heart aching. “But you need to eat, and let the maids in. I can’t tidy this mess alone.”
He waved her off, his spectacles glinting. “You’re as stubborn as she was, you know? Always fussing. But you’re right, I’ll try—for you.” He paused, his gaze softening. “What about you, my dear? I’ve never heard you speak of a man who’s caught your interest. Are you still against marriage?”
“Yes, Father, I’ve made it clear as day more often than I can remember.”
“True.” He nodded. “Your friends, Helena and Dahlia—they have plans, don’t they? That Ayles girl, managing her sisters, and the Hill girl, with her parents’ fortune. They’ll be set for life, one way or another. But you…”
Celine’s breath caught, her hands stilling on a ledger. “Me? I’m fine, Father. I don’t need plans like theirs. I’m content as I am.” Her voice wavered, the lie heavy on her tongue.
Lord Woodsworth’s eyes grew serious, his voice low. “Content? You’re a spinster by choice, I know, and I’ve indulged it. But I don’t have the means to set you up for life, Celine. The estate is stretched thin—debts from my grief, bad investments. Without a husband or some miracle, you’ll have nothing when I’m gone. I’d hoped… but I’ve failed you there.”
The words landed like a blow, knocking the air from her lungs.
Helena had her deal with her parents: taking care of her sisters in exchange for a settlement to live a comfortable life as a spinster. Dahlia had her family’s wealth. But Celine? She had no backup, no safety net. Her defiance, her list, her books—they couldn’t secure her future.
Once more, Rhys Harken’s audacious offer echoed in her mind.
“By making you my Duchess.”
Chapter Five
“The nerve of that woman,” Rhys muttered to himself.
He was walking at a brisk pace, as if he hoped to outrun his thoughts. His boots clicked on the cobblestones of Bond Street, the crisp spring air doing little to cool the irritation simmering in his chest.
Lady Celine Huntington’s rejection of his proposal had stung more than he cared to admit.
“By making you my Duchess.”
He almost cringed at the sound of his own voice in his head. But still, no woman had ever resisted his charm, not the coquettes of Paris nor the widows of Vienna.
Even those he avoided, wary of marriage traps, fluttered their fans and batted their lashes. Yet Celine, with her icy wit and blazing blue eyes, had dismissed him like a tiresome suitor.
Unaffected, is she?
His jaw tightened as he strode toward White’s, the gentlemen’s club where he sought distraction. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Through the polished window of Madame Dubois’s Emporium, a flash of black hair and a familiar glint of green caught his eye.
“Hmm, Interesting,” he murmured.
Celine stood within, examining a display of reticules, her petite frame poised yet unguarded. The moment her gaze met his, her posture stiffened, and—God help him—she crouched behind a shelf, her shawl slipping as she ducked out of sight.
“Right, totally unaffected,” Rhys muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm.
A grin tugged at his lips, unbidden, and before he could think better of it, his boots carried him toward the shop’s door. The bell jingled as he entered, the air warm with the scent of lavender and polished wood.
Celine was still half-hidden, her fingers clutching a shelf as if it could shield her from him.
“Need help finding something, My Lady?” Rhys drawled, his voice smooth as brandy, leaning casually against the counter.
He towered over her, his navy blue coat accentuating his broad shoulders, his amber eyes glinting with mischief.
