Her black hair, half-loose from its jeweled pins, grazed her bare shoulders, and her blue eyes scanned the crowd. Without Helena and Dahlia’s buoyant presence, the ton’s whispers cut deeper, their fans fluttering like vipers’ tongues.
Stone Cold Spinster,they hissed, their glances either pitying or smug, branding her as the outcast she’d fought not to be.
Celine pressed herself against the heavy velvet curtains, her gloved fingers clutching her reticule, its silk cord digging into her palm. The air was thick with the scent of rosewater and wax, the heat of bodies stifling despite the open windows.
She’d faced balls before, her chin high, her wit sharp. But tonight, fresh from her engagement to the Duke of Wylds, the ton’s gaze felt like a blade. Her impulsive claim at the perfumery, now fodder for gossip, had painted a target on her back, and she felt every stare, every murmur.
A trio of debutantes in pastel muslins passed nearby, their fans snapping, their voices carrying over the music.
“Lady Celine, engaged to the Wild Duke?” one said, her voice dripping with incredulity.
“Poor man.” Another giggled, her curls bouncing. “Trapped by a spinster who couldn’t catch a suitor for three Seasons. What a jest.”
Celine’s breath caught, her cheeks burning as if slapped, the words echoing her debut’s humiliation—awkward curtsies, empty dance cards, whispers of her mother’s tragedy.
She shrank further into the curtains’ shadow, her heart pounding, her resolve faltering.
They’re wrong, she told herself.
But the sting lingered, her engagement—a deal in exchange for paying off her father’s debts—feeling like a farce under their scorn.
A shadow fell across her, and Rhys appeared, his navy blue coat tailored to his athletic frame, his dark hair slightly tousled, his amber eyes glinting with that maddening charm.
“Hiding behind curtains, Celine?” he drawled, leaning against a marble pillar. “Not your usual fire. What’s got you skulking?”
Her jaw tightened, her mood as fragile as the crystal flutes on passing trays. “I’m not hiding,” she snapped, her blush deepening despite her effort to keep her composure. “And I have no patience for your flirtations, Your Grace. Our engagement is merely on paper, so there’s no need to act like you care.”
She turned, her dress swishing, the emerald-green silk catching the light, and pushed through the glass doors to the balcony, craving air, space—anything to dull the ton’s venom.
The balcony offered a sliver of respite, its stone cool under her gloves, the garden below aglow with lanterns casting golden light on clipped hedges. A few couples strolled or murmured, their voices softer than the ballroom’s clamor, granting a fragile privacy.
Celine gripped the railing, her knuckles whitening, her breath hitching as tears pricked her eyes. The debutantes’ words echoed in her mind, but it was Rhys’s presence, his teasing gaze peeling back her defenses, that undid her.
His witnessing her humiliation left her raw, exposed, as if her carefully built walls had crumbled under his honeyed stare. She blinked fiercely, swallowing past the lump in her throat, her chest tight with the urge to flee.
His boots clicked behind her, deliberate and unhurried, and his voice came, gentle now, stripped of its rakish edge. “Why are you crying, Celine?”
He stood beside her, his warmth a quiet contrast to the night’s chill, his eyes searching hers, no smirk to hide his concern.
She stiffened, her instinct to raise her stone-carved mask—her shield since her debut, when the ton first branded her—surging like a reflex.
For years, she’d parried their barbs with icy wit, her spinsterhood a badge of defiance. But tonight, she was tired, her heart bruised by their laughter, her engagement a gamble she barely understood.
She turned, facing him, her chin raised, her blue eyes blazing despite the tremor in her voice. “You want the truth?” she said, her tone daring. “I overheard them—the ton. They call me cold, unlovable, a jest of a spinster who trapped you. My face, my manner, my very existence—they mock it all. You should know, Your Grace, how utterly unsuitable I am for you.”
Her words were a gauntlet, thrown to drive him away, to remind him of her unsuitability as a duchess. She expected his retreat, his charm faltering under the weight of her flaws.
But Rhys only smiled, gentle and steady, his eyes warm in the lanternlight, unshaken by her challenge.
“They’re wrong,” he said, his voice low. He stepped closer, his boots brushing the balcony’s edge. “You’re doing it wrong, Celine. You’re fire, and you’ve let their whispers douse you.”
Her breath caught, his words piercing her guard, her tears drying as confusion flickered.
“Doing it wrong?” she scoffed, her hands fisting in her skirts. “What would you know of it? You, with your title and charm, never lacking admirers, never mocked behind fans?”
“More than you think,” he said, his tone serious.
A shadow of vulnerability crossed his face, hinting at his own battles—perhaps his father’s will, his duchy’s debts. She didn’t know, and she wasn’t sure she cared.
