“True story. I was twenty, reckless, and a Bedouin sheikh wagered I couldn’t outrun his beast. Picture me, sunburned, in boots, sprinting across dunes while this camel—Hassan, he called it—spat at my heels. I won, barely, and drank fermented goat’s milk to celebrate. Nearly killed me.”
Celine’s laugh rang out, bright and unguarded, drawing startled glances from nearby dancers.
“Fermented goat’s milk?” she said, her eyes sparkling, her worry ebbing. “That’s absurd. You’re half-making it up.”
“Only half,” he admitted, his voice warm. Her laughter was a victory sweeter than any waltz. “But you’re smiling, so I’ll call it true.”
He held her gaze, guiding her through the second set, a quadrille now, his steps precise. Their two dances—bold, deliberate—were his announcement: Celine was his, not their prey.
As the music faded, Rhys bowed, his hand lingering on hers, the ton’s murmurs rising like a tide.
“They’re talking,” Celine whispered, her eyes scanning the crowd, her shoulders tensing anew.
“Let them,” he said firmly, offering his arm. “Come, meet my friends. They’ll like your fire.”
He led her to a corner where a lively group gathered, men in tailored coats and women in vibrant dresses, their laughter cutting through the din.
Lord Julian Ashford, a handsome, charming gentleman with a quick wit, stood beside his sister, Lady Eliza. Eliza’s auburn curls bounced as she teased Captain Harrow, a naval officer with a booming laugh. Mrs. Lydia Wentworth, a widowed poetess, sipped champagne, her eyes sharp but kind.
“Friends,” Rhys said, his voice carrying, “meet Lady Celine Huntington, my future Duchess.”
The title landed like a spark, making Celine’s flush deepen, but he squeezed her hand, grounding her.
Julian bowed, his grin sly. “The lady who tamed Wylds? Brave soul. Did he tell you about his camel-racing days?”
Celine’s lips twitched when he shot her a knowing smirk, the tension leaving her shoulders. “He mentioned it,” she replied, her voice even. “With… questionable details.”
Eliza laughed, her fan snapping. “Questionable? Rhys’s tales are half-truth, half-theater. But you, my dear, look like you could outwit him.”
“Outwit him?” Celine echoed, a spark of her wit returning. “I’d need a camel to keep up.”
Captain Harrow roared, clapping Rhys on the shoulder. “She’s got you there, Wylds! A keeper, this one.”
Lydia leaned in, her voice soft. “Pay no mind to the ton’s prattle, Lady Celine. You have a spirit they envy.”
Celine’s eyes widened, her breath catching as their laughter—genuine, warm—wrapped around her like a shawl. Each jest, each smile, chipped at her fear, her chest filling with hope, a lightness she hadn’t felt in years.
She glanced at Rhys, her surprise plain, her blue eyes bright with something new—trust, perhaps. He caught her look, his lips forming a silentI told you so, his gaze warm, steady, a promise that she was safe.
He leaned close. “They like you,” he murmured, his breath brushing her ear, the crowd’s hum fading. “See? You’re no ice cold lady, Celine. You’re fire, and they see it.”
She swallowed, her voice soft but firm. “Maybe.” Her hand tightened on his arm, her hope a fragile flame. “But don’t get smug, Your Grace.”
He chuckled. “Come on, let’s have one more dance. And after, we have a wedding to plan.”
Celine huffed into her pillow. If this was what it meant to be on the eve of matrimony—a sleepless mind, a stomach knotted with dread—then the poets had been even bigger liars than she had thought.
She rolled onto her back and glared up at the canopy, as if her scowl might collapse the thing upon her and end her suffering with a smothering of velvet.
One more night, and it’s done. One more night, and I am… what? The Duchess of Wylds? Prisoner of a name and a manor and a husband I barely know?
She pressed her knuckles into her eyes, but the effort resulted in neither sleep nor clarity.
A marriage on paper. Such crisp, bloodless phrases. They looked harmless when scrawled on a contract, but now the words had grown fangs and followed her into bed, nipping at her heels every time she tried to rest.
It was the not knowing that gnawed her bones raw. The knowing that everyone expected her to fail, to shatter, to finally reveal herself as the brittle, unlovable thing they had always said she was.
Stop it, Celine. Get up. You’re going to bruise your pride with so much wallowing.
