She sat up, swung her legs off the bed, and reached for her robe. The silk was cold, almost biting, but she welcomed it. A shock to her system was better than letting her nerves fray.
She padded across the boards and pushed aside the heavy curtain. The garden lay beyond the window. During her childhood, she used to sneak out on nights just like this, barefoot and wild, hiding from the world in hedges and arbors.
She pressed her forehead to the glass, wishing she could be eight again, before the word ‘spinster’ had been stitched into her by the ton’s idle tongues.
Nothing is ever as easy as it looks on paper. Not for me.
The urge to move, to escape the confines of her room, overtook her. She opened the window as far as it would go, slipped through, and landed on the gravel with a soft crunch. She wrapped her robe tighter around herself and set off toward the maze of paths.
She let her feet lead her, not caring if she looked ridiculous, a wraith in silk slippers wandering the moonlit estate.
At the old stone bench, she stopped, staring up at the ragged edge of cloud slicing past the half-moon.
“Tomorrow, I’ll be a duchess,” she whispered, as if the sky might care. The words came out thick and strange. “Tomorrow, I’ll be everything I never wanted. How’s that for irony, Helena? How’s that for winning, Dahlia?”
Soft footfalls behind her made her spin around, her heart leaping in her throat. For an instant, she half-expected Rhys, come to scold her for wandering alone at night or to try another of his infuriatingly gentle taunts.
Instead, it was Mary, her hair silvery in the moonlight, her arms folded in the old way that meant she was done being a lady’s maid and was now a nursemaid again.
“Should have known you’d run out here,” she said, not unkindly. “You always had the sense to face your ghosts outdoors.”
Celine tried for a smile and failed. “Can’t sleep, and I’ve been told that a lady shouldn’t show up at her own wedding with circles under her eyes. Seems the only way to manage that is to avoid the pillow altogether.”
Mary moved to stand beside her, gaze fixed on the indifferent moon. “I’ve brought warm milk,” she said, holding up a small cup. “It’ll taste like childhood and nightmares. Might soothe you, might not.”
“Thank you, Mary.” Celine took the cup and sipped. It tasted of cinnamon and regret.
Mary sat on the bench and patted the spot next to her. Celine joined her, clutching the cup as if it could anchor her to the earth.
They sat together in silence for a long while, Mary waiting with that uncanny patience of hers, Celine stewing in her thoughts until the words spilled out, hot and desperate.
“Mary, this is a time in my life when I need someone to speak frankly with me. To tell me that I am making a mistake by marrying the Duke of Wylds. To remind me that I’m not meant for this, that the ton will devour me twice as fast with a title to gnaw on. To warn me that promises on paper aren’t worth the candle they’re signed by.”
Mary smiled, not a wide smile but the kind that meant she was pleased to have been asked. “Even if it is a mistake, child, one can only grow from making them.”
Celine looked away, blinking at the twinge in her chest. “I can’t go back, can I? I made my bed, and tomorrow I’ll lie in it. Probably by myself, but still. I said yes because I had to, but now… now it feels more like running out of options than choosing one.”
Mary reached over and smoothed Celine’s hair, just as she used to do when Celine was a little girl with scraped knees and a stubborn tongue. “If this marriage is of benefit to you, I advise you to proceed. If it is not, then you must walk away now. No use in dragging yourself through a lifetime of regret for pride’s sake.”
“Of benefit to me.” Celine rolled the phrase on her tongue like a sour lozenge. “Mary, the only benefit is that my father doesn’t end up in debtor’s prison. I can live with that. What I can’t abide is the thought that I am making the same mistake Mother did, only I know exactly how it ends.” Her voice quavered. “I’ve never been brave, not really. I just act the way I do, so no one tries to fix me.”
Mary’s hand found hers, warm and soft. “Your mother was brave. She married for love, and the world punished her for it. You’re marrying for duty, and I daresay the world will still find a way to punish you. But you are not your mother. Nor are you your father, nor the Duke, nor the empty rooms you fear will swallow you. You are Celine, and I have faith you will make it work, however you must.”
The moon broke through the clouds, bathing the garden in pale blue. Celine wiped her cheek and tried to find a part of herself that wasn’t raw and trembling.
“I suppose I should go back in,” she said. “They’ll be expecting a bride who looks like she slept.”
Mary squeezed her hand once before standing up. “And you shall give them one. You’re a Huntington. You can outlast anything, even the ton’s wagging tongues.”
She bent and kissed Celine’s hair, a gesture so rare that it almost undid her again.
Celine lingered for a moment after Mary left, trying to see the garden as she once had—as a place of secrets and safety instead of another stage for tomorrow’s pageant. The milk sat heavy in her stomach, but it steadied her enough to walk back to the house.
As she passed under the window of her father’s study, she saw the lamp still burning.
He’s probably making a list of all the ways this marriage will save us.
She smiled, crooked and small.
