“Aren’t you, My Lady?” he asked as he pulled away, his eyes meeting hers.
This time, she did not glare at him. She bit her lip, the small action drawing his gaze and somehow holding his attention.
Everything about her was intoxicating. Tension brewed between them, crackling like a storm.
The men’s laughter echoed from the gallery above, their slurred banter about the “elusive lady” growing fainter.
Celine shoved against him, her palms firm on his chest. “They’re moving on,” she whispered. “I’m leaving. This was a mistake.”
Rhys stepped back, releasing her, but his eyes held hers, a spark of curiosity flickering.
“A mistake? Or an adventure?” he murmured, his tone teasing but softer now, as if testing her.
She adjusted her mask, her movements brisk, her voice cold. “Call it what you will, Your Grace. I’m done here.”
She slipped out from behind the curtains, her emerald-green skirts swishing as she darted toward the door, her perfume lingering like a taunt.
Rhys watched her go, his heart pounding with an unfamiliar thrill. As he stepped forward, his boot nudged something on the rug—a dance card, its edges worn.
He crouched, and picked it up, his amber eyes scanning the elegant script. But instead of the names of dance partners he had been expecting, it was detailing a daring list of challenges. His brows climbed higher with each line, a slow smirk curving his lips.
What secrets are these?
His pulse quickened. The list was bold, reckless, a litany of defiance that intrigued him more than any debutante’s smile.
Then, he saw it—a crest embossed at the bottom. The Woodsworth lion and rose.
His smirk widened, a predatory edge to it.
“The hunt begins,” he murmured, tucking the parchment into his pocket.
The Stone Cold Spinster, Lady Celine Huntington, was hiding a far more intriguing side than gossip had ever suggested.
Chapter Three
“Oh, Mary, tell me it’s not there!” Celine’s voice was a sharp whisper as she flung another scandal sheet onto the mahogany table.
The morning sun streamed through the lace-curtained windows, glinting off the crumpled pages strewn across her boudoir. Her blue eyes, still shadowed from last night’s masquerade, scanned the print with a mix of dread and defiance.
Mary Smith, her lady’s maid—and formerly her mother’s—stood beside her, her graying hair tucked under a white cap, her hands wringing a linen cloth.
“Calm yourself, My Lady,” she said, her voice firm but warm. “Here,The Morning Post. Not a word about you. Just some nonsense about a ‘mysterious lady in green’ flitting through Lady Ashford’s ball. No names, thank heaven.”
Celine exhaled, her petite frame sagging into her velvet chair, the scent of her Fleur de Minuit perfume lingering from last night’s reckless escapade. “Good. I’d rather die than see my name splashed across these rags. That list was a mistake—masquerade balls, daring dresses, all of it.”
Mary pursed her lips, her brown eyes narrowing as she gathered the papers. “A mistake, aye, and a dangerous one. Sneaking to that masquerade, unchaperoned, in that scandalous dress? If you ever hope to marry, you’ll not pull such a stunt again.”
Celine’s laugh was sharp, her fingers tightening around the table’s edge. “You know my stand on marriage, Mary. I’ll have none of it. Not now, not ever.”
Mary sighed and set the cloth down, her voice softening. “I know why you’re saying this, My Lady, but it’s been more than a decade.”
“Don’t patronize me, Mary. You have no idea how?—”
“I know, pet. I was there, wasn’t I? When you were born, your mother nearly left us—bled so much that we thought she’d not see dawn. And then…” She hesitated, her gaze distant. “Ten years later, with your brother…”
Celine’s throat tightened, the memory slicing through her.
“I still hear her screams,” she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “That night, when she tried to bring him intothe world. Father was… broken, pacing the hall, his face like ash. She died, along with the babe. How could I want that? Marriage, childbirth—it’s a trap, Mary. A death sentence.”
