A puzzle. Rhys hated the blue drawing room.
She took off her gloves and handed them to a passing footman, who nearly fumbled them in his haste to bow. “And where, precisely, is His Grace?”
Mr. Jenkins glanced toward the empty stairwell. “Out, Your Grace. He left orders that you were to be shown directly to your rooms upon your return. And that you were not, under any circumstances, to engage in strenuous activity before supper.” He hesitated, as if weighing whether to say more. “He was most emphatic.”
Celine narrowed her eyes at him. “Did he specify what constitutes ‘strenuous activity?’”
“I believe he was referring to the ledgers, Your Grace. And perhaps the chemistry set.”
She smiled, just barely. “Thank you, Jenkins. Please send up tea, and see that my father’s letter is delivered to the morning room.”
Mr. Jenkins bowed again. “At once.”
Celine made her way upstairs, her footsteps echoing in the grand, hollowed silence. For all its opulence, Wylds House often felt too large for just herself and Rhys. Tonight, it seemed more cavernous than ever.
At the suite’s threshold, she found Mary arranging a garment on the chaise, her pinched expression fixed with professional worry. She curtsied, then gestured to the open wardrobe, where Celine’s dresses hung in orderly procession.
“I took the liberty, Your Grace. The blue velvet dress arrived not an hour ago.”
Celine frowned at the chaise. “That isn’t mine.”
Mary looked pained. “It is now. The delivery came with explicit instructions.”
“From Rhys?”
Mary nodded, the lines in her brow deepening. “And this, as well.” She produced a small cream envelope from her apron pocket.
Celine took it, breaking the seal with her nail. The note was written in Rhys’s brisk, unruly hand:
Wear this to your first event as the Duchess of Wylds.
She read it twice, a slow warmth blooming from her chest to her fingertips.
“He never did know how to sign his notes,” she muttered, but could not keep the smile off her lips.
Mary hovered, uncertain. “Will you require my assistance for supper, Your Grace? Or…”
Celine waved her off, her eyes never leaving the note. “I’ll dress myself tonight, Mary. Thank you.”
Once alone, she crossed to the chaise and ran her hands over the velvet—soft, midnight blue, and cut to scandalize half of Mayfair. She imagined herself gliding into Lady Eliza Ashford’s soiree, every eye drawn to the new Duchess, and the memory of her father’s words made the prospect less terrifying than it might have been yesterday.
She glanced down at the note again, her heart pounding with something she could not name.
Rhys had signed it with nothing but a command and a promise. Her pulse would not slow.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Has His Grace returned yet, Mary?”
Celine’s voice, clear but edged, startled the lady’s maid, who paused in the midst of pinning a sapphire drop to her mistress’s earlobe.
“No, Your Grace,” Mary replied, smoothing a wisp of hair from Celine’s brow. “Mr. Grayson says that the Duke left before dawn for the tenant farms. He hasn’t sent word yet, but I expect he’ll?—”
“He won’t,” Celine cut in, glancing at her reflection in the mirror.
The dress fit perfectly: midnight velvet, shaped to her waist and draping in scandalous folds to the floor.
Rhys’s blue.
