The color was bold, more suited to an actress or a courtesan than a duchess at her debut ball, and precisely the statement she imagined Rhys meant her to make.
She reached for the letter on the vanity, the one he’d left her the night before, and ran a finger along the still-sharp crease.
Mary, sensing her mood, busied herself with the last touches. “Shall I fetch the tiara now or after?—”
“Now,” Celine said, her eyes fixed on her own face, searching for something that might hold through the night.
Mary obliged, retrieving the velvet box from the dresser and opening it with the care of a priest unwrapping relics. The tiara gleamed, a line of sapphires and diamonds set in white gold, somehow both delicate and barbaric.
“It will sit best here,” she said, arranging Celine’s curls with practiced precision before setting the crown in place. “There. Perfect.”
Celine smiled thinly. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mary. If I fail to conquer the ton tonight, it won’t be for want of armaments.”
Mary curtsied, a real smile breaking through. “You’ll do fine, Your Grace. Better than fine.”
But Celine saw her glance at the door, the unspoken question hanging in the air. She turned away, peering through thevanity’s reflection at the dark hallway, half-expecting to see Rhys swagger in, all careless charm and snide remarks, here to poke fun at her nerves.
Of course, nothing moved in the hall but the ghost of her own expectations.
A brisk knock rattled the silence. Mary darted to answer, returning with Mrs. Hargrove in tow.
“Your Grace,” the housekeeper said, bowing with more formality than Celine recalled from her childhood. “A note for you. From His Grace.”
Celine accepted the sealed envelope, her fingers betraying a tremor. She broke the seal and read:
Estate matters detained me. Will arrive at the ball before the third quadrille. Try not to maim Lady Harrington before I get there. – R.
Celine exhaled, half-relief and half… what? Disappointment?
She crushed that thought and folded the note with methodical care, tucking it into the little beaded reticule she intended to carry.
“He’s not coming,” Mary guessed, her tone soft.
“He’ll come,” Celine said, but her voice lacked conviction. “Just not for the dull parts. Which is to say, everything until midnight.”
She swept a hand along her skirt, smoothing imaginary creases.
Mrs. Hargrove eyed her with an expression that seemed to say,You’re braver than you look, child. Then, seeing herself dismissed, she swept out, Mary following behind.
Left alone, Celine stared at herself in the mirror. The woman looking back was not the Celine who had once hidden in the eaves at country balls, or the one who had slunk through the back hallways of Wylds House to avoid her mother’s ghost. She was new, untested, a duchess in every line but not yet in truth.
She took a deep, deliberate breath, exhaled through her nose, and studied the effect: the crease at her brow smoothed, her jaw unclenched.
“It’s just the ton,” she said to the silent room. “It’s just every person who ever wished you ill, every debutante who whispered your name with malice, every man who ever thought you less than enough. You survived them once. You will again.”
She rose, gathering her reticule and gloves, then reached for the perfume bottle Rhys had placed on the dressing table. It was her own formula, a mix of rose and tobacco and the faintest edge of bergamot. She dabbed it along her throat and behind each ear, as if to armor herself in the scent.
Then, she adjusted her tiara, feeling the pinch of pins against her scalp, and straightened her spine. She looked taller, older, her eyes cold and clear, though her stomach rebelled with every second that passed.
She stepped into the hall, where Mary waited with her wrap, and let herself be led down the stairs and into the carriage that would deliver her to the slaughter. The footman shut the door with more force than necessary. Perhaps he, too, sensed the occasion.
As the carriage lurched away from the house, Celine closed her eyes, letting the motion steady her nerves. She reached inside her reticule and thumbed the edge of Rhys’s note, feeling the promise in its jagged, hurried script.
I am not afraid.I am the Duchess of Wylds, and I will not be made small. Not tonight. Not ever again.
The carriage rattled on through the dark, and she braced herself for whatever waited on the other side.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Wylds,” the majordomo announced with a flourish as Celine walked into the ballroom.
