Mary stepped closer, her hand resting on Celine’s shoulder, a maternal gesture that eased the ache. “Not all marriages end in pain, love. Your mother, God rest her soul, loved your father fiercely, almost as much as she loved you. She’d not want you living in fear.”
“Fear keeps me safe,” Celine retorted, her tone icy. She’d long since learned to keep any sort of tremor out of her voice. “Books don’t break your heart. Science doesn’t kill you. I’d rather risk a scandal than… that.” She gestured vaguely, her hand trembling as she pushed a scandal sheet away.
Mary shook her head, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re as stubborn as your father, you know. He was shattered by her death, but he’d not want you closing yourself off. You’re young, Celine. Life’s not all pain.”
Celine’s lips twitched, a wry smile breaking through. “You sound like Dahlia, preaching freedom and fancy. Speaking of which, are they coming today?” she asked, desperately trying to change the topic.
It was a wound she hadn’t healed from, and every time the subject came up, it tore her up all over again.
“Aye,” Mary said, folding the last sheet with a brisk snap, understanding in her gaze. “Lady Dahlia and Lady Helenashould arrive at noon. Are you planning to tell them about your little adventure at the ball?”
Celine’s cheeks warmed, her mind flashing to the library, the Wild Duke’s amber eyes, his infuriating smirk. “Dahlia knew the plan—she egged me on, with that wretched list. Helena, though… she’ll scold me senseless. She’s too rational to approve of masquerades and masked rakes.”
Mary raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Rakes, is it? That Duke of Wylds you ran into? Don’t think I didn’t hear you muttering his name when you came in last night, all flustered.”
“Flustered?” Celine scoffed, though her blush deepened. “He’s a cad, Mary. Cocky, arrogant, thinking he could charm me with a few words. But…” She paused, her voice softening, a spark of excitement betraying her. “I can’t wait to tell them how I bested him. Every barb he threw, I threw back harder.”
Mary chuckled, adjusting Celine’s shawl. “That’s my girl. Just mind you don’t tangle with him again. A duke is trouble, especially one like him.”
“Trouble I can handle,” Celine said, her tone defiant, though her heart raced at the memory of his hand on her, the heat of his breath.
Insufferable man.
A knock interrupted, and the butler, Mr. Stokes, entered, his gray livery pristine.
“My Lady,” he announced, bowing slightly, “you have a guest.”
Celine’s heart soared at his announcement. A smile curved her lips as she smoothed her muslin day dress, its soft blue a stark contrast to last night’s scandalous emerald-green.
Helena and Dahlia!
“Finally,” she said, her voice bright with anticipation. “Show them in, Stokes.”
She was ready to dissect every moment of that wretched masquerade.
The butler bowed again, his expression unreadable. “At once, My Lady.” He retreated.
She made a quick dash to the drawing room, where the morning light filtered through damask curtains, casting a warm glow on the polished mahogany furniture.
Her fingers brushed the velvet settee.Helena will scold me, but Dahlia will love the tale.
The door opened, and her smile froze, her heart plummeting like a stone. This was the last person she was expecting to see.It wasn’t Helena or Dahlia who walked into the room, but Rhys Harken, the Duke of Wylds.
He filled the doorway, his tall, athletic frame clad in a tailored navy coat, his dark brown hair slightly tousled. His amber eyes gleamed with mischief, and a smirk played on his lips, as if he held all her secrets in his palm.
There’s no way he knows.This is just a coincidence. Calm down, Celine. He’s probably here to ask after your father.
“Your Grace,” Celine greeted, her voice icy despite the heat rising in her cheeks. Her petite frame grew rigid. “I expected… other callers. To what do I owe this visit? Is it my father you’re here for? I’m sorry, but he’s not seeing guests right now. Perhaps I can pass your message on to him?”
That’s it. Keep things very formal. There’s no way he knows that it was me at the ball… right?
Rhys stepped inside and closed the door with a deliberate click, his boots soft on the rug.
“I’m not here for your father, Lady Celine.” He paused.
The seconds felt like torture. She could feel his eyes roaming over her, almost like they did at the ball.
Does he know? Why else is he staring at me like that?
