She made it until midnight, and then she excused herself, just once, for air. The hallway was blissfully empty. She pressed her forehead against the cool marble and let herself feel the disappointment that had chased her all night.
He wasn’t coming. Or if he was, it wouldn’t matter anymore. She had survived the ball, but it felt like a hollow victory.
After a moment, she straightened, adjusted her tiara, and returned to the ballroom. She smiled, she laughed, she danced again, and not one person there would ever know how close she had come to breaking.
You are a duchess now.You must be twice as strong as any man who would leave you standing alone in a crowd.
She lifted her chin, summoned a bright smile, and stepped back into the light. She held herself together for another hour, maybe two, performing as a duchess ought to. She even managed to laugh at Dahlia’s jokes, to banter with Helena and Eliza, to smile through Lord Bering’s third attempt at conversation—though by now, she suspected he was only speaking to her to satisfy a dare.
All the while, her eyes kept drifting to the entrance, catching on every tall figure, every flash of dark fabric, searching in vain for Rhys.
At the stroke of one, the musicians launched into a waltz so overripe with longing that Celine thought her ribs might crack from the pressure. She finished her orgeat, set the glass down, and turned to her friends with a smile that even she knew was brittle.
“I must excuse myself,” she said, careful not to let her voice tremble. “All this grandeur is making my head spin.”
Lydia reached for her hand, concern softening her features. “Do you want someone to come with you?”
“No,” Celine said. “I think if I breathe the same air as Lady Harrington for another moment, there will be blood on the parquet.”
She smiled, and the others returned it, but she could see they were not fooled.
She swept out of the ballroom, her skirts swishing like angry waves, and ducked into a side hallway. The hush was immediate, the air sharp and cool.
She walked blindly, turned a corner, and found herself on the narrow balcony that overlooked the garden. Here, the night was dark and indifferent, the city’s glow visible only as a thin line over the hedges.
She leaned on the stone balustrade, her fists clenched so tight that her knuckles ached. For one perfect moment, she let hershoulders sag and her jaw unclench. She closed her eyes, willing herself to just… breathe.
That was when she heard the voices. Three men, somewhere on the terrace below, their laughter muffled but their words clear in the hush.
“She’s not so bad, is she? Wylds could have done worse,” said the first one, a voice she recognized vaguely from the House of Lords.
“Not if he wanted an heir,” replied the second, dry as gin. “Heard he swore a blood oath never to breed. Can’t imagine she’s thrilled by that arrangement.”
A third man cackled. “More likely, she’s grateful. I’d sooner bed a scorpion than marry into that family. The old Duke nearly strangled his own son at the Christmas hunt, you know.”
The first man snorted. “Wylds only married that chit because he needed a wife. Despite his vow to his father.”
“And he deliberately chose the most unsuitable lady in all of London,” added the third with a theatrical sigh. “Still, she’s prettier than the last. If you’re into ice sculptures.”
Laughter ensued, quick and mean, then the scrape of heels as the men wandered away.
Celine’s body went rigid. She stared out into the darkness, her breath thick in her throat, her hands glued to the stone. Her mind reeled.
Of course, they would say such things. Of course, the ton would slice her open in absentia. Of course, her marriage was the punchline to every ugly joke in London. But to hear it so baldly, to have it confirmed without pretense…
She gripped the balustrade so hard that her palm stung. For a second, she thought she might snap it off and hurl it into the garden. Instead, she forced herself upright, smoothed her skirt, and walked back inside with the slow, dignified steps of a condemned queen.
Ice crept into her heart, which had been warming to Rhys’s charm, walling it away.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Celine walked briskly across the front hall, already in her cloak and her gloves fastened tight. Behind her were Mary and a footman carrying her valise.
The front door opened then, and Rhys filled the doorway, his hair in untidy chaos from the wind. For once, he looked entirely unprepared to see her.
She froze, and the footman nearly collided with her.
Rhys’s expression shifted—first surprise, then something quick and calculating, then the deliberate, easy charm he always wore in public.
