“Celine, it has become impossible. And I think—we both know it.”
She did.
She knew it bone-deep.
Her voice was barely a whisper. “Tonight.”
He exhaled, something like relief and need tangled together, and stepped back only because he had to.
“We will endure the day,” he said—half a promise, half a challenge.
“And tonight,” she echoed.
His eyes darkened, the restraint there fraying at the edges—but holding, for now.
“Tonight,” he said, “the door between our rooms unlocks—for good.”
Chapter Twenty
The Becketts arrived precisely at noon.
That alone told Celine everything.
Her mother believed punctuality a virtue only when delivering judgments or extracting confessions. Her father was only punctual when anxious. Lucy, at seventeen, considered punctuality a sign of moral decline. And Anne, at fifteen, rarely managed to arrive anywhere at any time without a misbuttoned hem or streak of ink on her fingers.
But here they all were—standing on the marble tiles of Rothwest House’s entrance hall like an arranged portrait, stiff with purpose and held breaths.
“Celine,” Lady Broker exclaimed the moment her daughter appeared, sweeping forward to kiss her cheeks and inspect her as though expecting scars. “My love, are youwell?”
“Mama—”
“You’ve been in the scandal sheets quite a lot these days.” Lady Broker clutched Celine’s hands. “Your… enthusiasm in public with your husband—well. Your father and I feared you were either deliriously happy or being coerced. And given your reputation for sense, we suspected it was the latter.”
“Mother,” Celine said patiently, “I assure you I am neither delirious nor coerced.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed with terrifying acuity. “Then you are happy.”
Celine opened her mouth—only to find heat climbing her neck at the accuracy of the assessment.
Behind Lady Broker, Lucy let out a delighted, unhelpful “Ha!I knew it,” while Anne peeked around her sister with wide, adoring eyes.
“Celine,” Anne breathed, “this house isenchanting.Do you really have a grand ballroom? And servants who bring chocolate at any hour? And a library with more books than Father has ever owned?”
“We do,” the Duke said politely as he approached. “Good day, Lady Broker. Lord Broker.” He nodded. “Miss Lucy. Miss Anne.”
Lucy bobbed a curtsy with theatrical solemnity. “Your Grace. Thank you for surviving the scandal sheets long enough to receive us.”
“Lucy,” Lady Broker warned.
“I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking.”
Lord Broker cleared his throat. “Rothwest. Thank you for receiving us on such short notice.”
“It is no trouble,” the Duke said, “family is always welcome. Shall we retire to the morning room?”
They did. Tea was poured. Cake was offered. Anne nearly swooned at the pastries alone.
Lady Broker wasted no time.
