He handed her into their carriage—theircarriage, she supposed she would have to grow accustomed to the pluralpossessives—and took the seat opposite rather than beside her. The distance was both a relief and, strangely, a disappointment.
“Where are we going?” she asked as the carriage pulled away from the church.
“Rothwest House. The London residence, not the country estate. I assumed you might prefer to remain in town for now—close to your family.”
It was unexpectedly considerate. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen it.”
“Is it dreadful?”
“That depends entirely on your perspective.” His gaze fixed on her with the intense focus she was beginning to recognise as habitual. “Some find it oppressive. Others find it… instructive.”
“Instructive?”
“Every house reveals its master’s nature. The choices made, the priorities established. Rothwest House is particularly revealing.”
“And what will it reveal about you?”
His smile returned—that dangerous edge of amusement. “You shall tell me. You strike me as observant enough to draw your own conclusions.”
The carriage turned into Berkeley Square, and Celine leaned closer to the window. She’d passed Rothwest House before—everyone knew the Beast’s residence—but she had never dared to look directly at it.
Now she looked.
The mansion was vast, built of dark stone that seemed to swallow light. The windows were tall and narrow, like watchful eyes. The front door was black oak polished to a mirror sheen, its brass knocker shaped like a wolf’s head.
“Subtle,” she murmured.
“My grandfather’s choice. He had a fondness for dramatic statements.” The Duke stepped out first, turning to help her down. “Welcome to your new home, Lady Rothwest.”
The name struck her like cold water.Lady Rothwest.She was no longer Celine Beckett—she was someone else entirely, someone she didn’t yet know how to be.
The door opened before they reached it, held by a butler who might have been carved from the same stone as the house—tall, grey, utterly expressionless.
“Your Grace,” he intoned. “My Lady. Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Morrison.” The Duke’s hand at her elbow was light, almost formal. “This is the Countess. You will extend her every courtesy, and ensure the staff does the same.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Morrison bowed to her. “We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival, my lady.”
Eagerlyfelt like an overstatement. The entrance hall was as austere as the exterior—black-and-white marble floors, dark wood panelling, a chandelier that provided light without warmth. No flowers, no paintings, nothing that suggested comfort or joy.
“Charming,” she murmured.
“You haven’t seen the best parts yet.” Was there amusement in his voice? “Morrison, have tea sent to the blue drawing room. I’ll give her ladyship a tour.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
He led her through a series of rooms, each more imposing than the last. The formal dining room could seat thirty, but looked as though it had not hosted a dinner in years. The ballroom was magnificent but dusty, its mirrors draped in sheets like ghosts. The library was the first room that showed signs of life—books precisely arranged but clearly read, a desk with neatly stacked papers, a chair positioned to catch the afternoon sun.
“You spend time here,” she observed.
“Most of my time. You’re welcome to it, of course. The collection is extensive.”
She skimmed the shelves—German, French, Italian, even Greek. Treatises on philosophy, agriculture, law. A well-worn volume of Byron surprised her.
“You read German?”
