She drew her shawl close and tried to think past the roaring in her ears.
The Duke of Rothwest.
She had seen him, of course. One could not spend three Seasons in London without crossing his path at some ball or another, though “crossing” was far too generous a term. He attended social events the way a wolf might attend a gathering of sheep—present, yet fundamentally apart. Watching. Assessing. Those cold grey eyes missing nothing.
Perhaps a dozen times they had occupied the same room. He had never once looked at her. Or at least, she had never caught him doing so—though now and then she had felt the uncanny weight of being observed, like cold fingers trailing down her spine. He spoke rarely, danced never, and smiled only in a way that made people fervently wish he wouldn’t.
The stories about him were legion, each more elaborate than the last. That he’d killed three men in duels—or was it five? That he had driven a mistress mad with his peculiar tastes—thoughno one could agree on what those tastes might be. That he had rebuilt his ancestral estate into something resembling a fortress, with locks upon every door and rules governing everything from flower arrangements to the temperature of soup.
And now her father had sold her to him—for eight thousand pounds.
No,she corrected herself.Not sold. Wagered. Lost. I am the marker in a game of cards.
The thought should have brought tears, but they would not come. Instead, a strange, icy resolve settled over her, crisp and sharp as frost upon a windowpane.
She could run. Pack what little jewellery remained, gather whatever coins she could manage, and disappear into the night. But where would she go? She had no references, no employment prospects, no relatives willing—or able—to shield her from a duke's pursuit. And what of her sisters? Lucy was seventeen, Anne barely fifteen. What would become of their futures if she fled?
She could refuse. Stand her ground and let the consequences fall where they might. But she had seen debtor’s prison. She had visited a friend’s father there once. The smell alone—unwashed bodies, despair, slow decay—had haunted her for weeks. Could she condemn her father to that? Could she watch her mother’s heart break, her sisters’ futures crumble?
Or she could submit. Sign whatever papers required signing. Speak the necessary vows. Become the Countess of Rothwest—wife to the Beast of Berkeley Square.
Wife.
The word lodged in her throat like glass. Wife suggested intimacy, partnership, affection—or at least cordial regard. What manner of wife would the Duke expect? A decorative one, perhaps, to host his dinners and warm his bed and produce the requisite heir and spare. The thought made her stomach turn, though she couldn’t quite say whether from fear or something more complex.
She’d had offers before, of course.
Lord Ashworth had written sonnets about her eyes—mediocre ones, but earnest. Mr Faxtone had proposed twice, though his mother had been exceedingly clear in her disapproval. Sir Gerald had courted her for an entire Season, until she discovered his unfortunate penchant for gambling—much like Papa, which had ended that attachment immediately.
But none of them had been the Duke of Rothwest.
None of them had looked at the world as though it were a chessboard and everyone else merely pieces to be arranged according to his will.
A sound from below caught her attention—voices raised, sharp with distress. She crept to the stairs and listened.
“—cannot simply appear at this hour!” her mother cried, the pitch of her voice trembling on the edge of panic.
“I believe you’ll find I may do precisely as I please.”
A masculine voice—deep, controlled, with an undercurrent thatmade the hairs on Celine’s neck rise. “I’ve come to discuss terms with your husband. The hour is irrelevant.”
He had come. Now. At past midnight.
Before she could think better of it, Celine was descending the stairs, her stocking feet silent on the worn carpet. She paused at the landing and peered into the entrance hall.
He stood in their modest foyer like a dark prince in a nursery—too large, too vital, too everything for such humble surroundings. He hadn’t removed his greatcoat, as though courtesy were a courtesy he did not intend to indulge. Her mother, in her dressing gown and cap, looked small beside him, pale as a frightened wren.
“Your Grace,” her father said, emerging from his study with the careful tread of a man approaching a temperamental beast. “This is most irregular—”
“As was your wager this evening,” the Duke replied without heat. “I have come to add a stipulation to our agreement.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything,” Celine said, stepping into view.
Three faces turned toward her, but she kept her gaze fixed on the Duke.
This was the closest she had ever been to him, and the effect was… unsettling. He was not handsome in the conventional sense—his features were too sharp, too angular, as if he’d been carved from winter itself. But there was something compellingabout the way he inhabited his own skin, the absolute certainty of his presence.
“Miss Beckett.” He inclined his head exactly the correct degree for their ranks—no more, no less. “I apologise for the lateness of the hour.”
