“Perhaps you recognise too few.”
A knock interrupted the standoff. A well-dressed matron entered, accompanied by a younger lady who bore her likeness.
“Your Grace!” the older woman exclaimed. “What a delightful surprise! We heard you had married, though I confess we hardly credited it.”
The Duke rose, expression smoothing into polite neutrality. “Lady Vanceley. Miss Vanceley. May I present my wife, Lady Rothwest?”
Celine rose as well, curtseying appropriately while her mind raced. These must be local gentry, the kind who would spread news of their meeting across three counties before sunset.
“Charming!” Lady Vanceley gushed. “Utterly charming. We had all but given up hope of the Duke ever marrying—he has refused so many suitable young ladies.”
“Perhaps His Grace had his reasons,” Celine said with a sweet smile.
“Oh! Oh, indeed—yes, well…” Lady Vanceley fluttered. “And how do you find married life, Lady Rothwest?”
“Educational,” Celine said—and felt the Duke place a steadying hand at the small of her back. It looked supportive. It felt like warning.
“How… unique.” Lady Vanceley’s eyes gleamed with the promise of gossip. “Are you travelling to the Manor? How delightful! We are neighbours, you know—our estate borders Rothwest land.”
“Then we shall be sure to call once we are settled,” the Duke said with a tone that conveyed the opposite.
“Oh, you must dine with us! Thursday? I insist!”
“We shall send word,” the Duke replied smoothly. “If you will excuse us, we must continue our journey.”
He guided Celine out with a hand that never left her back. Once inside the carriage, she expected him to reclaim the careful distance between them. Instead, his hand remained, his thumb tracing small, deliberate circles that burned through her dress.
“That was well done,” he said.
“What was?”
“Managing Lady Vanceley. She is the greatest gossip for miles. By tomorrow, everyone will know that the new Countess of Rothwest possesses a sharp tongue and her husband’s unmistakable support.”
“Isthatwhat you were demonstrating? Support?”
“Among other things.” His hand slipped slightly higher, finding the small gap between her gown and spencer where only a thin chemise lay between his fingers and her skin. “We were being watched. Through windows, from the stables. Everyone eager to see whether the Beast’s marriage is real or merely convenient.”
“And what are we showing them?”
“What do you think?”
She turned toward him, bringing their faces dangerously close. “I think you are using performance as an excuse to touch me.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I am touching you and calling it performance.” His eyes fell to her lips. “The distinction blurs.”
“Everything blurs with you.”
“That is what happens,” he replied, “when one ventures too close.”
The carriage struck a rough patch, jolting her into him. He caught her instantly—one arm around her waist, the other bracing the wall. For a moment, they were pressed together, her palms on his chest, his breath warm against her cheek.
“Celine,” he said—her name a warning, a plea.
“We should—”
“Yes.”
Yet neither moved.
