“Is that a problem?”
“Not for me, my lady.” Sally folded a towel with prim precision. “But James—His Grace’s valet—mentioned that after you wore it last, His Grace could not keep his attention on a single ledger. Pacing his study, quite out of sorts, disturbing all his perfectly arranged papers.”
Celine lifted an eyebrow. “Did he?”
“Indeed, my lady,” Sally said with the satisfaction of someone delivering delicious intelligence. “Quite out of sorts.”
“How… interesting.”
Celine sank into the bath, letting the heat ease the knots of the journey. She should not have felt so pleased by the image of Elias pacing, undone by a dress—but she did. It wasn’t the dress, of course. It was everything simmering between them, rising by degrees.
“My lady…” Sally hesitated, then pressed on. “If I may be so bold, the staff believes you’re bringing His Grace back to life.” She lowered her voice. “Mrs Collins—she’s been here since His Grace was in leading strings—says she hasn’t seen him so engaged with anything since before his parents died.”
“Engaged,” Celine echoed, raising a brow. “Or simply frustrated?”
“Both, I daresay.” Sally helped her rise from the bath, wrapping her in warm towels. “James says His Grace mentions you constantly. ‘Has Lady Rothwest breakfasted?’ ‘Ensure Lady Rothwest has everything she requires.’ ‘What is Lady Rothwest’s schedule today?’”
“That sounds more like surveillance than sentiment.”
“Oh no, my lady. James said it was the way hesaidyour name. As if he ought not linger on it, and yet—could not help himself.”
A warmth entirely unrelated to the bath unfurled beneath Celine’s ribs.
By the time Sally had dressed her, the green gown was perfectly fitted—suggestive in its lines without straying into impropriety. Her hair was arranged in an elegant twist, a few soft curls framing her face.
“Perfect,” Sally declared. “His Grace won’t know what’s struck him.”
***
Celine descended to dinner at exactly eight o’clock, finding the Duke already in the dining room. He rose as she entered, and she saw his eyes darken as he took in her appearance.
“Punctual,” he said, though his voice was not as steady as usual.
“I learn from the best,” she replied lightly.
He moved to pull out her chair—closer than before, she noted. Only three places separated them now, not the long expanse of the table.
“The full distance seemed… excessive,” he said, catching her glance.
“And three seats is permissible?”
“Three seats allows conversation.” His eyes flicked briefly to her neckline before returning to her face. “That dress ought to be outlawed.”
“It is perfectly respectable.”
“It is perfectly designed to drive me mad.”
“Is it working?”
“You know it is.”
Morrison appeared with the wine, and they fell into safer topics—the correspondence that had arrived, the callers they’d need to receive, the preparations for the ball. But underneath the mundane conversation was an awareness that sparked with every glance, every accidental touch as dishes were passed.
“Lady Ashford called three times,” he said as the fish was served. “She wishes for a report of our stay in the country.”
“And what shall we tell her?”
“The truth—that we visited tenants, reviewed accounts, and behaved with unimpeachable decorum.”
