“And is any of that true?”
“All of it. Most of it. Does the truth matter when the performance is all anyone sees?”
“It matters to me.”
“Then here’s your truth—I am consumed by you. Every waking moment and most of the sleeping ones revolve around thoughts of you. The scent of your perfume haunts me. The sound of your laugh makes my chest tight. The way you say my name...” He shook his head. “A few hours feels like an eternity and an instant all at once.”
“Elias—”
“Don’t. Not now. Not when we’re about to walk into that ballroom and pretend we’re not one breath away from destroying everything proper and appropriate about our arrangement.”
The carriage pulled to a stop outside Haverford House, blazing with light and crawling with arriving guests. Celine could hear the music drifting from the open doors, the sound of hundreds of voices raised in conversation and gossip.
“Ready?” the Duke asked.
“Never. Always. I don’t know anymore.”
“That makes two of us.” He helped her from the carriage, his hand at her waist proprietary and protective. “Remember, we’re performing. Every look, every touch, every word is for their consumption.”
“And between the performances?”
“Between the performances, we try not to let the truth destroy us.”
They joined the receiving line, and Celine was immediately aware of the attention they drew. Whispers followed in their wake, fans raised to hide gossiping mouths, eyes tracking their every movement.
“They’re staring,” she murmured.
“Let them stare. You’re magnificent, and I’m the beast who somehow captured you. Of course they’re fascinated.”
“You’re not a beast.”
“No? Then what am I?”
“Mine,” she said without thinking, then felt heat flood her cheeks.
His hand tightened on her waist. “Careful, wife. Statements like that may make me forget we have an audience.”
They reached the Duke and Duchess of Haverford before she could respond. The Duke was a pleasant-looking man in his fifties, with kind eyes and an easy smile. The Duchess, however, looked like she’d been carved from ice—beautiful, cold, and sharp enough to cut.
“Rothwest,” the Duke said warmly, clasping the Duke’s hand. “Good to see you out in society again. And this must be your lovely bride.”
“Lady Rothwest,” the Duke said formally, “may I present the Duke and Duchess of Haverford.”
Celine curtseyed perfectly, but she could feel the Duchess’s eyes dissecting her, looking for flaws, weaknesses, evidence that she wasn’t worthy of her position.
“So you are the young woman who has at last captured the uncatchable Duke,” the Duchess drawled, as though Celinehad committed a social offence rather than entered a marriage. “How… diverting.”
Celine smiled, serene as polished marble. “I prefer to think he captured me, Your Grace. After all, it was His Grace who pursued the matter with such determination.”
“Pursued?” The Duchess’s brows arched. “That is not the version currently circulating.”
“Gossip so seldom troubles itself with accuracy,” Celine replied pleasantly. “The truth is generally far more interesting—but it requires knowing the people involved, rather than merely speaking of them.”
The Duke coughed—perhaps a laugh disguised as decorum. The Duchess’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Indeed. And how do you find married life, Lady Rothwest? It must be something of an adjustment—passing from a baron’s household to a countess’s rank with such… speed.”
The barb was barely veiled. Celine met it with soft steel.
