“Oh, the adjustment has been quite seamless. My husband has been particular—most particular—about ensuring I possess everything necessary for my new position. He is exceedingly attentive. At times almost overwhelmingly so.”
A subtle stroke of the Duke’s thumb at her waist conveyed both warning and approval.
“Attentive,” the Duchess repeated, eyeing the Duke as though he were a puzzle she disliked. “One does not often hearthatword applied to His Grace.”
“Perhaps because no one ever gave him reason for attention before,” Celine said sweetly. “Remarkable what the proper inspiration can accomplish, is it not?”
The Duchess looked ready to combust, and the Duke wisely inclined his head.
“We ought not monopolise Your Grace’s time,” he said smoothly. “Others await their turn.”
As they moved away, he bent his head. “You are playing with fire, provoking her so.”
“She cast the first spark. Besides—someone must defend you, since you insist upon being too diplomatic to defend yourself.”
“I am not diplomatic,” he murmured. “I am strategic.”
“Well, I am not strategic,” she returned. “I am protective. And I dislike the way she looks at you—as though you remain a grieving boy to be scolded for tragedies that were never yours to bear.”
He halted, turning her fully toward him. “You are protective. Ofme.”
“Someone must be,” she said softly. “You are too occupied protecting everyone else.”
Something in his expression slipped—surprise, tenderness, something dangerously close to longing.
“Celine—”
“The Duke and Duchess of Rothwest!”
They turned to see Lord Ashworth approaching, immaculate, smiling like a wolf in borrowed silk. At his side stood a striking young woman Celine did not know.
“Ashworth,” the Duke said coolly.
“Rothwest. Lady Rothwest.” Ashworth bowed, perfectly correct and perfectly insolent. “May I present Miss Grayson? Newly arrived from Bath, eager to become acquainted with London’s… most prominent figures.”
Miss Grayson curtseyed prettily, though her eyes never left the Duke.
“Your Grace,” she said with breathy admiration, “what a pleasure. I have heardsomuch of you.”
“All of it dreadful, no doubt,” he replied.
“On the contrary,” Miss Grayson near-purred, stepping uncomfortably close. “I hear you are an excellent horseman, a formidable investor, and—most intriguingly—a superb dancer. Might you honour me with a turn later?”
A slow, poisonous heat unfurled in Celine’s chest. Miss Grayson’s proximity, her smile, her design—all too obvious. And Ashworth was watching with avid amusement.
“I’m afraid my dance card is quite occupied,” he said. “My wife has claimed every dance permitted.”
“Every dance?” Miss Grayson gasped. “Surely that cannot be proper—some people may talk.”
“Let them,” Celine said, sliding her arm through the Duke’s with deliberate intimacy. “Gossipers must occupy their idle hours with other people’s happiness, don’t you think? Otherwise, they would be forced to consider their own lives—and how very little of interest they contain.”
“Happiness,” Ashworth echoed, a thin smile curving his lips. “Is that what you call it? How… intriguing, considering the circumstances of your marriage.”
The Duke went rigid; Celine sensed danger ripple through him.
“Would you care to clarify that remark?” he asked, voice like ice.
Ashworth’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, I would not dare. We all know the tale—swift courtship, swifter wedding, the adoring couple. A charming little story.”
