Page 11 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)
Chapter Eight
“ C an I have this dance?” Rhys asked.
He received only an arched brow in response.
His heart beat a touch faster as he led Celine onto the dance floor, her gloved hand light on his arm, her emerald-green dress shimmering under the golden light from the chandeliers.
The ballroom buzzed with the ton’s murmurs, a sea of silks and satins parting before them, their eyes sharp with curiosity.
Celine’s chin was high, her black hair gleaming, but her blue eyes flickered with the wariness he’d seen on the balcony—her fear of their judgment, her “Stone Cold Spinster” mask barely holding.
She’s fire .
His jaw tightened with resolve, determined to prove her wrong, to make her shine.
He guided her to the center, the violins swelling into a waltz, his navy blue coat brushing her silk sleeve.
“Two sets,” he murmured.
His amber eyes twinkled, knowing the impropriety. Two dances signaled intent, a public claim. It was on her list, a reckless wish scribbled in secret, and he would wield it to anchor her.
“Ready to scandalize them, My Lady?”
Celine’s lips twitched, a spark of defiance breaking the tension. “Scandalize? You’re the rake here, Your Grace,” she said, her tone teasing despite her nerves. “I’m merely… enduring.”
He grinned as he took her hand and put his other on her waist, his warmth seeping through her dress.
“Enduring? I’ll have you enjoying yourself in no time,” he said, leading her into the waltz, his steps confident.
The ton watched, their fans fluttering, but Rhys’s focus was on Celine—her stiffness, her glances at the crowd, the worry etched on her brow.
He spun her gently, making her skirts flare, and leaned in. “You’re fretting over their stares, aren’t you?”
Her eyes darted to the sidelines, her cheeks flushing. “They’re waiting for me to trip,” she muttered, catching a matron’s sneer. “Or for you to flee a spinster’s clutches.
Rhys’s grin widened, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then let’s give them something else to gape at. Did I tell you that I once raced a camel in Cairo?”
The wild claim drew her gaze to him, and her lips parted in disbelief.
“A camel?” she said, a laugh bubbling up despite herself. Her steps faltered, but he quickly steadied her. “You’re inventing nonsense to distract me.”
“Nonsense?” he huffed, mock-offended.
He twirled her with ease, his pearly white teeth peeking as he flashed her a smile that would have sent any other lady in the ballroom swooning. Celine only rolled her eyes, though a soft smile tugged at her lips.
“True story. I was twenty, reckless, and a Bedouin sheikh wagered I couldn’t outrun his beast. Picture me, sunburned, in boots, sprinting across dunes while this camel—Hassan, he called it—spat at my heels. I won, barely, and drank fermented goat’s milk to celebrate. Nearly killed me.”
Celine’s laugh rang out, bright and unguarded, drawing startled glances from nearby dancers.
“Fermented goat’s milk?” she said, her eyes sparkling, her worry ebbing. “That’s absurd. You’re half-making it up.”
“Only half,” he admitted, his voice warm. Her laughter was a victory sweeter than any waltz. “But you’re smiling, so I’ll call it true.”
He held her gaze, guiding her through the second set, a quadrille now, his steps precise. Their two dances—bold, deliberate—were his announcement: Celine was his, not their prey.
As the music faded, Rhys bowed, his hand lingering on hers, the ton’s murmurs rising like a tide.
“They’re talking,” Celine whispered, her eyes scanning the crowd, her shoulders tensing anew.
“Let them,” he said firmly, offering his arm. “Come, meet my friends. They’ll like your fire.”
He led her to a corner where a lively group gathered, men in tailored coats and women in vibrant dresses, their laughter cutting through the din.
Lord Julian Ashford, a handsome, charming gentleman with a quick wit, stood beside his sister, Lady Eliza. Eliza’s auburn curls bounced as she teased Captain Harrow, a naval officer with a booming laugh. Mrs. Lydia Wentworth, a widowed poetess, sipped champagne, her eyes sharp but kind.
“Friends,” Rhys said, his voice carrying, “meet Lady Celine Huntington, my future Duchess.”
The title landed like a spark, making Celine’s flush deepen, but he squeezed her hand, grounding her.
Julian bowed, his grin sly. “The lady who tamed Wylds? Brave soul. Did he tell you about his camel-racing days?”
Celine’s lips twitched when he shot her a knowing smirk, the tension leaving her shoulders. “He mentioned it,” she replied, her voice even. “With… questionable details.”
Eliza laughed, her fan snapping. “Questionable? Rhys’s tales are half-truth, half-theater. But you, my dear, look like you could outwit him.”
“Outwit him?” Celine echoed, a spark of her wit returning. “I’d need a camel to keep up.”
Captain Harrow roared, clapping Rhys on the shoulder. “She’s got you there, Wylds! A keeper, this one.”
Lydia leaned in, her voice soft. “Pay no mind to the ton’s prattle, Lady Celine. You have a spirit they envy.”
Celine’s eyes widened, her breath catching as their laughter—genuine, warm—wrapped around her like a shawl. Each jest, each smile, chipped at her fear, her chest filling with hope, a lightness she hadn’t felt in years.
She glanced at Rhys, her surprise plain, her blue eyes bright with something new—trust, perhaps. He caught her look, his lips forming a silent I told you so , his gaze warm, steady, a promise that she was safe.
He leaned close. “They like you,” he murmured, his breath brushing her ear, the crowd’s hum fading. “See? You’re no ice cold lady, Celine. You’re fire, and they see it.”
She swallowed, her voice soft but firm. “Maybe.” Her hand tightened on his arm, her hope a fragile flame. “But don’t get smug, Your Grace.”
He chuckled. “Come on, let’s have one more dance. And after, we have a wedding to plan.”
Celine huffed into her pillow. If this was what it meant to be on the eve of matrimony—a sleepless mind, a stomach knotted with dread—then the poets had been even bigger liars than she had thought.
She rolled onto her back and glared up at the canopy, as if her scowl might collapse the thing upon her and end her suffering with a smothering of velvet.
One more night, and it’s done. One more night, and I am… what? The Duchess of Wylds? Prisoner of a name and a manor and a husband I barely know?
She pressed her knuckles into her eyes, but the effort resulted in neither sleep nor clarity.
A marriage on paper. Such crisp, bloodless phrases. They looked harmless when scrawled on a contract, but now the words had grown fangs and followed her into bed, nipping at her heels every time she tried to rest.
It was the not knowing that gnawed her bones raw. The knowing that everyone expected her to fail, to shatter, to finally reveal herself as the brittle, unlovable thing they had always said she was.
Stop it, Celine. Get up. You’re going to bruise your pride with so much wallowing.
She sat up, swung her legs off the bed, and reached for her robe. The silk was cold, almost biting, but she welcomed it. A shock to her system was better than letting her nerves fray.
She padded across the boards and pushed aside the heavy curtain. The garden lay beyond the window. During her childhood, she used to sneak out on nights just like this, barefoot and wild, hiding from the world in hedges and arbors.
She pressed her forehead to the glass, wishing she could be eight again, before the word ‘spinster’ had been stitched into her by the ton’s idle tongues.
Nothing is ever as easy as it looks on paper. Not for me.
The urge to move, to escape the confines of her room, overtook her. She opened the window as far as it would go, slipped through, and landed on the gravel with a soft crunch. She wrapped her robe tighter around herself and set off toward the maze of paths.
She let her feet lead her, not caring if she looked ridiculous, a wraith in silk slippers wandering the moonlit estate.
At the old stone bench, she stopped, staring up at the ragged edge of cloud slicing past the half-moon.
“Tomorrow, I’ll be a duchess,” she whispered, as if the sky might care. The words came out thick and strange. “Tomorrow, I’ll be everything I never wanted. How’s that for irony, Helena? How’s that for winning, Dahlia?”
Soft footfalls behind her made her spin around, her heart leaping in her throat. For an instant, she half-expected Rhys, come to scold her for wandering alone at night or to try another of his infuriatingly gentle taunts.
Instead, it was Mary, her hair silvery in the moonlight, her arms folded in the old way that meant she was done being a lady’s maid and was now a nursemaid again.
“Should have known you’d run out here,” she said, not unkindly. “You always had the sense to face your ghosts outdoors.”
Celine tried for a smile and failed. “Can’t sleep, and I’ve been told that a lady shouldn’t show up at her own wedding with circles under her eyes. Seems the only way to manage that is to avoid the pillow altogether.”
Mary moved to stand beside her, gaze fixed on the indifferent moon. “I’ve brought warm milk,” she said, holding up a small cup. “It’ll taste like childhood and nightmares. Might soothe you, might not.”
“Thank you, Mary.” Celine took the cup and sipped. It tasted of cinnamon and regret.
Mary sat on the bench and patted the spot next to her. Celine joined her, clutching the cup as if it could anchor her to the earth.
They sat together in silence for a long while, Mary waiting with that uncanny patience of hers, Celine stewing in her thoughts until the words spilled out, hot and desperate.
“Mary, this is a time in my life when I need someone to speak frankly with me. To tell me that I am making a mistake by marrying the Duke of Wylds. To remind me that I’m not meant for this, that the ton will devour me twice as fast with a title to gnaw on.
To warn me that promises on paper aren’t worth the candle they’re signed by. ”