Page 12 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Mary smiled, not a wide smile but the kind that meant she was pleased to have been asked. “Even if it is a mistake, child, one can only grow from making them.”

Celine looked away, blinking at the twinge in her chest. “I can’t go back, can I? I made my bed, and tomorrow I’ll lie in it. Probably by myself, but still. I said yes because I had to, but now… now it feels more like running out of options than choosing one.”

Mary reached over and smoothed Celine’s hair, just as she used to do when Celine was a little girl with scraped knees and a stubborn tongue.

“If this marriage is of benefit to you, I advise you to proceed. If it is not, then you must walk away now. No use in dragging yourself through a lifetime of regret for pride’s sake. ”

“Of benefit to me.” Celine rolled the phrase on her tongue like a sour lozenge.

“Mary, the only benefit is that my father doesn’t end up in debtor’s prison.

I can live with that. What I can’t abide is the thought that I am making the same mistake Mother did, only I know exactly how it ends.

” Her voice quavered. “I’ve never been brave, not really.

I just act the way I do, so no one tries to fix me. ”

Mary’s hand found hers, warm and soft. “Your mother was brave. She married for love, and the world punished her for it. You’re marrying for duty, and I daresay the world will still find a way to punish you.

But you are not your mother. Nor are you your father, nor the Duke, nor the empty rooms you fear will swallow you.

You are Celine, and I have faith you will make it work, however you must.”

The moon broke through the clouds, bathing the garden in pale blue. Celine wiped her cheek and tried to find a part of herself that wasn’t raw and trembling.

“I suppose I should go back in,” she said. “They’ll be expecting a bride who looks like she slept.”

Mary squeezed her hand once before standing up. “And you shall give them one. You’re a Huntington. You can outlast anything, even the ton’s wagging tongues.”

She bent and kissed Celine’s hair, a gesture so rare that it almost undid her again.

Celine lingered for a moment after Mary left, trying to see the garden as she once had—as a place of secrets and safety instead of another stage for tomorrow’s pageant. The milk sat heavy in her stomach, but it steadied her enough to walk back to the house.

As she passed under the window of her father’s study, she saw the lamp still burning.

He’s probably making a list of all the ways this marriage will save us.

She smiled, crooked and small.

Let him have the comfort. I’ll carry the weight.

Back in her chamber, she took off her robe and slid beneath the cool sheets. Sleep did not come quickly, but when it did, her dreams were empty of faces, only garden paths and moonlight, and the words Mary had left behind: One can only grow from making them.

Rhys stood at the altar of St. George’s, Hanover Square, his navy blue tailcoat crisp, his broad shoulders squared, the weight of the ton’s gaze lighter than the dread coiling in his chest.

The church’s vaulted ceiling soared above, sunlight streaming through stained glass, casting jewel-toned patterns on the marble floor. Jasmine centerpieces—Celine’s touch—scented the air, mingling with beeswax from flickering candles.

The organ’s hum filled the space, the pews packed with peers in silks and satins, their murmurs a low tide— the Wild Duke, tamed at last . Yet Rhys’s polished smile, the one that charmed Paris and Vienna, felt like a mask, his heart racing with a fear he’d buried for years.

The oak doors opened, and Celine appeared on her father’s arm, Lord Woodsworth’s graying hair a contrast to her radiance. Her wedding dress—ivory silk with jasmine embroidery, chosen by her friends’ cunning—flowed like moonlight, its simplicity bold against the ton’s expectations.

Her black hair was pinned with pearls, her blue eyes steady, her posture defiant yet soft.

Rhys’s breath caught, his bravado crumbling as she stepped forward, the organ swelling as she did.

For a fleeting second, fear seized him, sharp and cold.

She’ll see me.

His smile faltered, and he clasped his hands behind his back to hide the tremor in them. Not the Duke of Wylds, with his rakish charm and grand promises, but the broken man.

His bravado, his smile, were a farce, a shield against a world that demanded perfection. Celine, with her fire and wit, would see through it, would deem him unworthy.

The thought choked him.

Lord Woodsworth’s steps were slow, his warmth evident as he patted Celine’s hand, his sallow face bright with pride. Celine’s gaze rose, meeting Rhys’s, and her lips curled into a small, unguarded smile. Not the ton’s practiced simper, but something real, a spark of her defiance.

It pierced through his fear like sunlight through fog, his chest loosening, his smile softening into something genuine.

Another day , he told himself, his shoulders relaxing, his amber eyes holding hers as she walked down the aisle. I’ll face that fear another day .

His inheritance, unlocked by this marriage, would buy him time—time to prove himself, prove what kind of man he would be when free of his father’s hold.

Lord Woodsworth placed Celine’s hand in his, his voice a murmur. “Take care of her, Your Grace.”

Rhys nodded, his grip gentle, Celine’s glove warm against his palm. “I will,” he vowed, his voice low.

The rector began, his voice a solemn drone, the liturgy familiar to the ton: vows of duty, unity, obedience. Rhys’s eyes remained on Celine, her profile sharp, her chin high, her fingers steady in his. She was fire, not ice, as he had told her.

The thought warmed him, pushing his doubts to the shadows.

The ton watched, their whispers hushed—a spectacle, as Celina had promised—but the jasmine, her dress, and her smile made it hers, not theirs.

“Do you, Rhys Alexander Harken, take this woman…” the rector droned.

Rhys’s response was clear. “I do.”

Celine’s voice followed, firm but soft. “I do.”

No kiss followed, the altar no place for such displays, preserving the intimacy of their unwritten future. The rector pronounced them man and wife, and the organ surged. The ton erupted in polite applause, but their glances were curious.

Rhys offered his arm, his smile returning, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Well, Duchess,” he murmured, leading her down the aisle, “shall we face the wolves together?”

Celine’s laugh was quiet, her blue eyes glinting. “Only if you keep up, Your Grace,” she said, her tone sharp but warm, her hand light on his sleeve.

The ton parted, their expressions a mix of envy and intrigue, but Celine’s defiance held. She looked alive .

The wedding breakfast awaited, a banquet of spiced syllabub and jasmine centerpieces, but Rhys’s focus was on Celine, her presence a balm to his fears.

“You smiled,” he noted, his voice low. They paused at the church doors, the May air cool against their skin. “It helped ease my nerves.”

Her brows rose. “Don’t get used to it,” she said dryly, but her lips twitched. “The ton’s still watching.”

“Let them,” he said with a grin, guiding her to the carriage. “In fact, how about we give them something to talk about and cross something scandalous off your list?”

“I don’t believe I have anything scandalous left,” she answered after a moment’s consideration.

“Pity. Give me a little while, and I’ll come up with something.”