Page 13 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Nine

“ D amn.” Rhys winced as the bitter tang of black coffee stung his tongue, the dark liquid scalding in the chipped porcelain cup.

They had stopped at a quint inn— the Dancing Duck —on their journey back to his estate.

Early morning light filtered through leaded windows, casting a soft glow on his navy blue coat, the fabric pristine despite the dust of their journey. He set the cup down, his broad shoulders tensing, his eyes narrowing on the offending brew.

Nothing else jolted him awake like coffee, a necessity since his father’s death left him grappling with his new duties, but he loathed its acrid bite. A sweeter start—tea, perhaps—tempted him, but discipline won out, as always. A rustle of skirts drew his gaze to the doorway.

Celine Huntington—no, she’s Celine Harken now. We’re married.

He had never thought that one day he would utter those words.

His wife entered, her blue muslin dress simple yet elegant, her black hair pinned loosely under a straw bonnet, its ribbons fluttering.

Her blue eyes, usually sharp with wit, held a flicker of uncertainty, her steps hesitant as she approached the table. The sight stirred something within him—pride, curiosity, a spark of the fire that had drawn him to her defiant spirit.

Their marriage was a contract to secure his inheritance and clear her father’s debts. It was meant to be solely on paper, yet her presence, softer now, tugged at him, stirring an emotion he couldn’t name.

“You’re grimacing, Your Grace,” Celine remarked, her voice gentle, almost tentative, as she settled into the chair opposite and folded her hands in her lap, her gloved fingers twisting a ribbon. “Why drink that coffee if it pains you so?”

Her eyes searched his, almost as if she was unsure of her words.

Did I say something to upset her?

Rhys’s lips twitched, a smile threatening to break through.

“It’s a necessary evil,” he replied, his voice measured, masking the warmth her concern sparked. He leaned back in his seat. “Wakes me up like nothing else, bitter or not. I manage.”

He lifted his cup and took another sip, his wince subtler this time. He held her gaze, intrigued by her soft demeanor.

What is going on in your head, Celine?

He swallowed the question, deciding to observe her for a few more minutes.

She tilted her head, a lock of hair slipping free, her flush faint but noticeable. “Manage?” she said, her voice softer, her hesitation clear. “Surely a bit of sugar would help? Or… milk?”

Wait. Is she trying to be… wifely? That can’t be it. Can it?

Her suggestion was earnest, almost shy, her fingers brushing the tablecloth as if testing the boundaries of their new roles—wife, not spinster; partner, not adversary.

Rhys chuckled as he set the cup down, his gaze steady. “Sugar’s for weaker men,” he said, his tone polite.

His statement carried a hint of something deeper. A resolve to face discomfort, perhaps. A habit formed after years of duty.

“I prefer it unadorned. Keeps me sharp.” He paused, his smile softening. “But I appreciate the thought, Celine.”

Her name, intimate on his lips, felt natural now, though it stirred a flicker of tension in her eyes.

She nodded, her flush deepening, her hands stilling. “As you wish,” she said quietly, her gaze dropping to her lap.

The silence hung, punctuated by the clatter of plates and the innkeeper’s distant shouts, until she lifted her eyes, her resolve seeming to harden.

“Are you ready to depart for Wylds?” she asked cautiously, as if navigating a new dance. “Or… might I visit the town first? There’s a shop—a stationer’s, for paper and ink.”

Rhys’s brow arched, his interest piqued, his coffee forgotten.

“The town?” he said lightly. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Of course, you may. I’ll escort you.”

His chair scraped softly across the floor as he stood up, his tall frame casting a shadow over the table. His smile grew curious, sensing the shift in her tone.

Celine’s eyes widened, her hands rising in a gentle protest, her bonnet ribbons swaying. “Oh, there’s no need,” she said too quickly, too earnestly, her flush spreading. “I can manage alone, truly. It’s just a quick errand.”

Her gaze darted to the window, where a cart rumbled past, her reluctance to have him join her clear.

His smile widened, his dimple deepening, her resistance only fueling his intrigue.

Just how much did his presence unnerve her? It was adorable to watch her; it made his heart flutter in his chest. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“Manage alone?” he asked playfully as he stepped around the table, his boots clicking on the worn planks. “And miss the chance to see what mischief you’re plotting with paper and ink? I think not.”

He offered his arm, his eyes dancing, sensing her errand hid something—perhaps a secret related to her list, that dare he’d glimpsed.

Celine’s lips parted, her fingers twisting the ribbon tighter. “Mischief?” she echoed, a faint laugh breaking through. “It’s only paper, Your Grace. Nothing… scandalous.”

Her eyes met his, but her flush betrayed her, her unease as a new wife evident in her faltering gaze.

“Only paper?” he prodded, his tone mock-serious, his arm still extended. “I’ve learned to expect the unexpected from you, Celine. Come, let’s see this stationer’s. I’ll behave.”

His charm was disarming, but his curiosity burned. Why the town, and why alone? Her insistence on independence, so like the hellion who had stormed into his study, intrigued him more than ever.

She rose slowly, her eyes searching his as if weighing her new role against her old defiance.

“Very well,” she relented quietly. She took his arm, her gloved hand light on his sleeve, the wool rough under her touch. “But don’t expect me to enjoy your company.”

Her teasing was soft, almost playful.

Rhys chuckled and led her toward the door, the inn’s smoky warmth giving way to the crisp spring air outside.

“Enjoyment is optional,” he said, his gaze flicking to her, noting her flushed cheeks. “But I wager you’ll find me tolerable by the day’s end.”

His words were a challenge, his intrigue growing as they stepped into the bustling town, her reluctance a puzzle he was eager to solve.

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she wasn’t so hesitant about their new partnership. Perhaps there was something else going on. But he knew he wouldn’t have his answers if they went their separate ways.

It felt almost strange to admit, but he missed her fire, the sharp wit that had cut him too often.

The cobbled street hummed with life—vendors calling, horses cantering, the scent of fresh bread mingling with damp earth. Celine’s hand tightened briefly on his arm, her bonnet shielding her face, her uncertainty palpable. Rhys’s heart stirred, his resolve to draw out her spark strengthening.

The cobblestone path to the town crunched beneath his boots, the morning air sharp with the scent of damp earth and budding hawthorn. His coat brushed against Celine’s arm as they walked, her blue muslin dress swishing, her straw bonnet casting a shadow over her flushed cheeks.

Her silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the fiery hellion who’d once stormed into his study, and it gnawed at him. He’d navigated ballrooms and bedrooms with ease, but his new wife unsettled him. Her quiet unease sent numerous theories spinning in his head.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Celine,” he said, his voice light, his honeyed eyes glinting as he glanced at her. “You’re quieter than a cloister. Did the inn’s porridge steal your tongue?”

He flashed her a teasing grin, hoping to coax a smile, a barb, anything to break her reserve.

Her lips twitched, but no smile came. Her blue eyes were fixed on the path ahead, where a cart rumbled past, its driver whistling.

“I’m merely… walking,” she said, her voice soft, hesitant, her fingers tightening on her reticule.

The uncertainty in her tone tugged at him.

He chuckled and stepped closer, his arm brushing hers. “Walking? You’re practically a statue, my dear. Shall I fetch a bard to serenade you into speech?” His tone was playful, but his eyes watched her closely, searching for the ember beneath her restraint.

She glanced at him, her flush deepening, her eyes flickering with a mix of irritation and something softer, something familiar.

“A bard?” A faint laugh escaped her lips. “You’re ridiculous, Your Grace.” But her gaze darted away, her steps slowing.

Rhys’s grin widened, his heart soaring at her laugh, however small.

“Ridiculous? I’m wounded,” he said dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “But that blush of yours, Celine—it’s louder than your silence.

” He leaned in, his voice dropping, teasing her to spark that fire he craved. “Care to share what’s got you so rosy?”

Her eyes flashed, her flush now a furnace, her steps halting on the cobblestones.

“Why must you do this?” she asked, her voice sharper, though it trembled. Her blue eyes met his, bright with irritation and vulnerability. “Teasing, prodding—Why can’t you believe that there’s nothing for me to say?”

Her blush deepened, betraying her, and Rhys felt a surge of satisfaction.

He stopped and turned to face her, his boots scuffing the path, his smile softening but his eyes keen.

“You want me to let you be? When you’re hiding that spark I married?

” he said, his tone light but pointed, his gaze holding hers.

“You’ve been… peculiar since we wed, Celine. Not your usual blaze. What’s changed?”

His words were a gentle probe, his curiosity burning.

Celine’s breath caught, her fingers twisting the cord of her reticule, her eyes dropping to the ground, where a stray pebble gleamed.

“Peculiar?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her bonnet shielding her face. “I just. I… I don’t know how to be now, as your wife.”

Her admission was raw, her uncertainty spilling out.

She hesitated, then lifted her gaze, her eyes glistening. “Why didn’t you… visit me last night?”

“What?”

The question caught Rhys off guard. He barely had time to recover when she quickly followed up on her question.

“Not that I wanted you to. Please, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s just… Uhhh, I just… I thought you did not mean it when you agreed to a marriage of convenience.” Her voice faltered, her flush spreading.

Rhys’s heart jolted, her words striking a chord he hadn’t expected.

Did she really expect him to renege on his word?

The thought unsettled him; it opened an old wound he had long since buried.

He wanted to tell her, to explain the walls he’d built to cage the demons of his past. Instead, his charming facade slid into place, a mask that felt tighter in her presence.

“I thought you were relieved this wouldn’t be a real marriage,” he said smoothly, his smile teasing, though his chest tightened. “Or am I wrong?”

Celine’s eyes widened, and her lips parted, her flush now a vivid red. “I was. I am,” she amended quickly, her hands clenching her reticule. “I just… assumed you would not give up so easily. A rake like you.”

Her words were soft, almost accusatory, but her gaze held a flicker of curiosity. Her uncertainty seemed to clash with her defiance, making his pulse quicken. A sharp want—no, need for her, lanced through him at that moment.

Did she want him to pursue her?

God help him, the desire that flared in his chest threatened to unravel him. A familiar panic spiked, sharp and sudden.

It wasn’t a strange sensation; it felt more natural than his desire for the woman in front of him. It was a sensation he often felt that never made him meet with women twice. It was the reason why his dalliances were always fun and fleeting. Safe .

But with Celine, the panic vanished as quickly as it came, leaving a quiet ache he couldn’t name.

“I made a promise to you, Celine,” he said, his voice low. His eyes locked onto hers, intense and unguarded for a moment. “No matter how big a cad or rake you think I am, I don’t break promises.”

His words carried weight, his vow to her—a marriage of freedom—clashing with the pull he felt, the question of why he never lingered with others left unspoken.

Her breath hitched, her eyes searching his, the morning light catching the sheen in them.

“A promise,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her bonnet’s ribbons fluttering in the breeze. “I… I want to believe you. But it’s hard, Rhys. This… Us…”

Her admission was soft, her use of his name intimate, improper, sending a shiver through him.

He stepped closer, his boots crunching. His smile returned, softer now. “Hard?” he said softly, his gaze steady. “You’re no stranger to hard things, Celine. You stormed into my study, after all, and I don’t remember attempting to ravage you like a wild animal.”

His teasing was light, but his eyes held hers.

She laughed, a small, shaky sound. Her blush faded, and her eyes lit up. “That was different,” she argued, taking a step forward, her reticule swinging. “I wasn’t your wife back then.”

Her words carried a hint of her old spark, but her uncertainty lingered, her role as a duchess a weight she couldn’t yet carry. Perhaps it felt as strange as the new emotions rising within him.

Rhys’s heart swelled. “My wife, yes,” he agreed, offering his arm again. “But you’re still the hellion I met at the Ashford ball, and I know better than to mess with her. Come, let’s find your stationer’s. I’ll keep my teasing to a minimum—maybe.”

His grin was roguish, but his eyes held a promise, the unanswered questions about his past, his reluctance to open up that almost mirrored hers. Even though her presence made it harder to hide, the shadows of his past clung to him.

Celine paused, then slowly took his arm, her face softening as her hesitation slowly faded away, her gloved hand light on his sleeve, her touch sparking warmth.

“Good,” she said softly, a faint smile breaking through.

She fell into step with him as they continued walking, the cobblestones stretching ahead, her silence less heavy. But the tension between them thrummed still, so electrifying that it shook him to the core when she uttered her next words.

“So what happens if I decide I want you to fulfill your husbandly duties?”