Page 14 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Ten

“ A re you asking that in earnest, Celine?” Rhys’s eyes fell on her like a lodestone, and her breath came in slightly uneven gasps.

“It is a…” She grasped desperately at anything that would come to mind. “A… hypothetical question.”

“Oh?” He cocked a dark eyebrow. “It did not sound like that at all.”

“Are you going to answer?”

Celine’s heart thudded as they walked arm-in-arm toward the stationer’s.

Rhys stopped walking and turned to face her. “My answer would depend on your motive for the question, Celine.”

“Then I wish to know,” she replied. “What if I decide I wish for you to fulfill your husbandly duties?”

The grin that spread across his lips was slow, purposeful, and so dashing that it made her knees weak. “Then your wish shall be my command.”

Celine held her breath as a warmth so foreign spread through her. His smile widened, and she had to quickly compose herself.

Lifting her chin, she said, “There, now. My curiosity is satisfied.”

“Then shall we?” He offered his arm again, and she took it.

The scent of fresh bread and blooming hawthorn hung in the air, mingling with the faint mist of the early morning. It was a calming scent, but it did little to soothe her nerves.

Her straw bonnet shielded her flushed cheeks, but it couldn’t hide the turmoil in her mind.

What was I thinking?

Her gloved fingers tightened on his arm. She had truly not intended to voice the question, for she would never make such a request of him. But in that split moment, his amber eyes, usually teasing, had darkened with something intense, unguarded, and it left her reeling.

He’d looked different, raw, as if her question had peeled back his rakish charm, revealing a man she didn’t yet know, a man who stared at her almost like he was parched and she was the only cup of water on earth.

Could it be that he truly wants something more?

No, that isn’t possible. He’s Rhys, after all.

“You’re quiet again, Celine,” Rhys noted, his voice warm, teasing, as they neared the bookshop’s green door, its brass bell glinting. “Plotting to outwit me in there? Or still blushing over our chat?”

His smile flashed, but his gaze was sharp, probing her silence.

She forced a smile, her blush deepening, her blue eyes darting to the cobblestones. “I’m… contemplating books,” she stammered, her awkwardness evident. “No outwitting required.”

Her lie was flimsy, her heart racing at the memory of his words— I don’t break promises —and the weight of his vow to her. But did he want to?

The thought was almost unnerving.

Why does he unsettle me so?

Her fingers twisted the cord of her reticule, any defiance she had left in her body fraying in his presence.

He chuckled, his arm steady under hers, his warmth grounding yet disarming. “Books, is it? I’ll believe that when I see it,” he said playfully, pushing open the door. The bell jingled. “Lead the way, Duchess. Let’s see what tomes capture your fancy.”

The Quill and Ink Bookshop enveloped them in the musty scent of leather and paper, its shelves towering with volumes, sunlight streaming through dusty windows to dance on oak floors.

Celine’s pulse quickened. She had done some research, heard that this shop held rare books—perhaps even Penelope Lovelace’s latest, The Veiled Heart , a novel so scandalous that the ton buzzed with its impropriety.

She wanted it—not just to read, but to know, to see if its whispered tales of passion matched the rumors she’d heard. It would cross another item off her list, but she couldn’t tell Rhys that, so he wouldn’t get any silly idea and offer to help her cross more items off her list.

He had offered to kiss her publicly after their wedding, to cross off the silly thought that Dahlia had planted in her head that night, but she shut him down.

His knowledge of her list was annoying, to say the least. His presence, his teasing grin, threatened her plan. She needed to lose him.

“Knitting manuals,” she said abruptly, veering toward a shelf of innocuous guides, their covers adorned with prim patterns. “I’m here for knitting manuals. I… thought I might take up a new skill.”

Her eyes avoided his, her fingers brushing a volume titled The Art of the Needle .

Please, let him believe it.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, her awkwardness a weight she couldn’t shake off.

Rhys’s brow arched, scepticism glinting in his eyes. “Knitting?” he said dryly. He leaned against a shelf, his coat brushing a stack of almanacs. “You, wielding needles instead of wit? I’m not convinced, Celine.”

His gaze lingered on her, as if sensing her ruse.

She flushed, her fingers tightening on the manual, her mind scrambling. “It’s… practical,” she stammered, her bonnet’s ribbons swaying as she turned away. “A duchess should have… accomplishments.”

Her excuse was weak, her uncertainty spilling through. Her role as his wife was still foreign, her list’s daring spirit buried beneath her nerves.

He laughed, soft and warm, and stepped closer, his boots scuffing the floor. “Practical? You’re about as practical as a thunderstorm,” he teased, but his eyes held a hint of intrigue. “Fine, I’ll leave you to your… needles. I’ll fetch us breakfast from the bakery across the square. Don’t run off.”

He winked and then turned toward the door, the bell jingling as he stepped out.

Celine exhaled, her shoulders sagging, relief mingling with guilt as she darted to the romance section, its shelves tucked in a shadowy corner. Her fingers trailed over titles, each more suggestive than the last: Whispers at Midnight, The Rogue’s Embrace, A Lady’s Secret Vow.

Her cheeks burned hotter, the heat spreading to her ears. The words, ardent and forbidden, leapt from the spines, hinting at scandals that made her heart race.

The Veiled Heart was nowhere to be seen, and she wasn’t surprised. According to gossip, it sold out from London to York, its tales of illicit passion too much for polite society.

No wonder it’s gone .

Her fingers lingered on A Stolen Glance , its cover promising a tryst in a moonlit garden. Her cheeks flamed, the final entry on her list echoing, her curiosity about such passions warring with her fear of losing herself.

A deep, familiar voice suddenly came from behind her, low and teasing.

“ The Rogue’s Embrace ? Bold choice, Celine,” Rhys said, his breath tickling her ear, his presence sudden, warm, and far too close.

She spun around, her bonnet nearly toppling, her eyes wide as they met his. His honeyed gaze glinted with amusement.

Her heart leapt, her flush scorching, her hands clutching A Stolen Glance like a shield.

“You’re back already?” she stammered, her voice high-pitched. She stepped back, her muslin skirt catching on a shelf. “I… I was just browsing.”

Her lie was flimsy, her embarrassment raw, the titles mocking her attempt at composure.

Rhys leaned against the shelf, his smile roguish, his eyes scanning the titles over her shoulder.

“Browsing?” he drawled, picking up Whispers at Midnight , its cover hinting at a clandestine affair.

“These don’t look like knitting manuals.

A Lady’s Secret Vow ,” he read slowly to tease her further.

“Planning to share any secrets, Duchess?”

His voice was light, but his gaze held hers, a spark of curiosity beneath his charm, as if he’d caught her true intent.

Celine’s breath hitched, her fingers trembling, her eyes darting to the floor, where a stray page fluttered. “They’re… research,” she offered, her blush deepening. “For… umm, I’m considering taking an interest in literature. I must have wandered to the wrong shelf.”

Her excuse was absurd, her vulnerability exposed, her heart pounding at the thought of him seeing through her feeble facade.

Rhys chuckled and set the book down, his smile softening. “Research? You’re a terrible liar, Celine,” he said, his tone warm. He stepped closer, his boots scuffing. “But I like this side of you—curious, a bit scandalous. And still no knitting needles in sight.”

His words were playful, but his eyes held a deeper warmth, stirring that dangerous pull she felt.

She swallowed, her gaze meeting his. “You’re impossible,” she said softly, her blush fading slightly, a faint smile breaking through.

Rhys leaned against a shelf, his coat brushing an almanac, his amber eyes glinting with mischief. He picked up one of the books on the shelf, A Lady’s Secret Vow , its cover promising a clandestine affair in a moonlit arbor, and flipped it open, his smile roguish.

“What have we here?” he drawled. “‘ Her breath quickened as Lord Everett drew near, his lips a whisper from hers, the garden’s shadows cloaking their ardent intent ? — ’”

“Stop!” Celine snatched the book, her flush scorching. Her muslin skirt caught on the shelf as she stepped back, her heart racing. “I thought you were getting breakfast,” she squeaked, slamming the book shut. “Clearly, you’re more interested in… this drivel.”

Her eyes avoided his, her embarrassment raw, the novel’s words igniting a spark she fought to douse, a spark warring with her desire to keep their marriage on paper.

“Breakfast? I tried, Celine,” he said, his tone light, his gaze holding hers. “But I couldn’t decide—scones, buns, or tarts? I don’t know what you like.”

His admission was casual, but his eyes probed, a flicker of curiosity beneath his charm, sensing her ruse.

Her breath hitched, her fingers clutching A Lady’s Secret Vow , her bonnet shielding her face.

“You don’t need to know. I’ll come with you and decide myself,” she muttered, shoving the book back onto the shelf. “And to be perfectly clear, I don’t read these. I was… curious, that’s all. The ton’s fuss over Lovelace’s book—it’s nothing.”

Her lie was weak, her flush betraying her, her role as a duchess still a maze of uncertainty, her attraction to him a secret she buried.

Rhys tilted his head, his smile softening, his suspicion unvoiced but clear.

“Curious? Pity.” He stepped closer, his boots scuffing the oak floor. “Those titles look… enlightening. A Stolen Glance? One Scandalous Night? I’m almost itching to read their content, aren’t you?”

His tease was gentle, but his eyes held hers, stirring a warmth she couldn’t ignore.

Her jaw tightened, her embarrassment surging.

“Enough,” she said, her voice low, turning toward the door, her skirts swishing. “Let’s get breakfast. I’m done here.”

She stormed out, the bell jingling, and led the way to a breakfast nook across the square. Her reticule swung from her hand, and her cheeks burned, her resolve to keep him at arm’s length fraying.

The nook was warm, its checkered tablecloths bright, the air rich with the scent of fresh scones and brewing tea. They settled at a corner table, sunlight casting lattice patterns on Celine’s dress.

Rhys ordered scones with honey, his ease disarming. As the server set a pot of honey before them, he dipped a spoon into it and licked a stray drop off the edge.

The act wasn’t meant to be sensual, yet the slow glide of his tongue, the way he licked his lips, sent a jolt through Celine. Heat spread through her chest, her eyes fixed on his mouth, her attraction a spark she couldn’t extinguish.

Rhys caught her stare, his brow arching, his smile teasing. “Why so red, Celine?” he asked, his voice low. He set the spoon down. “Something amiss with my table manners?”

She swallowed, her hands twisting her napkin, her heart racing. “You’re… not acting like a duke,” she sputtered, deflecting. “Licking spoons like that—it’s embarrassing.”

Her words were prim, but her blush deepened, her attraction to him a secret she hid beneath her rebuke.

He laughed, his eyes glinting as he leaned forward. “A rogue, then?” he said, his tone playful, echoing the novel’s title. “Like Lord Everett, stealing kisses? Do you think you’d blush brighter if I tried?”

His gaze probed, testing her reaction, his charm a net she couldn’t escape.

Celine’s breath caught, her napkin creasing, her eyes darting to her scone. “Drop it,” she said, her voice soft but firm, her blush scorching. “Those books are nonsense. Stop mentioning them.”

Her defiance was weak, the attraction she felt warring with the voice of logic in her head.

Rhys leaned back, his smile softening, his tone genuinely curious. “Why not read them, Celine?” he asked as he broke a scone, crumbs scattering. “There’s more to life than history books and chemistry manuals. Why shy away from passion?”

His question was earnest, his eyes searching hers, his curiosity stirring her unease.

She swallowed, her gaze meeting his. “You’re stubborn,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I don’t need passion. I need… stability.”

Her admission was raw, her fear of losing herself in their marriage bleeding into her words.

Rhys grinned, his dimple deepening. “Stubborn? Guilty,” he said, his tone light. “But I’m glad your fire’s back, Celine. It suits you.”

His words were a gentle challenge, his satisfaction evident, her spark a beacon he cherished.

They finished breakfast, the nook’s warmth fading as they stepped into the square, the cobblestones cool underfoot.

Rhys paused at the bookshop’s door, his smile sly. “One moment,” he said, before ducking inside.

Celine lingered outside, her heart racing, her embarrassment lingering as she peered through the window.

Rhys spoke to the bookseller, a wiry woman with spectacles, selecting several books— The Rogue’s Embrace , A Stolen Glance , and more—paying with a flash of coin.

She overheard him, his voice clear through the glass. “These are for me. I enjoy a good romance.”

The bookseller nodded, wrapping them in brown paper, a stack larger than Celine had expected.

Rhys emerged, carrying the wrapped books, his grin roguish. “Help me hail a carriage. I need to make a stop before we head back to the inn.”

Celine’s cheeks flamed, her hands rising in protest as she stormed toward the inn. “I won’t read them,” she huffed, her skirts swishing.

“You don’t have to,” he called, catching up with her, his boots crunching with each step. “I’m just keeping them in hand in case you stop lying to yourself.”

She spun around, her eyes flashing. “Lying? Why buy them at all?” she demanded, her voice trembling, her reticule swinging.

He stopped, his smile softening, his gaze steady. “I told her they’re for me,” he said, his voice low, a hint of sincerity breaking through. “But I think you might like them, Celine. No harm in a bit of passion.”

His words were gentle, his eyes holding hers, his teasing meant to show his care despite her embarrassment.

Celine’s breath caught, her heart racing, his sincerity disarming her. She turned away and stormed toward the inn, the books in his arms a challenge she wasn’t ready to face. But his care lingered, a warmth she couldn’t deny, leaving her to question her own heart.