Page 15 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)
Chapter Eleven
“ I can’t wait to get started on these books,” Rhys said, biting his lip lightly to stop the chuckle that threatened to escape them.
The carriage rattled along Hertfordshire Road, the gravel crunching beneath the wheels, the steady gallop of horses punctuating the quiet. He leaned back against the worn velvet seat, his coat wrinkled from travel, his amber eyes fixed on Celine.
The stack of brown-paper-wrapped romance novels sat between them, a silent challenge she studiously ignored. Her blue muslin dress caught the sunlight filtering through the carriage window.
Her black hair, loose beneath her straw bonnet, framed her face in delicate curls, and her plump lips pressed into a thin line, betraying her effort to seem unaffected.
Rhys found it endlessly amusing, her pretense a spark that fueled his curiosity.
“Celine,” he said, his voice low and teasing, breaking the silence. “Come on, we can at least agree that the books are fascinating. I’m surprised you’re not even looking at them. Care to explain why you’re so… opposed to a bit of romance?”
His smile flashed, but his gaze was sharp, noting the way her fingers fidgeted with her reticule, her cheeks flushed a light pink.
She didn’t respond, her blue eyes fixed on the passing fields, where lambs roamed under a spring sky. The silence stretched, settling over them like a blanket. Yet Rhys continued watching her, his amusement somehow giving way to fascination.
Her hair curled softly against her cheek, catching the light, and her lips, full and pink, parted slightly as if on the verge of speech.
The sight stirred something within him—a warmth, a pull—that threatened to shatter his carefully guarded control.
Her voice, when it came, snapped him out of his reverie, his eyes still tracing her lips.
“Love is a fairytale,” she declared, her tone soft but edged with conviction. Her gaze met his, raw and unguarded. “It gives hope when it’s there, but when it’s taken away—and it always is—it breaks people. Leaves them worse than before.”
Her words were heavy, and her eyes glistened. Her vulnerability spilled out, a glimpse of a wound she carried.
Rhys’s breath caught, her words striking an old ache he’d buried deeper than his father’s cold commands, his vow to never let love ruin him.
He stared at her, his amusement gone, replaced by a quiet worry. What had hurt her so badly to form such a dark view? Her mother’s loss, perhaps, or the ton’s cruelty?
“That’s… rare,” he said, his voice low. His gaze was steady on her, masking the torrent of emotion her words stirred. “A lady who sees marriage as I do. Most don’t.”
Celine’s lips twitched, a faint, teasing smile breaking through, though her eyes held a flicker of pain. “Rakes don’t have beliefs about marriage,” she quipped, her voice softer.
Her blush deepened as she looked away, her bonnet’s ribbons swaying with the carriage’s motion.
Rhys fell silent, grappling with the storm in his chest—memories of his father; his refusal to marry; his vow to protect the duchy and his heart.
“Love and marriage,” he said finally, his voice low, almost hollow, “are destined to cause pain.”
His words were meant to echo hers, to affirm their shared cynicism, but they lacked the conviction they had once held.
The realization stirred panic within him.
Why?
His heart raced, the familiar control he’d mastered slipping, her presence unraveling truths he’d long believed.
Celine’s breath hitched, her eyes meeting his. For a fleeting moment, Rhys could have sworn he saw hurt flash across her face, a shadow of disappointment that pierced him.
“Oh,” she said, her voice barely audible. Her gaze dropped to her lap, her fingers twisting the cord of her reticule. “I guess we finally have something in common.”
The silence returned, heavy with unspoken questions.
The carriage rolled on, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the grinding of wheels the only sounds, the novels untouched between them.
Rhys’s panic lingered, a quiet churn in his chest, her hurt expression haunting him.
Why did his words falter? Why did her pain matter so much?
He pushed those thoughts aside, his charm a mask he clung to. But her silence gnawed at him, different from the morning’s hesitation. It was deeper, sadder, as if his words had wounded her.
The carriage slowed as they reached The Rose and Crown Inn, its ivy-clad walls a welcome respite. They disembarked, the cool evening air sharp with wood smoke and damp grass, the inn’s lanterns casting a warm glow.
Celine’s steps were quiet, her bonnet shielding her face, her silence no longer awkward but heavy, reflective. Rhys watched her, his heart stirring, wanting to bridge the gap between them but unsure how, his vow to keep their marriage on paper clashing with the pull he felt.
They parted in the inn’s narrow hall, her muslin skirt vanishing up the stairs to her room.
Rhys lingered, his boots scuffing the worn planks, his mind replaying her words— love breaks people .
He retired to his chamber, the ache in his chest unresolved, her hurt expression a mystery he couldn’t shake.
Minutes later, a soft knock drew him to the door. Celine stood there, her bonnet gone, her black hair loose, her blue eyes searching his, her reticule clutched tightly.
“Rhys,” she said, her voice soft, hesitant.
The sound of his name on her lips stirred warmth in his chest.
“Yes?” he answered.
She paused, several emotions flashing in her eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to decipher any of them, but it was clear that whatever she wanted to share was important.
“Are we… doing anything else in town before we leave for Wylds tomorrow?”
Oh.
Perhaps he miscalculated.
He leaned against the doorframe, his warm smile masking his inner turmoil. “No,” he said, his voice low, his eyes holding hers. “Just the journey ahead.”
“All right, thank you.” She paused, her eyes lingering on him a little longer.
“Talk to me,” he wanted to say, but that would be conceding to the feelings bubbling up inside him.
“Is there anything else? The rumors are simply rumors. I don’t bite.”
His tease was meant to be humorous, but all he received was a faint smile.
Her lips parted slightly as if to speak, but then she shook her head. “Good night, Your Grace.”
“Duke, if you want to insist on honorifics.”
“Very well, Duke.”
He caught the briefest glimpse of a smile before she turned around, her footsteps soft on the stairs, leaving him with a racing heart and unanswered questions.
The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive as Rhys and his new wife approached the sprawling, weathered facade of Wylds Estate.
The morning sun cast a pale glow over the ivy-choked stone walls, their cracks a testament to years of neglect, the lawns overgrown, the fountains dry. The air was crisp with dew and the faint scent of budding roses, but inside the carriage, silence reigned, heavy and unyielding.
Rhys’s coat was creased from travel, his amber eyes fixed on the window, avoiding Celine’s gaze.
She sat opposite, her blue muslin dress catching the light.
Her straw bonnet lay on the seat next to her, her black hair pinned loosely.
Her blue eyes were downcast, tracing the edges of a wrapped romance novel she refused to acknowledge.
Their conversation at the inn—her stark words about love’s ruin, his own echoing pain—had built a wall neither dared to breach, their marriage a fragile truce.
As the carriage halted, Rhys alighted first and extended a gloved hand with a formality that belied the warmth of his touch.
“Welcome to Wylds, Duchess,” he murmured, his voice steady yet laced with an emotion he fought to suppress.
Celine inclined her head, her lips a thin line, her steps tentative as she descended.
The grand hall greeted them with a cavernous echo, its faded tapestries and chipped marble floors a muted echo of past grandeur.
Before they could venture further, the staff, summoned by the carriage’s arrival, emerged with practiced grace.
Mrs. Hargrove, the stern yet dignified housekeeper, led the procession, her black bombazine dress rustling as she curtsied deeply.
Beside her stood Mr. Grayson, the butler, his silver hair gleaming.
“Your Graces,” Mrs. Hargrove intoned, her voice carrying the weight of authority, as she bobbed another curtsy. “Welcome to Wylds Estate. On behalf of the staff, we are honored to serve you.”
Mr. Grayson bowed.
Rhys turned to Celine, his posture stiffening slightly. “Allow me to present Mrs. Hargrove, the housekeeper, and Mr. Grayson, the butler. They will ensure your comfort.”
His tone was measured, though his gaze lingered on her, a flicker of something—regret, perhaps—softening his features. He longed to speak, to offer words of reassurance or bridge the chasm between them, but the moment slipped away as the servants stepped forward.
Mrs. Hargrove inclined her head to Celine. “Your Grace, if it pleases you, we shall draw you a warm bath and show you to your chambers.”
With gentle efficiency, she gestured toward the grand staircase, while Mr. Grayson signaled a footman, who hastened to gather her belongings.
Celine cast a fleeting glance at Rhys, her expression unreadable, before allowing herself to be ushered deeper into the manor, the rustle of her skirts fading as she ascended.
Rhys watched her go, the words he’d meant to say—something tender—lodging in his throat. Before he could follow, a young footman, breathless from the stables, approached.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing hastily. “Forgive the interruption. There’s trouble with the tenants at Lowerfield. The eastern barn’s roof has collapsed, and several families are without shelter. Mr. Treadwell requests your presence at once.”
Rhys’s jaw tightened, the weight of responsibility settling over him like a mantle.
“Very well,” he replied, his mind already drifting to the ledgers and plans awaiting in his study.