Page 16 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

He spared a final glance at the staircase where Celine had disappeared, before he turned to attend to his duties.

For two days, he buried himself in estate matters, poring over tenant leases, repair estimates, and debt records.

The duchy’s needs—his tenants’ leaking roofs, their swamped fields—had always come first. The estate’s decay was a sacrifice he’d borne to fulfill his duties when his lack of a wife had withheld the inheritance he needed to help his subjects.

But that had changed now. He was married.

Celine moved through the manor like a ghost, her silence louder than her usual fire. Rhys let her be; the distance between them was safer than the pull he felt when she was near.

On the third day, the clatter of hooves announced a visitor. Rhys looked up from his desk, which was buried in parchment, as Lord Julian Ashford strode into the study, his wiry frame clad in a green coat, his grin as sharp as it had been at Eton.

“Wylds,” Julian greeted, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ve brought your mare—Starlight, the one with the tricky foal. My men kept her stable, but she’s here now. Stabled her in your barn.”

Rhys rose, his relief genuine, though his heart was heavy.

“Good man,” he said, his tone warm. He gestured to a chair. “How’s she faring? Her pregnancy’s been rough.”

He poured two glasses of brandy from a decanter, the amber liquid catching the light filtering through the dusty windows, the shelves sagging under the weight of neglected books.

Julian sank into the chair, his eyes scanning the room’s disrepair—peeling wallpaper, a cracked hearth.

“She’s holding, but needs watching. Your veterinarian’s on it. Speaking of wrecks,” he added dryly, sipping his brandy, “this place is falling apart, Rhys. You’ve been spending money on your tenants, haven’t you? Neglecting your own estate?”

Rhys’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping his glass. “Tenants first,” he said, his voice low. “They’ve got families, fields to work. The manor can wait. Now that I’ve received my inheritance, I’m planning repairs, expansions. The duchy comes before my pride.”

His gaze drifted to the window, beyond which Celine appeared, walking toward the garden, her head buried in a book.

Her muslin skirt swayed, the breeze ruffling her hair, the book’s brown-paper wrapping unmistakable—one of his romance novels. A Stolen Glance , he suspected.

A chambermaid had whispered that morning that the Duchess was devouring them, and the news sent a wave of happiness through him, a satisfaction he couldn’t shake.

The urge to ask her about them surged, to see her blush, her fire spark, but he pushed it down, his vow to keep their marriage on paper a cold anchor.

It’s better this way.

Julian followed his gaze, his grin sly. “There’s your Duchess, her nose buried in a book, ignoring the world. Didn’t hear me call her name just now.” He leaned forward, his tone teasing. “How’s married life treating you, Wylds? Fine, I wager, with a firebrand like her.”

Rhys’s smile was tight, his eyes flicking back to his glass. “Fine,” he said, his voice clipped, hoping to dodge the topic.

But Julian, who’d known him since their school days, wasn’t fooled. His brow arched.

“Fine?” he echoed, his tone skeptical, swirling his brandy. “Come now, Rhys. You’re dodging. Doing that thing again, aren’t you?” His voice lowered, his eyes sharp.

Rhys’s hand stilled, a slight irritation flaring through him.

Julian was right, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I don’t do any kind of thing,” he said sharply, his eyes hardening. He stood up and gestured toward the door. “Let’s walk. Check on Starlight.”

His tone was final, his charm a mask to hide the torrent of emotions—his father’s shadows, his past, the women he’d never seen twice, all fun and no feeling.

Celine’s words about love’s ruin echoed in his mind, stirring an ache he couldn’t name.

They strode toward the stables, the grass damp underfoot, the air thick with the scent of hay and horses. Julian kept pace, his silence probing, but Rhys’s thoughts were on Celine—her hurt expression in the carriage, her dark view of love, her silence now heavier than her hesitation.

What broke her? Does she want me to press for information or let it be?

The stables were dim, the air warm with the musk of horses. Starlight’s pregnant form swayed gently in her stall. Rhys checked her, his hands steady, his mind elsewhere.

Julian leaned against a post, his grin returning. “She’s a beauty, like your Duchess,” he remarked, his tone light.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Rhys muttered.

A part of him knew that Julian would get an earful from Celine for comparing her beauty to a horse, even though his heart was in the right place. He could almost picture it, and the thought made him smile. But the reality, the silence that lingered between them, stole the smile off his lips.

“You sure you’re just ‘fine’?”

Rhys shot him a look, his smile wry. “Enough, Julian,” he said, his voice low, patting Starlight’s flank. “Marriage is… what it is.”

Yet his words lacked conviction.

The conversation from the carriage lingered. If love brought ruin, what was this warmth Celine sparked inside him?

As they turned back toward the manor, Celine emerged from the garden, her novel clasped in her hands, its leather cover worn from her grip.

Her blue muslin skirt brushed the dewy grass, and for a fleeting moment, her eyes met his—blue depths holding a flicker of hurt, perhaps a little curiosity—before she looked away.

She approached slowly, her posture rigid yet graceful. Rhys felt the weight of her silence like a physical thing. He wanted to speak, to break the tension that had bound them since the inn, but the words eluded him.

Julian, ever the mediator, stepped forward with an easy grin, breaking the silence. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly, his tone warm despite the formality. “I trust the estate is treating you kindly? These old walls can be a bit daunting at first.” His hazel eyes twinkled with mischief.

Celine offered a polite nod, her lips curling into a faint, guarded smile. “It’s… different,” she replied, her voice soft but steady. “But I’m adjusting.”

Julian chuckled, glancing sidelong at Rhys.

“Good, good. You’ll need that resilience, Your Grace.

My friend here can be a bit hot-headed—stubborn as an ox when he digs in his heels.

But beneath all that granite exterior, there’s a man who cares deeply.

More than he’ll ever admit, I wager.” His words carried a teasing lilt.

Celine’s eyes flicked to Rhys, a spark of surprise—or was it hope?—flaring briefly before she masked it with a neutral expression.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir,” she said, her tone measured, though her fingers tightened around the book.

“Can’t wait to see your little rascals running through here like their father when he was younger.”

Rhys saw Celine go rigid, but she forced a smile for Julian.

What was that about?