Page 17 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Twelve

“ Y ou vex me, Lady Clara,” Lord Everett said as he stormed across the rose-draped terrace, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing, his voice low and sharp. “Why must you push me away, when you know—” He stopped, his breathing ragged, his heart a traitor to his pride.

Clara’s fingers clutched her fan, her cheeks flushed, her eyes defiant yet glistening.

“Know what?” she snapped, her voice trembling. “That you’d trap me with sweet words, only to leave me broken? I won’t risk it.”

Celine was curled up in a worn leather armchair in the dimly lit library of Wylds Estate, her fingers gripping the leather cover of A Stolen Glance , one of the scandalous romance novels Rhys had bought her, as she eagerly drank in every word on the page.

The room smelled of dust and old paper, the shelves sagging under neglected tomes, their gilt titles faded. A single candle flickered on the table beside her, casting shadows over her blue muslin dress, her black hair loose and tumbling over her shoulders, free of her bonnet.

Her stomach growled, a handful of crumbling scones on a chipped plate her only sustenance, the crumbs scattered across her lap.

It was all her husband’s fault, she thought, her blue eyes narrowing on the book. If Rhys hadn’t left those cursed novels in her path, if she hadn’t been bored out of her wits during their so-called honeymoon, she’d never have touched the thing.

She had missed dinner, so engrossed in the story’s infuriating characters—a lord and lady blind to their hearts, fighting over pride and fear—that she’d forgotten to eat until hunger drove her to raid the kitchen.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered, flipping a page, her cheeks flushed from the heated passage.

She scoffed, before popping a scone into her mouth, the dry pastry sticking to her throat.

Why can’t they see it?

She was exasperated, their self-sabotage grating on her nerves, their unspoken love a tangle of missed chances.

“What is?” a deep voice asked, warm and tired.

Celine’s head snapped up, her heart lurching when she saw Rhys standing in the doorway, his navy blue coat wrinkled, his dark hair disheveled, his amber eyes glinting in the candlelight.

He looked exhausted, the weight of his duties etched in the lines of his face. Yet his gaze was warm, comfortable, like a fire she hadn’t realized she had missed.

Her blush deepened, the book a guilty weight in her hands, her embarrassment spiking at being caught red-handed with the romance novel she had sworn to ignore.

She wanted to hide it, to deflect with her usual fire, but his presence—unguarded, familiar—stirred a warmth she couldn’t deny, her attraction to him a spark she fought to smother.

“Nothing,” she said, her voice softer than intended. Her fingers tightened on the book, and her eyes darted to the crumbs on her lap. “Just… this book. The characters are infuriating.”

Her admission was hesitant, her resolve to keep their marriage on paper clashing with the pull of his gaze.

Rhys stepped into the room, his boots scuffing the faded rug, his smile faint but genuine. He leaned against a shelf, his exhaustion evident in his slouched posture.

“Infuriating, are they?” he asked softly, his eyes holding hers. “Tell me about them.”

His invitation was simple, his warmth disarming, and Celine felt a pang. She had missed this—their interactions, his ability to ignite her fire, even if it terrified her.

She swallowed, her blush fading, her fingers tracing the book cover.

“They’re… blind,” she began, her voice steadier, her frustration with the characters spilling out.

“The lord and lady—they fight, push each other away, all because they’re too stubborn to see that they’re in love.

They sabotage themselves over and over, and it’s… maddening.”

Rhys’s brow arched, his smile softening. “Sounds familiar,” he said, almost to himself. But he didn’t press, didn’t tease her, his restraint surprising her. “What do they fight about?”

His question was curious, his gaze steady, as if he saw more than she meant to reveal.

Her heart raced, her fingers trembling on the book, her mind flashing to their conversation in the carriage—her bleak view of love, his echoed pain.

She had wanted to tell him about her mother, how her death had shattered her father, leaving her terrified of love, terrified of consummating their marriage and losing herself in him.

But his words— love and marriage are destined to cause pain —rang in her ears, a reminder that he saw her as a wife of convenience, nothing more.

Why do I feel this way?

Her attraction to him felt foolish, a betrayal of her resolve. She then decided to exist, to treat him as a friend, to keep her heart guarded.

“They fight about… trust,” she said, setting the book down, crumbs falling from her lap. “He thinks she’s hiding something; she thinks he’s too proud. They’re too afraid to be honest.”

Her words hung, heavy with unintended truth, her eyes meeting his, her vulnerability slipping through.

“It’s silly, really. They could be happy if they’d stop running.”

Rhys nodded, his gaze warm, his exhaustion softening his edges. “Fear’s a powerful thing,” he said, his voice low, his eyes holding hers for a moment too long. “Happens to the best of us.”

His words were gentle, a bridge she wasn’t ready to cross.

He stepped back, gesturing to the plate. “Scones instead of dinner? You’ll waste away, Celine.”

She laughed, a shaky sound, her flush returning.

“I… forgot to eat,” she admitted, brushing crumbs from her dress, her embarrassment ebbing under his warmth.

“The book’s… distracting. But don’t you dare tease me about it.

” Her tone was light, almost playful, her attempt at friendship a tentative step, her heart still wary.

He chuckled, his teeth flashing a little, but he honored her request, his eyes glinting with restrained mischief.

“No teasing,” he relented, raising his hands. “But I’m glad you’re reading them. They suit you more than you think.”

His words were soft, his gaze lingering, stirring that dangerous spark she fought to ignore.

They stood in silence for a moment, the library’s quiet broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl outside. Celine’s thoughts churned—his warmth, his exhaustion, the way he looked at her, warm yet intense.

She wanted to ask why he worked so tirelessly, why he shared her view of love, but the words stuck in her throat, her fear of blurring the boundaries holding her back.

He’s a friend .

Yes, he was a friend, nothing more. But her heart fluttered, her attraction a quiet rebellion against her resolve.

Rhys straightened, his movements slow, his eyes still on her. “I should let you get back to your lord and lady,” he said, his voice gentle, before turning toward the door. “Don’t skip breakfast tomorrow. I’ll have Mrs. Hargrove send up a tray.”

His care was simple, unassuming, but it warmed her. A reminder of the man beneath the title.

“Rhys,” she called tentatively. “What are you doing up so late?”

Her question was simple, but her pulse quickened, her attempt to treat him as a friend—a safe boundary—feeling fragile under his gaze.

He paused and turned back, his smile faint but genuine, his eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“Work,” he sighed. “Years of it, piling up. The estate’s been starved for funds—my father’s doing, mostly. Now, I’m swamped, trying to set it right.”

His admission was raw, his exhaustion evident in the hunch of his shoulders, the weight of his duchy a burden he carried alone.

Celine’s breath caught, her heart racing, a silly flutter in her chest as she met his eyes.

“Would you… like some company?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks flushing.

She regretted the words instantly, her fear of crossing the boundaries surging. But the quiet library, his warmth, made her crave connection, however small.

Rhys’s brow arched, and his smile widened, his dimple flashing. “Company?” he teased. But his eyes held hers, warm and inviting. “You’re welcome to join me, Celine. But I warn you, my study is less… romantic than your book.”

His gesture toward A Stolen Glance was playful, his exhaustion subsiding at her offer. He then motioned for her to follow him, his boots clicking down the hall.

Celine hesitated, her heart pounding, then grabbed her book and plate, trailing him to his study.

The room was a chaos of ledgers and papers, the air heavy with ink and wax, a single lamp casting a golden glow over a cluttered desk. A chipped globe sat in one corner, a brass telescope stood by the window, and shelves held odd trinkets—a carved jade elephant, a tarnished sextant.

Rhys sat at his desk, his sleeves rolled up, his focus immediately returning to a ledger. Celine sank into a worn velvet chair, her book open. But her eyes wandered, drawn to the knick-knacks, her curiosity outweighing the novel’s pull.

She set the book down, her fingers brushing a small wooden box etched with swirling patterns.

“What’s this?” she asked softly.

She lifted the box, and her eyes flicked to Rhys, who glanced up, his quill pausing.

A music box, from Vienna,” he explained, his tone warm. “Picked it up on a whim during a trip. Turn the key.” His eyes glinted, inviting her to explore.

She did, and the box chimed a delicate waltz, its notes filling the room.

“Vienna?” she said, her eyes round with curiosity. “The ton said that you ran off to gamble and… worse.” Her tone was playful, testing, her fear of intimacy momentarily forgotten in the cozy study.

Rhys laughed and leaned back in his chair, his eyes dancing. “Gambling? Hardly,” he said, his voice light. “I was negotiating trade routes—boring stuff. The ‘worse’ was probably me dodging marriage proposals. The Viennese mamas are relentless.”

His grin was roguish, but his eyes held hers, sharing a truth behind the rumors, his charm disarming her.

Celine’s lips twitched, a smile breaking through. Her fingers moved to a feathered quill, its plume vibrant green.

“And this?” she asked, twirling it, her voice brighter. “Some exotic bird from your adventures?”

He chuckled and set his quill down, his gaze warm. “A parrot, from a market in Cairo,” he replied, leaning forward. “The merchant swore it was sacred, but I think he just wanted my money. Kept it for luck.”

His tone was playful, his stories peeling back the rake’s facade, revealing a man who’d wandered the world, not for debauchery, but for duty and curiosity.

She laughed, soft and genuine, her heart lighter. Her fingers then grazed a small clay figurine, a dancer frozen mid-twirl.

“And this one?” she asked, her eyes meeting his, her fear easing amid the warmth of their banter.

Rhys rose from his desk and crossed to her, his boots scuffing the rug.

“That’s from the Americas,” he said, his voice low.

He picked up the figurine, his fingers brushing hers, sparking warmth.

“A dance they do in the colonies—lively, nothing like our staid minuets.” His eyes glinted, a sudden idea lighting them. “Want to learn it?”

Celine’s breath caught, and her heart rate quickened. “Learn it?” she squeaked, a laugh escaping. “I’m no dancer, Rhys.”

But his grin was infectious, his warmth pulling her in. She stood up, her muslin skirt swishing, her book forgotten.

Rhys cleared a space, pushing papers aside, his movements quick and boyish.

“It’s simple,” he began, taking her hand. His touch was warm through her glove, guiding her to the center of the room. “Step like this—light, quick.” He demonstrated, his boots tapping a lively rhythm. His smile was wide, his exhaustion gone. “Your turn.”

She hesitated, then followed, her steps clumsy at first. Her laughter bubbled up as she stumbled, his hand steadying her.

“This is absurd,” she snorted, her eyes meeting his, sparkling with mirth. “I look like a duck.”

“A very charming duck,” he teased, spinning her gently with his hand on her waist. The contact was brief but electric.

The room filled with their laughter, the dance a whirl of steps and missteps, the music box’s waltz a faint backdrop.

For a moment, their fears—her dread of love, his vow against it—faded, their shared joy a bridge between them.

They collapsed onto the couch, breathless, laughing, their shoulders brushing. The lamp cast a warm glow on them.

“You’re a terrible teacher,” Celine said, her voice light.

She was flushed from dancing, her heart racing with a happiness she hadn’t expected.

“And you’re a quick study,” Rhys shot back, his grin wide, his warm eyes holding hers a moment too long.

The air crackled, their laughter fading, a shared moment hanging between them, fragile and bright.

Celine’s smile softened, her heart fluttering. But then she pulled back and reached for the book, her fear creeping in.

“Back to work, Your Grace,” she said, her tone playful but firm.

She settled into the couch, her eyes fixed on the page, save for occasional pointed glances.

Rhys returned to his desk, his quill scratching, but his gaze flicked to her now and then, his warmth lingering. Hours passed, the candle burning low, and Celine’s eyes grew heavy, the novel slipping from her hands. She drifted off, curled up on the couch, her breathing soft and her face peaceful.

Rhys noticed, his quill stilling, his heart stirring. He stood up quietly and crossed to her, his movements gentle. He lifted her, her slight weight warm in his arms.

She stirred, her eyes half-opening, vaguely aware as he carried her down the hall to her room, the manor’s silence enveloping them. He laid her on her bed and pulled a quilt over her, his fingers brushing her hair.

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. His lips lingered, a gesture of care he couldn’t voice.

“Good night, Celine,” he whispered, before turning to leave, his heart a tumult of warmth and restraint.

Hold her closer , a voice in his head whispered.

Should he?