Page 18 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Thirteen

R hys groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, hoping to massage away the pounding in his temples. He’d hardly slept the night before, and it was taking a toll on him.

After carrying Celine to her bed, he’d fought the urge to hold her and forced himself out of her chambers. Now, he had work to do, and thoughts of her would not leave him!

A sharp rap at the door shattered his moment of self-pity, and he gritted his teeth. “Yes? If this is about the Lowerfield tenant again, Grayson, I’ve already told you?—”

“It is not Grayson.”

He sat up so abruptly that his chair scraped across the worn rug.

Celine.

His heart kicked against his chest in a way that made him want to slap himself.

For a moment, he considered denying her entry—he could claim a fever, a sudden attack of gout, anything to keep her out.

But he knew her well enough to know that she’d simply break down the door.

Or worse, stand outside it until he relented.

“Come in,” he called, striving for bored indifference.

The door opened, and she walked in. Her pale blue frock reflected the blue of her eyes, and her dark hair was styled elegantly, with delicate wisps framing her face. Rhys swallowed and gripped the arms of his chair.

She paused in the threshold, taking in the strewn ledgers, the melted wax beneath the candlesticks, the lack of anything resembling pleasure or distraction.

She smiled, and it both brightened and softened her features. “I heard that you keep yourself chained to your desk.”

He gripped the armrests tighter.

Stay in the chair. If you stand up, you’ll cross the room and—don’t finish the thought, you absolute moron.

“Much to do,” he said. “The estate doesn’t run itself, Celine. I thought you were otherwise occupied—manor management, wasn’t it?”

“Well, I thought you would like to join me for a stroll. The air is fine, the wisteria is finally in bloom, and you have not left this room in a while.”

He allowed himself another look at her.

The color did suit her. She was a storm made woman, but he could see the softness in both her features and manner, and that drove him further toward the edge.

“I will walk with you later,” he replied. “There are pressing matters—some of them legal, some simply idiotic.” He gestured to the ledger.

Celine approached his desk and stopped just close enough that he could detect the faint scent of jasmine. “If you’re not careful, you’ll become stooped before forty. Then what will the ton say about you? The once-famed Wild Duke, crumpled over his ledgers, his Duchess a widow by boredom alone.”

He laughed despite himself. “I suppose I’ll have to hope that you rescue me from such a fate, Duchess.”

Celine’s smile widened, almost gentle. “Even I am not so ambitious. You’ll have to beg for divine intervention, I think.”

The ensuing silence was somewhat unsettling as their eyes held.

Celine swallowed, looking away. “You… you carried me to my chambers last night, did you not?”

“Yes, I did.”

She looked as though she was going to say more, but instead, she turned to leave. Rhys nearly toppled his chair in his effort to stop himself from following her out.

Her footsteps faded down the hall, and the study seemed twice as empty for it. He dug his nails into the armrests, glaring at the ledgers as if they had personally insulted him.

Damn her for making me feel this way. Damn her for making me… ache.

He forced himself back to his work, writing numbers he had already memorized. The self-denial, he told himself, was discipline. He would not become one of those fools who lost themselves for want of a pretty face, or a clever tongue, or a scent like jasmine.

After three columns and a total of seven minutes, a crash rang out, the sound striking him like a blade.

Rhys knew it was her.

Of course, it’s her.

He was out the door and down the hallway before he realized he had moved. He caught the barest hint of blue as he entered the drawing room.

Celine was on her knees, gathering glass shards with the bare fingers of both hands. The scent, an overwhelming and heady bouquet of every perfume ever brewed, hit him.

“Careful!” he barked, crossing the carpet in two strides. “You’ll?—”

She turned, and as she did, a jagged piece of glass caught her palm. Blood welled, and his gut twisted.

Celine winced but didn’t cry out. “It’s fine. I?—”

“Don’t move,” he said as he reached for her hand, already dreading what he would find.

Of all the idiotic, reckless things, it had to be this!

Celine stared at the blood on her palm. For a moment, she was mesmerized by how quick and easy it was to cut flesh. The next instant, Rhys’s hands closed over hers, pressing a kerchief to the cut with ruthless efficiency.

She tried to pull away, embarrassed, but he would not release her.

“You stubborn, reckless—” He was half-crouched, his jaw working, his eyes darting from the wound to her face and back, as if gauging the extent of the damage by how much color had drained from her cheeks.

“It’s nothing,” she whispered.

He pulled her to her feet, with no concern for decorum or dignity, and steered her out of the room and down the hallway, ignoring the trail of scarlet drops on the pale wood floor.

“Rhys, I’m fine. I?—”

“Don’t,” he barked, his grip tightening just enough that she couldn’t slip free. “You’re not fine, and you won’t argue.”

They burst into the kitchen, startling the staff from their late-morning lull. The cook was elbow-deep in dough, and the kitchen maids were shelling peas at the long table. All froze in horror at the sight of Celine’s palm, streaked red.

“Boiling water,” Rhys snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. “Clean rags, vinegar, and honey. Move!”

The kitchen exploded into action. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hargrove, suddenly entered the space barking orders to tame the commotion; a scullery maid tripped over her skirts in her scramble for the rag bin, and a footman dropped a stack of tin plates with a cacophonous clatter.

Celine found herself deposited in a high-back chair and subjected to the collective scrutiny of at least six people, all of whom seemed to believe she was minutes away from death.

Rhys dropped to one knee, tore off her glove, and examined the gash.

“It’s deep,” he muttered, his jaw clenched. “You might need stitches.”

The words sent a ripple of panic through the staff, but Celine only rolled her eyes.

“It’s a scratch,” she protested.

But Rhys was not listening. He ripped a strip of linen and pressed it to the wound, then spun to face the housekeeper. “Why is there no doctor here?”

Mrs. Hargrove blanched. “You… did not say, Your Grace. Should I?—?”

“No,” Celine cut in, irritated by the sudden infantilization. “I do not require a doctor. It’s a cut, nothing more.”

Rhys rounded on her, his eyes blazing. “Next time you feel compelled to shatter a shelf full of glass, let someone else clean it up. God’s teeth, Celine, you might have—” He stopped, seeming to choke on his words.

The servants went still, their eyes wide.

Celine realized then that he was not angry, but frantic. His hands trembled as he unwound the makeshift bandage. He was sweating, though the kitchen was cool.

“Everyone out,” he ordered, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “Now.”

The kitchen emptied in seconds. When the last apron had vanished, Rhys exhaled—almost a gasp—and slumped against the edge of the table.

“Let me see,” he said, gentler now.

He reached for her hand and turned it over. The blood had mostly clotted, but the gash was ragged, and glass dust glimmered in the wound. He fetched a rag and dipped it in the steaming kettle.

“You’re not going to faint, are you?” he asked with a dry, half-hysterical laugh.

“I’ve seen worse,” Celine replied. Which was true, though not since she was twelve.

He pressed the hot, wet rag to her palm, and the sting made her bolt upright in the chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at her. “It’s not clean yet. I’ll have to—there may be glass in it. This will hurt.”

He wiped the wound, gentle as a summer breeze, his earlier anger gone. He worked with quiet concentration, and when the trickle of blood had finally slowed, he poured vinegar on her palm. The sting was so sharp that she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

“Almost done,” Rhys murmured.

He smeared honey on the gash, then wrapped her hand in clean linen, winding the strip with a surgeon’s precision.

While he worked, Celine watched his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper than she remembered. He was tense all over, as if restraining himself from some violent outburst.

For the first time, she saw how frightened he was.

“While you have leave to do as you wish in this manor,” Rhys said, tying off the bandage, “you must never put yourself in danger. Is that understood?”

She bristled, a spark of her old defiance returning. “I was not in danger. It was a silly accident, and you are being absurd.”

He ignored her protest, instead resting her wrapped hand on the table and covering it with both of his. He didn’t meet her eyes.

“My mother used to say that accidents were the devil’s way of testing us,” he said, his voice low. “She broke her wrist falling off a stepstool once, and I—” He stopped, drawing a deep breath. “I don’t like seeing people hurt, Celine.”

She was so surprised by his candor that she nearly forgot the throbbing in her palm.

“Your mother,” she said, searching his face. “You never mention her.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “She died when I was sixteen. She was… softer than the rest of us. Liked flowers, and poems, and the color yellow, of all things. I suppose it’s a mercy that she didn’t live to see what became of Wylds.”

He gently brushed her knuckles, before turning away to fetch another rag.

Celine watched him, her heart unsettled. The Wild Duke, so famed for his composure, looked utterly at sea, busying himself with rags so he wouldn’t have to look at her.

“I’m sorry about the vials,” she said, hoping to break the tension. “They were old, half-dried. I was trying to make something new, but I suppose I am not cut out for perfumery.”

He managed a smile. “That’s what you were doing? Inventing a scent?”

She nodded. “It’s a hobby. My mother used to say that the right perfume could summon a memory, or even a feeling. I thought perhaps, if I got it right, I could remember…” she trailed off.

What? What did I want to remember?

The answer was too tangled to voice.

Rhys leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. “You never do anything halfway, do you?”

“Neither do you,” she said, risking a smile.

They were quiet for a moment. Then, Rhys said, “Promise me you’ll be more careful next time. If not for your sake, then for mine.”

Celine wanted to laugh, to tell him that he was a fool, but the look in his eyes stopped her. The rage and pain were still there, but so was something else—something far more scared and vulnerable.

She nodded. “I promise.”

He nodded in return but didn’t move, didn’t speak. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the drip of cooling water from the kettle.

She looked down at her wrapped hand, then up at him. “Thank you, Rhys. For… this.” She waved her bandaged palm.

His expression was unreadable. “You’re welcome.”

As she stood up, Celine felt a peculiar sort of giddiness. She’d caught a glimpse of the man behind the title, behind the arrogance, and she was sure she would never be able to look at him the same way again.