Page 20 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Fifteen

“ W hy is there never a pink one?” Leah moaned, her arms folded as she glared at the rack of mallets laid out like soldiers on the grass. “They’re all so… boring. Except the green one. Green is for faeries.”

Marcus, his cheeks already streaked with dirt, seized the green mallet at once. “Green’s for jungle explorers. I’m Livingston, and this is my machete.”

“That’s absurd. You’re supposed to be Will Scarlet!” Robert, older and unamused, yanked the red mallet from its spot, almost braining Marcus in the process. “You agreed. Yesterday. It’s written on the list.”

Marcus brandished his green mallet overhead. “I’ve defected.”

Robert considered, then shook his head. “You can’t defect from your own team, idiot. That’s not how war works.”

Celine watched their exchange with something between horror and amusement. She had been pressed into service as referee, largely because neither Mrs. Wentworth nor Captain Harrow wanted to risk their dignity on the front lines of juvenile politics.

Even now, the two of them sat at the garden’s edge with Julian Ashford, sipping tea and watching with the wary fascination of naturalists observing jackals.

The late-morning sun was already warm, and the dew on the grass soaked the hem of Celine’s muslin dress. She’d learned that if she stood still for more than a minute, Marcus would try to tangle her in some game or riddle. This time, he was circling her, sizing her up for allegiances.

“Which is better, Your Grace?” he demanded, his eyes narrowed. “Explorers or bandits?”

She blinked, caught off guard by his directness. “I’m afraid I have no expertise in either, Marcus. But I suppose a true explorer would fashion a mallet out of whatever was at hand. Jungle vines, perhaps.”

He looked at her as if she’d just recited the Magna Carta. “Right! Explorers win.” He jabbed a thumb at his brother.

Robert snorted and turned to Rhys for support, but he only shrugged, cradling his own blue mallet and clearly enjoying the spectacle. “The Duchess has spoken. Perhaps you’d better go scout a suitable wicket before Livingston invades Prussia.”

“But I wanted the green one! For faerie magic,” Leah piped up.

Marcus, torn, presented the mallet to Celine, as if offering a sacred relic. “You take it, then. You’re a duchess. That’s like a queen. Queens should have the magic one.”

The air thrummed awkwardly as Celine reached for the mallet. “That’s very… gallant of you, Marcus,” she said, matching his solemnity. She gave the mallet a tentative twirl, then caught Leah’s sidelong glance. “But I think faeries prefer yellow. Something about marigolds and sunshine.”

Leah’s face lit up as she seized the yellow mallet and hugged it to her chest, content for now.

Rhys’s smile widened, and he leaned close so only Celine could hear. “I knew you were a natural at this. You have a talent for arbitrating the impossible.”

Celine shot him a look. “You’ve been here all of five minutes. I’ve been ambushed four times already, and Robert tried to trick me into betting my gloves on the outcome.”

Rhys grinned. “Careful, they’ll have you raising a regiment before the hour is over.”

The children lined up for the start of the match, each wielding their mallet like a saber. The lawn had been set with wickets by the footmen at dawn, but already two had been moved, and one had disappeared entirely.

“Right,” Robert barked. “Marcus, you’re first. No cheating.”

“I never cheat,” Marcus scoffed, affronted.

He promptly kicked his ball through the first wicket and then gave it a mighty whack with his mallet for good measure.

Leah watched this and sidled up to Celine, whispering, “He always cheats. And Robert always gets cross and then cheats even harder. It’s tradition.”

“I see,” Celine murmured. “Perhaps the trick is to cheat with enough finesse that no one notices.”

Leah’s eyes widened in admiration. “Are you going to cheat?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Celine confessed, finding herself grinning despite the oddity of it all.

The match devolved into chaos almost instantly. Robert and Marcus bickered over the rules, while Leah ignored the course entirely, instead weaving her ball in lazy circles around the flowerbeds.

Celine’s initial reluctance faded as the children dragged her into their game, and soon she was toeing her own ball along, letting Leah ‘help’ by giving it gentle shoves.

They moved down the lawn in a slow, shrieking procession, Rhys playing the part of dignified opponent but clearly letting the children win as often as not.

At one point, Marcus whacked his ball directly into Rhys’s shin, then ran off screaming that “Livingston is under attack!”

Captain Harrow, roared with laughter.

Celine lost herself in the mess of it, her bandaged hand thumping the mallet with only mild discomfort. She found herself smiling, even laughing, when Marcus tripped over a molehill and somersaulted into the rosebushes, shrieking like a banshee.

Leah, meanwhile, stayed at her side, offering whispered commentary. “If you get to the end without Robert noticing, you win forever. That’s the secret.”

Celine nodded gravely. “Noted.”

Rhys sidled up to her, his coat brushing her sleeve. “You seem to have acquired a shadow,” he murmured, glancing at Leah.

“She’s a ruthless strategist,” Celine replied, not quite hiding her pride.

“I can see that. Though you yourself seem to have a knack for subversion.” He angled his mallet and sent her ball sailing through a wicket. “Are you sure you’ve never played before?”

“Positive. But I did once launch a campaign of sabotage against my father’s chess set. I imagine the principle is similar.”

They continued like that, volleying their balls down the slope until Marcus, in a fit of inspiration, knocked them into a gully at the far end of the property.

Rhys let out an exaggerated sigh. “It would seem we’ve been sabotaged, Duchess.”

Leah, who had drifted away to chase butterflies, turned back. “You’ll have to get them. That’s the rule. If you lose your ball, you’re out unless you can retrieve it.”

Celine eyed the gully, unimpressed. “Is this a rule you just invented, or does it come from the grand tradition of faerie croquet?”

“Both,” Leah said, skipping after a bee.

Rhys picked up his mallet, gesturing with a courtly bow. “After you, then. I’ll defend your honor, should any jungle explorers leap out at us.”

Celine smirked. “Somehow, I doubt you’d make a convincing knight. You’d probably negotiate with the jungle explorers for tea and a ten-minute truce.”

He didn’t deny it. “Efficiency, Celine. That’s the secret to good management.”

The walk to the gully took them out of earshot. Celine felt the hush settle, broken only by the distant shouts of the twins and the twittering of birds overhead.

She looked at Rhys. “Did you ever imagine you’d spend your Saturday rescuing croquet balls from ditches?”

He grinned, then knelt to peer into the shadows under the brambles. “In truth, I’ve done worse on a dare from Captain Harrow. Once, in Vienna, he convinced me to scale the bell tower of St. Stephen’s at midnight. I nearly lost a shoe and my dignity, in that order.”

“I’d pay to see you in such a state,” she mused.

“You’re in luck, then. I think I’ve just torn my trousers.”

She laughed, a bright and genuine sound that surprised her.

Rhys looked up, and for a moment, his smile faded into something softer.

He reached into the ditch and managed, with some effort, to retrieve both their balls. His sleeve came away streaked with mud. “That’s one point to you, Duchess.”

“Hardly. You did the dirty work.”

She reached to brush the mud from his cuff, her fingers brushing his wrist. Her touch lingered longer than it needed to.

Rhys straightened but didn’t step away. Instead, his eyes drifted to her hand. “Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice quiet.

She flexed her fingers. “Only when I’m foolish. Or playing croquet with wild children.”

He seemed about to say something more, but then shook his head. “I’m sorry about what Lydia said. About children. It was thoughtless.”

Celine shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “It’s nothing. She’s not the first person to make such a remark.”

“But it was careless. I should have said something.”

“It’s fine,” she insisted. But even as she said it, her chest tightened. “Your friends… They don’t know, do they?”

He paused, understanding. “No. They don’t know about our arrangement.”

She looked away. “I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

He nodded, then offered a half smile. “Secret’s safe. But if I may—” He paused, then tried again. “I understand why you are uneasy about all of this. You’re not alone in it, you know.”

She wanted to believe him. “Are you saying that you share my reservations about?—”

He cut her off, his tone more vulnerable than before.

“When I was sixteen, my mother—she died from an infected cut. Not much worse than what you did with that glass. Within days, she was gone.” He stared off into the distance.

“I thought it was only a cut, but as I grew older, I overheard a conversation between the servants about how she wanted to escape my father and purposefully cut her hand with the glass to end it all and escape my father’s cruelty. ”

She fell silent, startled by the confession.

“He found her in time, and she was saved, but she was angry with him and was greatly relieved—despite the pain—when the wound got infected.” Rhys met her gaze.

“That’s why I was so insistent in the kitchen.

Why I panicked when you hurt yourself. I did not want your wound to get infected, and I suppose I’ve never outgrown that fear. ”

Celine didn’t know what to say. She wanted to offer comfort, but words failed her. And so she reached out tentatively and rested her bandaged hand atop his. He covered it with his own, his touch gentle.

A shout from the garden shattered the moment. “Your Grace! We need you! Robert’s staging a coup!”

Rhys smiled reluctantly. “Duty calls. Shall we return to the battlefield?”