Page 22 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Sixteen

C eline had tried to lose herself in her novel— A Lady’s Secret Vow — but the words blurred, refusing to make sense. The manor felt too large around her. Every thought was too confusing to decipher.

The door opened, and Mary appeared, balancing a tray with a teapot and cups, her steps careful on the rug.

“You’ve been here for a while,” she said, setting the tray on a side table. “I thought you might like a little fortification.”

Celine closed the book, her hand lingering on the cover as though it might anchor her. “Thank you.”

Mary poured, the fragrance of bergamot rising into the air. She handed Celine a cup and studied her for a moment. “Are you well, my dear?”

Celine let the steam brush her face before answering.

“I do not quite feel myself,” she admitted, eyes fixed on the fire. “This manor is ancient and beautiful, yet I cannot help but feel out of place in it. As though I have wandered into a life that does not sit easily with me.”

Mary sat down beside her, close enough that the cushions touched. Her hand settled lightly over Celine’s, steady and warm. “All shall be well. You need only keep your head high, with grace. The rest will follow in its own time.”

Celine’s throat tightened. She set the teacup down before it trembled in her grip. “Grace seems a poor shield when one’s heart is as changeful as a windvane.”

Mary’s eyes softened, but her tone remained practical. “Perhaps the heart is seeking its true course.”

Celine pressed her fingers to her temples, restless. “I know it. Yet I find no comfort in the knowledge. When I agreed to marry the Duke, I expected distance. I even welcomed it. But now—” She stopped herself, her teeth closing over the words.

She could not confess aloud the way she savored her husband’s nearness when he allowed it, the way a glance or a few careless words warmed her longer than any fire. Her heart was swaying toward Rhys, and she did not know what to do about it.

Mary smoothed the folds of her apron, her expression kind. “You are learning to live with him. That takes patience. But you are stronger than you think, and more than equal to this house. Give it time, my dear. You will realize your truth.”

Celine clasped her hands together, trying to still the nervous fidgeting of her fingers. “I did not think I would come to find him tolerable,” she said, the word bitter on her tongue.

At least ‘tolerable’ is safer than ‘desirable.’

Mary rose, her joints cracking slightly, and smoothed the front of her gown. “Then perhaps it is time you took a turn in the gardens. A walk will do you more good than sitting with books that will not read themselves to you. The air has a way of clearing what grows heavy in the head.”

Celine drew a slow breath and stood up, reaching for her shawl. “Yes. A walk.”

Mary gave her a small, approving nod, and together they left the library.

An hour later, Celine was wandering the gardens, taking in the arrangement of the new roses.

It was her third circuit that late afternoon, but she still found new evidence of her husband’s relentless improvement: a newly raked pebble path, the careful stake work under the linden, the way an ancient bench had been angled to catch the late sun through a break in the hedgerows.

She stopped, pressing her palm to a patch of lichened stone and allowing herself a small smile.

There was a quality of care in this estate, under the bravado and disregard that the ton so delighted in talking about.

Every change—every patch of moss left untouched, every seedling kept in place—felt deliberate and stubborn.

She wondered, not for the first time, what Rhys might be if he let himself be seen.

Her reverie was shattered by a scream. Not human, but the sort of scream that was worse: raw, endless, full of terror and certainty.

A horse.

In the same instant, she knew which horse it was.

She ran through the wet yews and past the empty fountain, toward the long, low outbuilding just visible at the garden’s edge. Even before she reached it, she could see lanterns bobbing in the gloom, hear the panicked thumping of hooves against wood.

As she entered the stable-yard, she saw four grooms, two of them boys, all of them pale.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of blood and hay, hotter than it should have been for April.

At the far end, lit by a wedge of orange, Rhys stood in his shirt behind the pregnant mare, his arms bloodied to the elbow, his voice sharp with command.

“Hold her, damn you! Get the head up—don’t let her go down!”

He didn’t look back, didn’t spare a glance for the men clinging to the rope halter, but Celine saw his jaw set, his movements spare and violent as a butcher’s.

The mare was slick with sweat, her white flanks streaked dark. She was trying to sit, to lie, anything to escape the agony racking her body.

“Bring another lantern. You—Grady—water. Not to drink, to wash. Move!”

Celine froze in the entrance, but her mind was leaping, racing through every word she’d ever read about foaling and every memory she’d tried to bury of what came after.

It’s not the same. It’s not.

But her hands were numb, her vision tunneling until she saw only the mare’s frantic eyes, the desperate twist of her neck.

“Celine!” Rhys’s voice cracked over the din. He’d seen her, or maybe sensed her, and now his gaze was fixed on her with a force that left no room for objection. “Here. I need another pair of hands.”

She moved as if in a trance, shedding her pelisse at the door. A stableboy thrust a steaming basin at her, and she scrubbed her hands raw in the water, heedless of the scald.

Rhys did not soften when she reached him. He only nodded curtly as he plunged his arm back into the birth canal, searching for the foal’s head.

“She’s breeched,” he said, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill. “Can’t get the hind leg round. I need you to keep her up, or she’ll crush me.”

He jerked his chin toward the flank of the mare, and Celine pressed her shoulder against it, feeling its shuddering strength, the terror vibrating through muscle and skin. The grooms backed away, grateful, their eyes wide.

“Good,” Rhys said. “Now, hold.”

The next ten minutes stretched out like years.

The foal was positioned wrong, Rhys explained through panting breaths, one leg folded back, its head trapped against the mare’s pelvis.

He worked blind, his whole body shaking with the effort, while Celine whispered to the mare, her hand splayed over her hot, straining chest, trying to match her breathing to the animal’s.

Once, she glanced at Rhys and saw his face—set, furious, desperate.

“Pull when I say, not before,” he gasped. “Now,” he barked.

Celine pulled, her feet skidding across the straw, the mare bellowing so loud that her ears rang. For a moment, nothing happened, and then there was a horrible, liquid pop. Rhys’s hand came out holding a slick, curled leg, the hoof blue-black and tiny.

“Again.”

Celine pulled again, and this time the foal slid out, one foot, then two, then the head. Rhys braced himself, his biceps corded, and pulled with everything he had.

The mare screamed once, then sagged, and the foal spilled out in a rush, limp as a rag. The grooms surged forward, but Rhys snarled at them, dropping to his knees to clear the mucus from the foal’s nose and press on its flanks. He slapped it hard.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Come on, damn you.”

Celine couldn’t breathe. She stood with her hand still pressed to the mare’s flank, watching the tiny creature on the ground, seeing only the pale blue of her mother’s face, the stillness after. The way her father had held her and told her that nothing could be done.

She turned away, her stomach churning, but the sound of a shuddering cough—thin and wet—stopped her. She looked back. The foal was moving, its legs twitching, its mouth working as Rhys kept clearing its airway, his hands frantic but precise.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You’ve got it. Breathe.”

The foal did. It lifted its head, staggered, and collapsed, but this time with the energy of something that might live.

Rhys sagged backward, exhausted, and then looked up at Celine, his eyes catching hers with an intensity that left her weak in the knees.

He smiled—not his charming, easy smile, but something raw and real—and she felt her lips tremble in response. The mare, spent, dropped her head and began to clean the foal with exhausted, clumsy licks.

Celine’s legs finally gave out, and she found herself kneeling in the straw, her dress ruined, her hands shaking as she reached out and touched the foal’s velvety ear.

Her relief was so great that it felt like grief.

“Good job,” Rhys said quietly. “You saved her.”

Celine shook her head. “I was only… here.”

“You were brave,” Rhys insisted.

The word was laced with such simple, absolute conviction that she couldn’t answer.

The stables were silent now, save for the soft neighs of the beasts and the ragged breathing of everyone inside. Rhys stood, then reached down and offered her a hand. She took it, her palm fitting perfectly in his, and let him pull her to her feet.

“Let’s get you inside,” he said, the command gentle. “You look as if you could use some whiskey.”

Celine did not protest, did not let go of his hand until they were well clear of the stables’ darkness and the first hint of dawn was breaking over the wet, gleaming world.

In his study, Rhys poured them each a glass.

Celine did not sit down. She stood by the fire, her arms crossed over her ruined dress, staring into the flames as if they might consume the memory still haunting her.

Rhys watched her for a long moment, then gestured to the armchair. “Sit down, Duchess. You look like you’re expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”

She snorted, the sound unladylike. “You have a low opinion of your hospitality.”

He grinned, then set his glass down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “It isn’t every day that a man gets to see his wife wrestle a horse and win. I thought you hated animals.”

She shook her head, staring at her hands. They were no longer trembling, but her nailbeds were still stained with blood. “I was certain she’d die. Even when you got the leg round, I kept waiting for her to—” She broke off, pressing her lips together.

“She lived,” Rhys said, matter-of-fact. “And her foal. You were the difference.”

Celine felt the words, but not as praise. They made her stomach lurch.

Rhys said nothing, just waited. His amber eyes were fixed on her, for once full of patience.

She sipped her whiskey. The taste was sharp, but it grounded her, forced her to feel the heat and the burn.

“I lied to you,” she said quietly. “Not outright, but… by omission.”

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

She stared at her hands. “You asked, once, about my mother. Why I never spoke of her.”

Rhys nodded. “I remember.”

“I was twelve,” she breathed. “My father was away at Parliament. Mother went into confinement earlier than expected. The physician came, along with a midwife. I wasn’t allowed into her rooms, but I heard…

everything.” Her voice was steady, but the air in the study grew thin.

“They screamed. All of them. The doctor, the midwife, and her. And when they opened the door, it was—” She broke off, the image too gruesome for words.

“Both died,” she said finally, her eyes fixed on her glass. “Mother and baby. My brother, he—” She stopped, unable to finish.

Rhys was silent for a long while. She wished he would say something—make a joke, mock her, anything. Instead, he just watched.

She realized she wanted the silence— needed it.

“That’s why… That’s why I…” She swallowed. “I can’t bear the idea of… of that happening. Of being the reason someone else… loses.” She raised her eyes to his, defiant, daring him to be angry. “That’s why I wanted a marriage on paper. I could never?—”

Rhys held up a hand, cutting her off gently. “That works perfectly for me,” he said.

The words landed so softly that she almost missed them.

He poured himself another glass, the whiskey golden in the morning light. “I have no desire for children, Celine. Years ago, I made a vow never to become a father. Never to sire an heir.”

Her own fear, reflected by him, should have brought relief. Instead, her chest tightened.

“Why?”

He shrugged, then smiled. But it was not his rakish smile, more a shield than anything. “Another story for another time.”

She let out a breath, the tension draining from her shoulders, replaced by confusion.

“You mean it?” she asked, unsure if she had heard him correctly. “No heirs. No children.”

He nodded. “None. Ever.”

The air between them shifted. Something unsaid pressed down on her, a longing she hadn’t thought herself capable of. Now that the future was devoid of that possibility—now that it was safe—she found herself staring into the fire and wondering what it might be like, had she been someone else.

She did not speak again, and neither did he. They finished their drinks in silence, the sort that held everything they would not say.

When Rhys finally stood up and set his empty glass down with finality, he touched her shoulder—just briefly, but with a gentleness she felt all the way to her bones.

He left her there, in the half-light and quiet, and for the first time in years, she let herself wonder what it would be like to want the thing she had always feared.