Page 23 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)
Chapter Seventeen
“ W hat is wrong with me?” Celine whispered, her voice cracking ever so slightly.
She sat in the morning room, the early April light spilling through the tall, cracked windows, painting her lavender muslin dress with soft gold.
The air carried the faint scent of damp plaster and the roses she’d plucked from the garden, their petals wilting in a chipped porcelain vase on the table.
Boredom slowly slithered around her mind like a living phantom, wrapping itself around her thoughts and leaving her unable to concentrate on anything…
Or perhaps she didn’t want to concentrate on anything.
“Focus, Celine. You’re not some naive debutante,” she muttered to herself.
Black curls, loosely pinned beneath a simple cap, grazed her neck as her restless blue eyes flickered over the half-finished embroidery, the needle forgotten in the fabric’s folds. A strange, unfathomable loss had settled in her chest since last night’s conversation in the study.
No, that didn’t mean anything to me .
She tried to convince herself of that, but she knew the truth deep down.
Rhys’s vow never to sire an heir, his firm assurance that their marriage would remain as it was, had stirred an ache she couldn’t explain. It made no sense that she should care this much, yet a stance she had never wavered on since her mother’s death suddenly felt less… terrifying.
Maybe it was the foal’s wobbly survival or perhaps Rhys’s gentle care—she couldn’t put a finger on it—but it stirred a whisper of something new, a crack in her resolve that left her restless.
The morning room, with its faded wallpaper and creaking chairs, felt stifling. Her usual distractions—perfume-making, novels, sketching—failed to soothe her. The manor’s quiet was oppressive, its walls mirrored her unease, and the ticking of the mantel clock was the only sound she heard.
As much as she hated to admit it, she’d spent the previous night pacing the garden, her mind replaying Rhys’s words: We’re safe, you and I.
It was what she wanted, or at least it should be. Yet the ache in her chest, sharp and unbidden, had grown, transforming into a restless hunger for something more.
Footsteps echoed in the hall, firm and quick, and her head snapped up, her heart leaping as Rhys entered.
He was carrying a bundle of letters with creased edges, his fingers stained with ink.
The softness in his amber eyes from the previous day had dimmed, replaced with an emotion that looked foreign.
“Celine,” he said, his baritone reverberating in her bones, sending a shiver up her spine. His boots scuffed the worn rug as he paused, almost like he was contemplating his next words. “You’re up early.”
He looked slightly disheveled. His dark hair didn’t have its usual sheen, there was no dimple in his cheek as he gave her a strained smile, and his amber eyes were shadowed with a distracted urgency.
“I… couldn’t sleep,” she admitted softly as she stood to face him, her muslin skirt rustling. “Rhys, I’ve been bored out of my mind. Nothing helps—not the perfumes, not the books. I feel… trapped.”
Her words spilled out, raw and honest. She couldn’t sit still, not any longer. The ache in her chest was consuming her from the inside out.
“I was thinking, could I send invitations to my friends? To come here, to the manor? I need… company.” The tremor in her voice matched her deepening flush.
She needed a sense of familiarity, now that her world felt like it was unraveling.
Rhys furrowed his brow, and his eyes flicked to the letters in his hand, his jaw tightening as he shifted his weight from one foot to another.
“Invitations?” he asked, his gaze darting to the window, beyond which the stables’ roof peeked through budding oaks. “Yes, fine. Tell the footman to send them. I trust your judgment.”
He moved deliberately to the door as he spoke, offering her another smile that didn’t reach his eyes, his boots clicking sharply.
“I have matters to attend to—tenants, the estate. You know how it is.” His tone was brisk.
He put his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave regardless of what she said next.
Celine’s heart sank, her blush fading, her fingers tightening on her reticule.
He’s busy.
Even though her mind was rationalizing his distance, a pang of doubt lingered. His warmth last night, his tenderness, felt so far away.
“Of course,” she said in a soft voice, forcing a smile even though her eyes glistened with unspoken hurt. “Thank you, Rhys. I’ll… I’ll handle it.”
Her words were polite, even though she couldn’t shake the unease that crept into her voice. It almost looked like he was trying to escape her company, but that couldn’t be right. Could it?
He’s pulling away, a small voice in the back of her head whispered, but she ignored it.
He’s just busy.
Rhys nodded, his eyes meeting hers briefly, a flicker of something—regret, perhaps—flashing in them before he turned back. His coat flapped as he strode out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Celine stood alone, the room’s quiet swallowing her, the clock’s ticking louder, her heart racing with a mix of relief and disappointment.
She crossed to the writing desk, ignoring its chipped surface, and pulled out a sheet of vellum, her fingers trembling as she dipped a quill in the inkpot.
The idea of her friends coming to Wylds Estate sparked a flicker of excitement, a chance to break the manor’s stifling quiet, yet her ache lingered.
As she penned the first invitation, her hand trembled, the script faltering as thoughts of Rhys’s hurried exit consumed her.
Tenants, he has tenants that need him.
Still, a whisper of doubt lingered. His urgency felt personal, a retreat from their shared vulnerability last night.
She sealed the letter, her fingers brushing the wax lightly as she heaved a sigh. Her eyes lingered on the roses across from her, their wilted petals a mirror of her inner turmoil.
Things were going to be better once Daphne and Helena visited; they had to.
Summoning the footman in a steady voice, she ordered him to send the invitations, and as the door shut, the silence fell back with more intensity than she had ever felt.
Celine stood in the drawing room, the late afternoon sun filtering through the heavy velvet curtains, casting a warm glow on her sapphire muslin dress, its lace trim brushing her wrists.
The air was scented with beeswax and the faint lavender from her morning’s perfume-making, though the manor’s musty undertone lingered.
“Your Grace.” Eliza bowed as she walked into the room. She was a plump young lady in charge of overseeing the maids. “The guests have arrived. They’ll join you shortly.”
“Thank you, Eliza,” Celine answered.
“There’s no need to thank me, Your Grace.” Eliza blushed furiously as she turned around and hurried out of the room.
Celine’s black hair was pinned in soft curls beneath a delicate cap that framed her flushed cheeks. She tried to keep her anticipation in check as she smoothed her skirt, but her heart wouldn’t stop racing. Somehow, the ache in her bandaged hand had dulled.
The drawing room, with its faded wallpaper and chipped mahogany furniture, felt less stifling now, the clatter of a carriage outside signaling the end of her solitude, no matter how short.
The door swung wide as Dahlia swept in, her curls dancing beneath a feathered bonnet, her green pelisse vivid against the room’s muted tones, mischief glinting in her eyes.
“Celine!” she cried, the excitement in her voice palpable even before she pulled Celine into a hug, her skirts rustling. “This manor is positively gothic—you’re living in a novel!” Her laugh was infectious.
Dahlia always had a way of brightening any room she entered, and Celine soon found herself slowly returning the smile on her friend’s face. Her energy was a stark contrast to Celine’s restless quiet.
Behind her, Helena entered, her hair neatly coiled around her face. She wore an ivory dress that looked almost regal.
“Dahlia, do behave,” she chided fondly, a smile tugging at her lips as she approached Celine, her embrace gentle but firm. “It’s been too long, Celine. I can’t believe you’re just now writing to us.”
Celine’s cheeks flushed slightly as she tried to come up with a reason why she hadn’t contacted her bosom friends earlier. She settled on silence and allowed their gazes to wander around the room.
“Celine, you look radiant, though this place could use polish. How do you manage?” Helena asked, her tone teasing.
Celine laughed, her blush deepening. Her heart soared at their presence. The air felt lighter now.
“I manage by avoiding the dust,” she replied, her tone soft but playful, gesturing to the settee. “Sit, please. More tea’s coming, though the biscuits might be stale.”
Her words were light, the smile on her lips more genuine, but her thoughts still drifted to Rhys—his rushed exit yesterday, the distance that stung despite her assumption of his busyness.
She pushed the thought aside, her friends’ chatter a welcome distraction from her heartache. She didn’t have to deal with her fears now or the strange ache that’s settled in her bones since the conversation with Rhys the other night.
“Celine, you must tell us everything,” Dahlia demanded, excitement coloring her voice.
They settled on the settee, and Dahlia tossed her bonnet onto a chair nearby, her curls spilling free. “What’s it like, being a duchess? How’s marriage treating you? Is your Duke?—”
“Dahlia, shut up.” Helena laughed. “We just got here. Don’t badger her with all your questions.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. Where is the Duke, though? I’d like to thank him for agreeing to our visit.”
Helena nodded in agreement.
Celine’s smile faltered, her heart clenching. “Rhys is… busy,” she said, her voice smaller than she had intended. “Tenants, estate matters. You know how it is.”
She forced a smile.
“But tell me about you, Helena,” she continued. “How is London? Your sisters?”