Page 25 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)
Chapter Eighteen
C eline leaned over a peony blossom and sniffed it, then she shook her head, her brow furrowed. “I am not quite in the mood for peony today, and I doubt Dahlia and Helena are either.”
She straightened and continued down the cobbled path. With Dahlia and Helena sleeping off the excitement of their journey, she’d slipped outside in search of something that had yet to have a name.
It was a perfect day to find scents for them. She ran her hand over one of the blooms, and a thorn pricked her finger. With a gasp, she pulled her hand away quickly as a memory flashed through her mind—of Rhys bandaging her hand.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered. “I’m here to make scents for Dahlia, not moon about like a fool.”
She was in the act of plucking a particularly fragrant rose blossom when she caught movement ahead, just beyond the moss-choked fountain.
Rhys stood with his back to her. He didn’t move, and he looked as if he’d been standing there for hours.
For a moment, she considered sneaking away, but the sight of him—so still, so alone—rooted her to the spot. She wondered if he knew she was there.
“If you’re going to run, try not to get caught in the brambles. I would hate for you to ruin your shawl.”
Celine froze. He hadn’t turned around, but he knew she was there.
She steadied herself, mustering a smile that he couldn’t see. “I wasn’t running. I was—” She glanced at the rose in her hand. “Well, I suppose my shawl is too fine to be ruined.”
Now, he turned around slowly. He looked tired, with a dark shadow along his jaw. And yet the lines around his eyes softened when he saw her, as if the garden had conjured him from a gentler world.
They stared at each other, caught in that strange, endless moment. Celine’s pulse thundered, and she gripped the rose, then promptly stabbed herself with another thorn.
Rhys moved first, his eyes darting to the flower in her hand. “Planning to start your own war with the roses, Celine? Ignoring advice I gave you?”
She lifted her chin, refusing to be embarrassed. “I was hoping to steal a bit of the garden’s magic. I want to make a scent for Dahlia and Helena. Your roses are… untamed, but they’re the best I’ve ever come across.”
He quirked a brow, as if the idea of anyone seeing beauty in the estate’s neglect amused him. “You’re the first person in five years to compliment the gardens. Most say that it’s a disgrace. My father’s legacy.”
She almost said, You’re nothing like your father, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she shrugged. “If I wanted perfect, I’d have stayed in London.”
His gaze flickered, and for a moment, he seemed on the verge of saying something. But it passed, and he fell silent again, his eyes wandering to the thicket of rosebushes.
“My mother planted these,” he said, his voice low. “Every year, she’d plant a new variety. She always dreamed of having a girl. Planned to name her Rose. Instead, she got me.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Celine’s chest tightened. She thought of her own mother, gone before she could ask the important questions, and suddenly she saw Rhys not as a duke or a rake, but as a boy who’d grown up in a mausoleum of old regrets.
“Rose is a beautiful name,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He looked at her sharply, as if she’d said something profound. But then he rolled his shoulders back, the movement breaking the spell.
“You should probably return to your friends,” he said too lightly. “They’ll wonder what happened to you. Or worse, suspect you’ve run off with the gardener.”
She scoffed, affecting nonchalance. “You’re trying to send me away, Duke. That’s a first. I thought you enjoyed tormenting me.”
“On the contrary.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, and for a heartbeat, the air between them crackled.
She grinned, emboldened by his slip. “Dahlia and Helena are sleeping. I doubt I could wake them with a cannon. Unless you plan to set the east wing on fire, I’m safe from their scrutiny.
” She tried to keep her tone light, but couldn’t help adding, “It’s odd, actually.
The only time I ever see you anymore is by accident.
Do you haunt the rosebushes often, or am I just unlucky? ”
Rhys tensed, his smile dropping. “The estate keeps me busy. Tenants, repairs, creditors.” He looked away, his jaw tight. “You’re free to enjoy the gardens. I won’t disturb you again.”
The finality in his words stung more than she cared to admit. She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it, unwilling to plead for his attention.
Why is it easier to fight than to ask him what’s wrong?
He’d already turned back to the roses, his hands tucked behind his back, his shoulders rigid.
She watched him, searching for any sign that he wanted her to stay. When none came, she picked her way along the overgrown path, her heart pounding, unsure if she was angry at him or herself.
Only when she’d reached the edge of the gardens did she risk one last look over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved.
It was then that she realized Rhys wasn’t busy. He was hiding .
“Your Grace, are you really going to walk by without so much as a nod to your wife?” Dahlia’s voice carried across the lawn, bright as the daffodils.
Celine, perched on a bench between Helena and Dahlia, flushed. She had been watching Rhys for ten minutes as he inspected a broken balustrade along the east terrace, all the while pretending she hadn’t noticed him at all.
Now, with a suddenness that made her jump, he strode over, his boots silent on the damp grass, his navy blue coat immaculate, his hair barely tamed. For all the world, he looked like the perfect gentleman. Except that his jaw was tense, and his smile, when it finally came, was thin as paper.
“I was under the impression that the Duchess required no supervision,” he said, sketching a shallow bow. “But I see that she’s fallen into the clutches of Society’s two most notorious troublemakers.”
Helena arched a brow. “Notorious? I protest. I am a model of decorum, Your Grace. Unlike some, I haven’t been ejected from three card rooms in a single week.”
“Only three?” Dahlia leaned forward, her green eyes glinting. “What a disgrace. I expected more from the Wild Duke.”
Helena shook her head, though she hid her smile behind her hand. “The card scandal was in last year’s Chronicle , Dahlia. Do try to keep up.”
They ganged up on him with an ease that made Celine’s heart twist.
In the sun, Rhys’s amber eyes sparkled with a warmth she hadn’t seen in days, and he was quick with his retorts, letting the two ladies probe and tease him as if he’d known them since birth.
“If you think to restore my reputation by trouncing me at cards, I warn you that my luck has turned,” he said, seating himself on the low wall beside them, his hands relaxed in his lap. “But I will play, if only to spare my wife the humiliation of further defeat.”
“I’ve never been humiliated at whist,” Celine sniffed indignantly. “You’ve never even played against me.”
He smiled at her—really smiled, dimples and all—and for a split second, she forgot the ache in her chest.
“Is that a challenge, Duchess?”
She returned his smile, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach. “If you’re brave enough to face a lady’s luck, then yes.”
Cards appeared out of nowhere—Dahlia’s doing, of course—and soon the four of them sat around a cast-iron table, the breeze blowing loose strands of hair into Celine’s face, which she ignored, unwilling to miss a moment.
The game began with Dahlia’s usual flair for drama, tossing her cards with a theatrical flourish. Helena played quietly, her eyes never missing a trick, her lips twitching at Rhys’s attempts to bluff.
But it was Rhys who surprised Celine. He was charming, witty, and an endless well of funny stories and gentle mockery.
He told a tale about losing a fortune at faro in Vienna, only to win it back by impersonating an Italian count at a masked ball—she suspected it was only half a joke—and the way he told it had even Helena laughing out loud.
Celine found herself studying him when she was sure he wouldn’t notice, searching his face for the cracks in his mask.
He never looked at her longer than was polite, but she caught him twice glancing at her while she studied her hand, and once when she was reaching for a biscuit, her fingers brushing the plate a half-second before his.
The contact was brief, accidental, but she felt it in every inch of her being.
Is this who he really is? Or is it all for show?
By the third round, Celine was winning, and Dahlia was scandalized.
“This is highway robbery,” Dahlia protested, slapping her cards down. “She’s fleeced us both, Helena. I demand justice. Rhys, say something!”
Rhys lifted his glass—he’d brought a decanter of sherry for the ladies, though Celine noticed he barely touched his own—and said, “I would, but I’m busy being humiliated, as promised. I’d have better odds wrestling the cook’s mastiff.”
Helena tilted her head at Celine. “See what you’ve done? The Duchess will become insufferable now.”
“She’s always been insufferable,” Dahlia said fondly, “but now she’s also rich.”
Celine, flushed and giddy from victory and the sun, hardly noticed the time passing. She felt lighter than she had in weeks, almost herself again. Until, with no warning, Rhys set his cards aside and stood up.
“I’m afraid duty calls,” he said, gathering his coat. “Cranston’s threatening to burn down the western orchard if I don’t meet him by noon. Do save me a biscuit, won’t you, Celine?”
She nodded, but by the time she found her voice, he’d already crossed the lawn. She watched him go with a sinking feeling in her gut.
“Go after him,” Dahlia whispered, her voice too low for Helena to hear. “If you don’t, I will. And you know how I am with dukes.”
Celine rolled her eyes, but her heart was beating out a rhythm that begged her to listen. She rose, mumbling an excuse, and hurried after her husband. But by the time she reached the end of the path, he was nearly at the gate, his stride unhurried but determined.
She knew she should let him go, but the words tumbled out anyway, clear and bright in the morning air.
“Rhys!”
He didn’t turn around, but his shoulders tensed slightly, as if bracing for impact.
Celine wanted to say a hundred things all at once. She wanted to tell him that she missed him, that the mask he wore for the world was too convincing, that she wasn’t sure she would ever get used to being shut out of his heart.
Instead, she watched him disappear, sure he had heard her call out his name.