Page 27 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Twenty

C eline’s heart pounded so furiously that she wondered if Rhys could feel it. He was standing so near, their bodies almost touching.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, he gently pressed his forehead to hers, as if trying to memorize her. His hands slipped from the wall and cradled her arms, the pressure so gentle that it nearly undid her.

Celine wanted to reach for him, pull him closer, but she held back, waiting, because if she moved—if she let herself want this—she feared what might come out of her mouth.

He pulled back just enough so she could see his face, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes—those impossible, wounded eyes—dark with a need she recognized too well.

He sighed, a sound so resigned that it made her chest ache, and straightened. The connection broke.

He turned away from her, his shoulders tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“No,” she blurted, the word slipping out before she could think.

He froze, one foot already toward the door, his back to her.

“Wait,” she called, louder this time.

He stood so still that she thought he might shatter. “Don’t,” he said quietly, not turning around.

But she wasn’t done. Not after everything. Not after finally understanding what it was that she wanted.

“What if I don’t want a marriage of convenience?” Her voice trembled, but she pushed on, reckless now, bold on the edge of disaster. “What if I want to break the rules, too?”

His hands flexed at his sides, but he didn’t move.

She stepped toward him, emboldened by his silence. “Rhys, look at me.”

He turned around slowly, his face tight, as if he was already grieving what he would do next.

She reached for his hand. “You said if you let yourself have me, you’d never be able to stop. What if I don’t want you to stop?”

He stared at her, stunned, as if the words were a foreign language. Then he was moving, surging forward so quickly that she barely had time to gasp before his arms wrapped around her and his mouth claimed hers.

It was nothing like the gentle, careful touches from before. It was wild, desperate, all the things he’d warned her about—his control obliterated, his longing unmasked.

He kissed her as if it was the only way to breathe, as if she was the only thing anchoring him to the world. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him closer, and let herself melt into the heat of him.

He broke away only to rest his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged, his hands framing her face.

“Thank God,” he muttered, his voice almost a growl.

She laughed breathlessly. She was surprised to find herself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in ages.

He kissed her again, softer this time, reverent, as if trying to apologize for all the weeks of keeping his distance. She gripped his waistcoat, her fingers digging into the fabric, unwilling to let him slip away.

When he finally let her go, he stepped back only as far as he had to, his hands lingering on her arms.

“Are we quite mad?” she asked, her voice shaky, searching his face for regret and finding none.

He shook his head, a crooked smile breaking through. “Utterly. And I intend to be much worse tomorrow.”

She wanted to laugh again, to tease him, to say something clever, but she could only stare, overwhelmed by the rush of emotion—need, relief, hope.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she managed.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then, just barely, the corner of her mouth. “Good night, Celine.”

He pulled away reluctantly, but left the door open behind him.

She pressed a hand to her lips, as if to trap the kiss there forever.

Her heart finally slowed, and she wondered how she would ever sleep tonight.

Where is she?

Rhys’s boot tapped against the morning room’s parquet floor. He’d never been one for patience, but today his nerves vibrated with the memory of last night—Celine in his arms, her lips pressed against his, the paper walls of their marriage burning to the ground in a single, glorious instant.

Now, he couldn’t even sit still for breakfast. He checked the door again. Where in God’s name was she?

He stabbed at a currant bun, splitting it with unnecessary violence.

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed half past nine.

He’d ordered breakfast late on purpose, to give her time to rest, but the longer the door stayed closed, the more convinced he grew that she’d woken, remembered herself, and built their old rules back up, brick by brick.

Stop it, you have work to do.

He lasted another minute before calling the butler.

“Grayson,” he said, trying for a tone of ducal command and missing by a mile. “Is the Duchess well?”

The butler kept his gaze fixed somewhere over Rhys’s left shoulder. “I believe Her Grace is enjoying a rare morning of leisure, Your Grace. Shall I have her tray sent up?”

“No,” Rhys said, then realized how that sounded. “I mean, yes, but—” He rubbed a hand down his face. “Never mind. I’ll take it myself.”

The butler blinked, as if Rhys had just announced he was eloping with the cook. “Very well, Your Grace.”

Five minutes later, armed with a silver tray and the last shreds of his dignity, Rhys knocked on the door to the Duchess’s suite. Only to be met with silence.

He balanced the tray on one palm and let himself in. Her bedchamber was flooded with morning light, pale and cool, a stark contrast to the shadows of last night.

Celine lay in the middle of the enormous bed, utterly motionless except for a few curls escaping her cap, fanning across the pillow like dark ribbons.

For a moment, he thought she was still asleep. He watched her for a long beat—she looked years younger, peaceful, her hands tucked under her cheek, her lashes dark against her skin.

Something in his chest tightened. Was this the same woman who had once threatened to set fire to his boots if he ruined her best hat?

He cleared his throat. “Celine?”

She stirred, her eyes still closed, burrowing deeper under the coverlet. Her hand reached blindly for the edge of the bed, missed, and then landed squarely on his wrist as he set the tray down.

“It’s indecently early,” she mumbled, her grip tightening when she realized it was him.

“It’s quarter to nine,” he said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. “The estate waits for no one.”

She cracked one eye open. “You brought breakfast? Is this an apology for last night or a bribe to keep me from telling Mrs. Hargrove that you’re sneaking sugared rolls?”

He grinned. “Both.”

She sat up, drawing the coverlet around her shoulders, and blinked at him. The sight of her—hair tangled, face flushed from sleep, lips still a little swollen from his kiss—nearly undid him.

He sank onto the bed beside her, fully dressed, and reached for her hand. “How do you feel?”

She arched a brow. “Is this an inquiry about the state of my heart, or a prelude to discussing my constitution?”

“Both,” he admitted.

She took the proffered cup of coffee, sipped, and made a face. “Bitter as sin. Just how you like it.”

He nudged her shoulder. “I would’ve added cream, but I was afraid you’d accuse me of coddling you.”

She smiled, faint but real, and sipped again. “Last night was… unexpected.”

He nodded. “It was.”

They sat in silence, a rare thing between them. Rhys found himself wishing he could bottle this moment—her leaning against his shoulder, both of them teetering on the edge of something new and terrifying.

She picked up a bun, tore it in half, then set it down again. “Are we supposed to talk about it?”

He considered. “I don’t know. I’ve never been married before. And I’ve certainly never…” He paused, uncertain how to say it.

Never wanted anything so bad .

But the words stuck in his throat.

Celine twisted a curl around her finger. “I’d rather not talk. At least, not yet. I’d like to pretend, just for one morning, that everything is perfectly, horribly normal.”

He took her hand and squeezed it. “I can do normal.”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes sharp and searching. “You’re terrible at it, Rhys.”

He grinned. “Practice makes perfect.”

She snorted, the sound unladylike and beautiful, and reached for the tray again. “I’ll need sustenance if I’m to endure your attempts at propriety.”

He reached out, snatched her bun, and popped it in his mouth. She gaped at him, affronted, then whacked him with a pillow.

They dissolved into a ridiculous, breathless scuffle, buns rolling to the carpet, pillows flying, both of them laughing so hard that Rhys thought he might never regain his composure.

It felt like the most dangerous thing in the world, them laughing together.

When he finally relented, she was sprawled across his lap, her hair falling loose around her face. He brushed it back and tucked it behind her ear.

“Come with me,” he said.

“To where?”

He stood up, pulling her to her feet. “You’ll see.”

She groaned. “If you are about to introduce me to a dead animal or a tenant with some sort of rash, I will murder you.”

He led her down the hall to the small sitting room that connected their bedrooms, barely used since their arrival. Sunlight poured in, warming the battered settee and the low table he’d insisted be set there the night before.

He motioned for her to sit, and she did, looking confused.

He fetched the tray and set it between them, then poured more coffee for them both. “I thought you’d prefer something less… formal than the morning room.”

She eyed him warily. “You’ve been up all night planning this, haven’t you?”

He shrugged. “Not all night.” Only most of it.

They sat, their knees nearly touching, and Rhys found himself unable to look away from her. He didn’t want to.

Last night, he had been half-certain she would vanish. He had almost decided he had misread the whole thing. But now, in the morning light, Celine seemed even more herself—wry, impossible, and his .

He watched her spread butter on a scone, then stop, frowning at her handiwork.

She caught his stare. “You know, most men would ask their wives about their embroidery or their day or some such. Not just sit there and gawk.”

“I could watch you butter scones for hours,” he said.

She flushed and looked away, but he saw the smile she tried to hide.

They ate in companionable silence for a while. He watched her, noting the way she arranged her jam before applying it, the way she dipped her spoon twice before tasting her coffee. He found it oddly endearing.

He found all of her endearing, which was the real problem.

He finished his plate and leaned back. “Tell me something. Are you planning on spending every morning in bed, or was that just to avoid me?”

She eyed him over the rim of her cup. “If you keep bringing breakfast, I see no reason to ever leave.”

“Then I’ll just have to join you,” he murmured, and was rewarded by a bright blush that colored her entire face.

She finished eating.

He was stacking the empty plates when she said, “Rhys?”

He glanced up. “Yes?”

She fidgeted with her napkin, the look in her eyes uncertain. “Is it true what you said? That you’ve never… let anyone in before?”

He stiffened, surprised by her question. Then, he nodded, unable to lie to her. “It’s true.”

She looked down, tracing a pattern on the tablecloth. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I used to think I’d never want this—never want someone so much that it would hurt.” She hesitated. “But I think I do. With you.”

He stared at her, the words taking a moment to sink in.

She wanted him. Not just the arrangement or the security, but him.

He was seized by a ridiculous urge to scoop her up into his arms, to promise her the world, to do everything his father had warned him never to do.

Instead, he reached across the table and took her hand, threading their fingers together.

They sat there, saying nothing, the world quiet but for the ticking of the hall clock.

Celine let him hold her hand, and that felt like a victory.

After a long silence, she asked, “Did you ever want children, Rhys?”

He considered. “No. Not after… everything. But if you did—if you do?—”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe someday.”

“That’s enough,” he said.

They lingered, neither willing to break the moment.

She finally pulled away, collected the dishes, and carried them to the sideboard. He watched her move, admiring the graceful lines of her shoulders, the way she hummed under her breath, just loud enough for him to catch a phrase or two.

He stood up, went to her, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She jumped, surprised, then leaned back against him, her hands resting on his.

“Is this normal?” she asked.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Not in the least.”

She laughed, warm and real. “Good. I hate normal.”

He spun her around and kissed her again, knowing he would never get enough of her, not if he lived to be a hundred.

When a knock sounded at the door, he didn’t move, and neither did she.

It was the butler, hovering with his usual impeccable timing. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. You’re wanted in the study. A matter that requires your attention.”

Rhys released Celine but kept her hand in his. “Tell them I’ll be down shortly, Grayson.”

The butler bobbed his head and retreated.

Rhys turned to his wife, his smile lazy. “Duty calls. Again.”

She pulled her hand free and adjusted her cap, the color high in her cheeks. “Go be a duke, Rhys. I’ll be here.”

He went, but not before stealing one last kiss.

In the hallway, he found himself grinning like a schoolboy, the taste of her lingering on his lips.

As he strode toward the study, he wondered whether this was what hope felt like. If the answers he was seeking were within his reach.