Page 28 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Twenty-One

“ L ook at you. God above, you’re a disgrace!” His father’s voice thundered over him, filling the marbled hallway.

Rhys stared at the floor, clutching his slate and books to his chest. He knew better than to answer. He was only eight years old, but he had ruined everything.

“I asked you a question, boy. Are you deaf as well as useless?”

Rhys shook his head, then realized that was wrong too and whispered, “No, Sir.”

His father’s hand shot out, twisting his ear so fiercely that he tasted metal at the back of his throat.

“What do you call this?” he demanded, dragging him down the hall by that single burning bit of cartilage.

They passed a footman, who flinched and pressed himself against the wall.

Rhys said nothing. He knew what “this” was: a smear of blue-black ink spreading like a bruise across his starched white cuff. He’d blotted the quill wrong, panicked, and then tried to rub it clean with spit. The mess only grew.

His father shoved him into the study, and the door slammed shut with a bang that made Rhys jump. His ear burned, his eyes burned, and his whole body felt smaller than it had five seconds ago.

The Duke pressed both palms to the edge of his desk, looming over Rhys like a judge preparing to pass sentence on him.

“Do you know why I punish you?”

Rhys’s lips trembled. “Because I made a mess?”

The Duke’s lip curled. “Because you’re my son.

” He leaned in so close that Rhys could smell the wine, the cigar, the expensive soap that never seemed to wash away the anger.

“And because one day, God help us, you will be a duke. And if you cannot even keep your shirt clean, you will never be fit to bear my title.”

He turned away as if disgusted by the sight of him, then paused.

“On your knees,” he ordered. “Now.”

Rhys dropped, clasping his hands together to stop them from shaking.

“Next time you embarrass me, you’ll kneel on rice until you remember your place.”

The Duke twisted his ear once more for good measure, then stalked out, the scent of him lingering long after he was gone.

Rhys stayed where he was, kneeling, staring at the ink stain blooming on his sleeve, until the light faded and the cold crept in.

He woke up in the dark, gasping, sweat plastering the sheets to his chest. It took him a full minute to remember that he was no longer eight, that the house was his now, the power and the memory both.

He kicked aside the sheets and swung his legs to the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs like it meant to punch a hole through. He pressed a palm to his face and groaned, low and rough.

He found his dressing gown by the window. The sky was neither black nor blue, but some miserable in-between, the world undecided whether to start over.

There would be no sleep now.

He opened the window, tasted the bite of spring chill, and breathed as deeply as he could. The nightmare clung to him like smoke.

He needed to walk.

He didn’t bother with boots or a cravat. He padded barefoot down the stairs, avoiding the spots that creaked, though there was no one awake to mind. Past the empty morning room and the locked study, past the lingering ghosts of old servants who had never dared to meet his eyes.

The back hall was shadowed and cold, the flagstones numbing his feet. He pressed on, letting the chill punish him for a while.

Outside, dew had already formed on the grass. He kept to the path, his shoulders hunched against the air, his mind a blank slate except for the white-hot flare of his father’s voice, the sting in his ear.

He wandered, unseeing, until the ground began to slope upward. Only then did he realize where his feet had carried him.

The family mausoleum waited at the hill, stone and iron, nothing lovely about it. Only a madman would keep the dead so close. But that was his father’s doing, not his. He’d kept them here on purpose, as if proximity to the dead would keep the living in line.

Rhys had buried his father himself. Not by choice, but because the undertaker was a coward and the vicar was a drunk, and someone had to do it right.

He remembered lowering the casket, the satisfying thud it made when it hit the dirt.

He’d made certain the stone above was plain and alone, on the opposite side of his mother.

He found himself drawn to it now.

Rhys stood at the grave, his jaw tight and his nails digging into his palm, staring hard at the inscription: Bentley Alexander Harken, 8th Duke of Wylds, 1746–1810.

Nothing more.

He cleared his throat, not sure who he was talking to—his father, or himself, or the cold stone in between.

“You got what you wanted,” he muttered. “The name. The line. The control.” He let out a shaky laugh. “But it’s over. I won’t have it on my hands, too.”

He stared at the blank slab, rage and relief and regret twisting inside him.

“I know what you wanted from me. I know you spent every day trying to sear it into my bones. You broke her for it. You nearly broke me. But you’re not here anymore— I am. And I decide what happens next.”

He knelt, digging his toes into the dewy grass, refusing to let his voice shake. “I will see this place restored. I will put it right, every tenant and fence post and leaking roof. But the rest… the rest dies with you. I won’t chain anyone else to this name, not like you did. Not ever.”

He sat back on his heels, breathing hard, feeling the damp soak through his dressing gown. The words tasted like blood and freedom.

“You said I’d never be fit to bear your title, and you were right. I don’t want it.”

He rose, pressed a hand to the stone, and let the chill of it numb him to the core.

“Goodbye,” he said and then turned away, leaving the old man to rot in silence.

The sky was brighter now, the edge of sunrise creeping up the far hedgerow. Rhys squared his shoulders, wiped his palms on his dressing gown, and made his way back to the house, each step lighter than the last.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or should I expect to be thrown into the moat?”

Celine’s voice trailed down the narrow hallway, half-muffled by the silk scarf tied across her eyes. Rhys led her by the hand.

“You’re safe enough,” he said. “There’s a dry patch of land I’ve reserved for wayward duchesses.”

“Is it near the dungeons, or will I have to pass through the kitchens first?” Her tone was a mixture of curiosity and challenge.

She had never learned to be properly cowed, not by him, not by anyone. He found it endlessly infuriating, and perhaps the only reason he had managed to keep her this long.

They wound past the scullery, then through the creaking door that opened into the old conservatory, its glass roof sparkling in the early sun. He steered her gently to the right, guiding her along the edge of a large, cloth-draped object.

“Just a bit further,” he urged.

She huffed. “If you’re walking me into a wall for your own amusement, I’ll have the cook serve you boiled tripe for a week.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Your sense of direction, on the other hand…”

She jabbed him in the ribs with her free hand, and he grinned despite himself.

“All right, Duchess. Now, don’t move.”

He let go, stepped behind her, and made a show of fussing with the knot on her blindfold.

“You’re making a mess of my hair,” she protested, but then she went still, her lips pressed into a thin line.

He untied the scarf and let it fall, but kept his hands over her eyes for a moment longer, just so he could feel the rapid flutter of her lashes against his palms.

“If you’ve led me all the way here to propose a duel at dawn, I—” She stopped as he lowered his hands.

Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if her mind couldn’t quite make sense of what she was seeing.

The small sunroom—abandoned since before his birth—had been emptied of furniture, save for a single long table set against the far wall.

Atop it gleamed rows of bottles, some clear, some shaded blue and green.

There were glass rods and tiny silver spoons, a set of ceramic mortars, flasks of cut crystal, and three hand-bound ledgers arranged just so.

At the center, on a velvet pad, sat a brass still—delicate, precise, and unmistakably expensive.

“You bought me a laboratory,” she breathed, incredulity tipping every syllable. “A proper one.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’d never call it that,” he said, folding his arms. “It’s merely a place for you to make a proper mess of the items in this house without ruining the main hall.”

She stepped forward, running her fingers over the gleaming still, then the ledger, then the neat arrangement of vials.

He cleared his throat. “The shopkeeper said that the alembic is French, but he’s a notorious liar. The crystal is from Bohemia. The ledgers are for your notes. Or your poetry, I suppose, if you fancy yourself tragic.”

She spun around, and he saw her expression—vulnerable, her eyes wet, her mouth a soft curve.

“You remembered,” she croaked. “Everything I told you in London—about the scents, the stories, the way I wanted?—”

“—to drown your enemies in jasmine, yes. I listened.” He tried to keep his voice light, but it came out strange, rougher than he meant.

She blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek. She swiped at it, annoyed. “It’s just… I never thought you actually heard me.”

Rhys shrugged, all bravado. “If you’re going to weep every time I buy you something, this marriage will bankrupt me.”

She laughed, but the sound was shaky. “It’s perfect. It’s—no one has ever?—”

He cut her off with a kiss. It was brief, but she tasted like hope and oranges, and he wondered if she had already made a batch of morning perfume.

She stepped back, her eyes narrowed. “Wait. Is there an ulterior motive? You’ve never given me a gift without expecting some grand humiliation in return.”

He feigned innocence. “I simply want you to be happy.”

Her brow arched. “Liar. What is it?”

“Fine,” he conceded. “You’ll need to invent a scent that strikes terror in the heart of Lord Julian Ashford. He’s coming in a week, and I want the pleasure of watching him suffer.”

She giggled, running her hand along the row of vials. “You do realize he’s entirely immune to olfactory distress. He once drank a bottle of cheap gin that had gone bad.”

Rhys tried for a stern look and failed. “At least make me something I can wear to Parliament. If I have to endure another session surrounded by the Earl of Wembley’s essence of musk , I’ll need an antidote.”

She picked up a vial, uncorked it, and sniffed. “Hm. Tobacco and vetiver. You could do worse.”

“I usually do.”

She glanced up, lips curved in a secret smile. “I’ll make you something new. Something no one has ever worn.”

He leaned against the table and folded his arms, watching her move from instrument to instrument. “If you burn down the manor, I’ll have no choice but to blame you in court. But you may use the kitchen maids for experiments, provided you return them unharmed.”

She flashed him a grin. “You’re a terrible man.”

“True, but I have impeccable taste in wives.”

She sobered, tracing the edge of the brass still. “Why did you do this?” she asked, so quietly that he almost didn’t hear her.

He stared at her for a moment, then said, “Because it seemed a shame, having a duchess who could outwit most chemists in London, and giving her nothing but roses to play with.”

She looked away, but not before he saw the flush on her cheeks.

He let the moment stretch, then reached for her hand and tugged her close.

“You’re certain you’re not a romantic?” she asked.

He snorted. “God, no. I’m an utter scoundrel. But if I were, I’d say you deserve to have everything you ever wanted and more.”

She touched his jaw lightly. “You are… impossible.”

He kissed her again, more deeply, until she melted into him.

When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers and whispered, “Make me something that smells like you.”

She laughed, and he thought he could listen to that sound for the rest of his life.

He wondered, dangerously and achingly, if there was anything in the world he wouldn’t give this woman.

The thought tightened his chest, as fierce and as bright as his longing.