Page 29 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

“ A h, dearest London,” Rhys muttered as he peered out the window. “How fondly she welcomes us.”

The city was sprawled out beyond the carriage, but Celine did not share the sentiment. They had decided to return to London and spend some time there because she had missed her father.

“You’ve gone pale,” Rhys noted when he turned to her. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a sudden fondness for the countryside. That would be a betrayal.”

She arched a brow. “A sudden fondness for the cold manor and the overgrown gardens? Certainly. London has lost its charm, but one must admire the consistency of the stench. At least it never disappoints.”

He snorted. “Neither does your sarcasm. Are you going to tell me why you look as if you’re headed to the gallows, or shall I guess?”

“I thought you preferred riddles,” she said, folding her gloved hands primly, though her fingers would not stop twisting the cord of her reticule. “Isn’t that why you collect ancient coins and dreadful books?”

“I prefer riddles with solutions.” He leveled those impossible amber eyes at her, then gestured toward the window, beyond which the city lurked like a patient predator.

“You never flinched at the notion of a debut, or a Season, or even an engagement ball. But you’re terrified now.

” He paused, the rattle of the carriage punctuating the silence.

“It’s the wedding, isn’t it? Or rather?—”

“It’s not the wedding,” she cut in too quickly, too sharply.

“It’s everything after. And everyone. They’ll all be there, Rhys.

Every girl who laughed when I tripped in the assembly hall, every matron who whispered about my mother.

Half the ton has waited years to see if I’d expire of shame or simply vanish. ”

His mouth quirked. “You flatter yourself. Some only attend for the food.”

She ignored him, pressing on. “You don’t understand. I am— was —the Stone Cold Spinster. My entire worth was measured by failed suitors and withering remarks. If I so much as sneeze at the wrong moment, Lady Worthing will note it down in her diary and distribute it to the entire city.”

Rhys studied her, the jostle of the carriage throwing his features into flickering planes of shadow and gold.

“You’re afraid of being watched,” he said. “Or rather, of them seeing you for who you are.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she replied, but the words landed flat. “I am perfectly happy with who I am.”

“Then why did you insist on the largest church in the city? The most extravagant invitation list, the loudest announcement? You want them to see you, Celine. You want to prove you’re not a footnote.”

His words stole the air from her lungs.

She looked down at her hands, white-knuckled in her lap.

“When I was sixteen, I attended the Duchess of March’s musicale.

You know, the one with the harpist who fainted from heat?

” She tried to smile, but it faltered. “I wore the only blue dress I owned, and it was the previous year’s fashion.

I spent the entire evening trying not to sweat through the sleeves.

Every time I tried to join a conversation, someone would turn away, as if my breath stank of onions. ”

Rhys leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Did it?”

She glared at him. “Of course not. It was the trend, you see. Only diamonds of the first water could speak freely. The rest of us hovered like gnats.”

He nodded, silent.

“The following week,” she continued, her voice steadier, “I thought to impress Lady Helen with my knowledge of the Greek philosophers—her father kept a first edition of Aristotle in the library. She looked at me as if I’d sprouted a second nose and said, ‘Girls who talk about Plato never dance, Lady Celine.’ And I suppose she was right, because I didn’t. ”

Rhys laughed then, softly. “So you wanted a spectacle. One perfect moment where no one could look away.”

She met his eyes, daring him to mock her. “Yes. Is that vain or tragic?”

“It’s neither. Or both, if you ask the right people.” He shifted, the bench groaning under his weight. “But you forget, you’re not alone in this circus. You married the Wild Duke, remember? I have made a profession of being stared at.”

She huffed. “That’s because you do ridiculous things, like box the Italian ambassador or appear in Parliament with mud on your boots.”

He shrugged. “If you cannot be invisible, you may as well be unforgettable.”

For a long moment, the city grew larger in the window, the Thames a silver wound threading through the smoke. Celine wondered if she would ever feel truly at home there, in a world where every error was magnified and every hope a target.

“You think I’m weak,” she said, half daring him to contradict her.

He shook his head. “No, Celine. I think you’re afraid to want anything, because if you want it, you might lose it.” His gaze was disconcertingly intense. “But you’re not weak, just stubborn.”

She let out a short laugh. “That’s the first true compliment you’ve ever paid me.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “It won’t be the last.”

She watched the city draw nearer, feeling the knot in her chest twist tighter.

“Tell me honestly,” she said, her voice low. “Do you think I’ll make a fool of myself?”

He considered, then shook his head. “No. But if you do, I’ll be there to catch you. Or at the very least, provide running commentary.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Your gallantry is blinding.”

He reached across the cramped bench and caught her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “You’ll be fine, Celine. You always are.”

She squeezed his hand, and for a fleeting moment, her fear subsided. But as the city gates approached, so did the awareness that nothing—no hand to hold, no clever retort—could stop the world from watching.

She looked at Rhys, taking in the set of his jaw and the easy confidence he wore like a favorite coat.

I am not afraid of the ton . I am not even afraid of them watching me. It’s what happens when they stop watching—when they move on and forget, and I am left wanting.

She swallowed, trying to banish the thought.

Eventually, she forced a smile. “If I do something spectacularly idiotic, promise me you’ll make it worse.”

He grinned. “That, Duchess, is my specialty.”

The carriage lurched over the cobblestones, and the city swallowed them whole.

“Absolutely not. I refuse to believe that Lady Armitage danced with Lord Savernake. She’s sworn off men for two years.”

Dahlia punctuated the declaration by stabbing a sugared violet onto her tongue, her lips smudged with lavender.

Celine tried to focus on the ridiculousness of it, the clattering tea trays, the sweet sting of marzipan, the distant laughter of children fighting over candied cherries. But the din of Gunter’s did nothing to drown the awareness crawling along her skin.

She was being watched.

Not by one or two people, but by everyone .

She kept her smile sharp and her posture perfect, her hands folded lightly on the table.

Helena, as always, seemed to read her mind.

“Your posture is so stiff, you’ll shatter,” she said dryly. “Sit back, Celine. You’re making me nervous.”

Celine obeyed, if only to prove that she could. “If I shatter, at least they’ll have something to write about tomorrow. The duchess who crumbled over a petit four .”

Dahlia eyed the room, then grinned. “Let them stare. I would have thought you’d be used to it by now. You married the Wild Duke. If anything, your stock has improved. At least for the scandal sheets.”

Celine snorted. “Is that what you call it? Improved?”

“Certainly. I’d rather be infamous than invisible.” Dahlia lowered her voice. “Though you’re not the only one under scrutiny today. Lady Beeston just ate three slices of honey cake and has the gall to pretend she’s on a tonic fast.”

Helena’s lips curved. “If she’s on a tonic fast, then I’m a Vestal Virgin. Which I assure you, I’m not.”

They laughed, and for a moment, Celine felt better.

But the lull was brief.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two matrons whispering, one gesturing to her hair. A group of girls—barely out of the schoolroom—pointed at her dress, then whispered behind their gloved hands. Even the shopboy behind the counter glanced at her twice, his face pink and curious.

Celine’s confidence, so carefully cultivated, began to wither.

Dahlia poured more tea, all breezy confidence. “You know, I think you could take them on, Celine. If you set your mind to it. Show them a real duchess.”

Celine mustered a smile. “A real duchess would host charity balls and breed greyhounds. I doubt they’d approve of my current hobbies.”

Helena raised a brow. “You’re not planning to poison the lot of them, are you?”

“Only if my new perfume recipe fails,” Celine quipped.

Dahlia cackled, and the sound drew eyes to their table.

Celine felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I think I’ve had enough for today,” she said, standing up so abruptly that she nearly upset the teapot.

Dahlia and Helena followed immediately, as if they had planned a synchronized exit. Outside, the air was sharp with the promise of rain.

Dahlia looped her arm through Celine’s. “Walk with us. I’ll tell you the real story about Lady Armitage and the so-called chastity pledge.”

“I’m certain it’s fiction,” Helena said.

Dahlia grinned. “Isn’t everything in this city?”

They strolled the short distance to the townhouse, Dahlia and Helena keeping up a running commentary on the passersby.

Celine nodded, interjecting when required, but her mind raced with the thought of next week’s wedding, the endless parade of eyes, the impossibility of ever being truly comfortable in her own skin.

At the steps, Dahlia squeezed her hand. “Don’t let them get to you, Celine. They’re just jealous.”

Helena added, “I’d say they’re jealous of your Duke, but honestly, I think it’s your eyebrows.”

Celine barked a laugh. “If only I could weaponize them.”

“You already do,” Helena said. “Go. Rest. We’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Celine said, then watched her friends walk away, their arms linked—a pair of conspirators against the world.

The front door barely closed before Rhys accosted her in the hallway, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smudge of ink on his thumb.

“Back already?” He scanned her face. “You’re flushed. Did Dahlia challenge you to a duel?”

“Not today.” Celine unwound her scarf and dropped it on the side table. “How was your meeting?”

“Excruciating,” he said. “Lord Fenton cannot speak without using at least three metaphors per sentence. I nearly smothered him with the blotter.”

She smiled, just barely. “Resist the urge. I don’t want to be the first duchess widowed by office supplies.”

He watched her for a long moment, then stepped closer. “Something happened.”

“Nothing happened,” she lied. “Unless you count Lady Beeston’s tonic fast.”

“I don’t.” He moved into her space, the scent of ink and leather and him more intoxicating than any perfume she could ever invent. “Was it the ton? Did they say something?”

She shrugged. “They stared. That’s what they do.”

Rhys frowned, and a muscle in his jaw flexed. “Next time, I’ll come along and stare back. I can outstare all of Mayfair.”

“I doubt that would help,” she said, but the thought amused her. “You’d be mobbed before the tea cooled.”

He grinned, but it faded fast. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Not everything is a crisis, Rhys,” she said, trying for lightness. “It’s just… odd, being back. I’ve grown accustomed to Wylds. There are fewer people, and most of them ignore me. It’s peaceful.”

Rhys furrowed his brow, but then he took her hands, warm and solid around her wrists. “If you prefer Wylds, we can return after the ceremony. Or never leave again, if that’s what you want.”

She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

He tilted her chin up. “Tell me, Celine.”

She faltered, the urge to confess everything almost overwhelming. Instead, she clung to the half-truth. “I just feel like a different person here. I can’t tell if it’s better or worse.”

He considered, then nodded. “I know the feeling. I hate London.”

She laughed, surprised. “You do not.”

“I do,” he insisted. “Full of ghosts, and everyone wants a piece of you.”

That struck her deeply. “Yes.”

He pulled her closer until she could feel the steady rhythm of his heart. “We’ll face them together. Or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to the country.”

She snorted. “Don’t you dare.”

“Tempting,” he said. “You’re light as a feather.”

She smacked his arm, the familiar banter loosening the knot in her chest. “Now you’re just trying to flatter me.”

He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “You’re not alone, Celine. Not ever.”

She believed him. Or wanted to.

He kissed her, gentle at first, then with a hunger that left her breathless. She melted into him, the weight of the city and its watchers forgotten for one glorious moment.

When he pulled away, his smile was pure mischief. “Feel better?”

Celine nodded, dizzy. “Marginally.”

“We can try again, if you’re not convinced.”

She shook her head, laughter bubbling up and carrying the last of her fear away. “No need. You’ve made your point.”

He brushed a thumb across her cheek. “Then we’ll be all right.”

She wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe that she could outrun her doubts, her need for approval, the sinking suspicion that she would never be enough.

But for now, she was enough for him.

And that, for the moment, was everything.