Page 3 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Two

EARLIER THAT NIGHT

“ Y ou simply must meet my daughter, Your Grace!” Lady Compton’s voice trilled over the violins, her gloved hand tugging Rhys through the glittering throng.

Her ostrich-feathered mask bobbed as she gestured to a giggling debutante in pink muslin, whose eyes widened at his approach.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Rhys offered, his voice as smooth as his black velvet mask, though his eyes flickered with impatience.

The ballroom’s chandeliers cast a golden haze over the dancing couples, the air thick with the scent of rosewater, wax, and ambition.

Another mama, another simpering miss.

His broad shoulders tensed under his tailored coat. He’d rather be anywhere but here.

“Oh, Your Grace, you look divinely dashing tonight!” the debutante—Miss Compton, presumably—gushed, her fan fluttering like a trapped bird. “That mask, so mysterious! And your coat—such elegance!”

“Thank you,” Rhys replied, his smile practiced. “You’re too kind, Miss…?” he trailed off, feigning interest, though his mind screamed for escape.

The matchmaking mamas had scented blood—a duke, unmarried, and newly returned from the Continent.

He was their prize, and he loathed it.

“Miss Amelia Compton,” she said, blushing furiously. “Might I have the honor of a dance?”

“Perhaps later,” he replied, bowing slightly, his dark brown hair catching the candlelight. “I’m parched and must seek refreshment.”

He sidestepped her, ignoring Lady Compton’s indignant huff, and wove through the crowd, his athletic frame deftly avoiding another mama’s grasp.

“Your Grace, my niece—” began a matron in a peacock mask.

Rhys flashed her a disarming grin, cutting her off. “Another time, Madam.”

He moved on, the clink of champagne glasses and the rustle of silk grating on his nerves.

Love, marriage—what nonsense.

There was no love found in the union between a man and a woman. He’d learned that truth early on, his heart hardened by a childhood of cold control and a mother’s meekness.

Yet duty gnawed at him. His tenants, his villages, were crumbling under neglect. He needed a wife to secure his inheritance, but the thought repulsed him.

For them, not me .

His gaze snagged on a figure in emerald silk, weaving through the crowd with a grace that bordered on defiance.

Her dress, cut daringly low in the continental style, hugged her petite frame, and a heady scent—jasmine and amber, bold and un-English—trailed her.

Her black lace mask concealed her face, but her posture screamed rebellion.

She’s seeking attention.

Rhys’s lips curved.

A calculated play, no doubt.

Intrigued, he watched her dodge a suitor with a sharp word, her voice edged like a blade.

Not a simpering debutante, then .

His interest was piqued, but the crowd closed in again.

“Your Grace!” a familiar voice boomed.

Rhys turned to face Lord Ashford, his host, whose crimson mask accentuated his silver hair. A close friend of his late father, his presence carried a weight of expectation.

“Still playing the rogue, I see. Flirting with every lady but committing to none.”

Rhys’s smile tightened, his social mask firmly in place. “I’m merely enjoying the evening, Ashford. No need to rush fate.”

“Rush?” Lord Ashford’s bushy brows rose. “You’re a duke, Harken. Your estate needs stability, not scandals. Stop toying with these girls and choose a wife. Your father would’ve had you wed by now.”

Rhys’s jaw clenched, his father’s shadow—cold, controlling—looming in his mind.

“My father’s wishes no longer bind me,” he said coolly, “but I’ll choose in my own time.”

An unsuitable bride, perhaps, to spite his father.

“Your tenants deserve better. I know you’re hard at work, but you need your inheritance to make things better.

Settle down, man, before you lose more than your reputation.

” Ashford frowned, undeterred, but his voice was softer than his expression.

“Since you’re constantly refusing matchmaking attempts, then at least sit still and let love find you. ”

The words stung, hitting the core of Rhys’s duty.

His villages were deteriorating. His people were suffering. His father had made sure that the only way he accessed his inheritance was by taking a wife. Only then would he have more than enough money to help his people.

Marriage was the key, but love? A fantasy he’d never indulge.

“I hear you,” he said, his tone clipped. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—I need air.”

He slipped away before Ashford could press further, dodging another debutante’s hopeful smile.

The ballroom’s heat, the cloying perfumes, the weight of expectation—it was all suffocating.

He needed solitude, a moment to clear his head.

Spotting a velvet-curtained hallway, he moved swiftly, his boots silent on the parquet. The library beyond promised quiet, a refuge from the ton’s relentless chatter and pursuit.

He was wrong.

Present

The doorknob rattled, men’s voices growing louder, and Rhys’s instincts kicked in.

He couldn’t be caught alone with an unwed woman. Not now, not when his title and crumbling estate demanded a strategic marriage. The mysterious lady in the emerald-green dress, her jasmine-and-amber perfume still clouding his senses, stood frozen, her blue eyes wide behind her mask.

No time to think.

Rhys scooped her up, his arms strong from years of riding and fencing, and carried her toward the heavy velvet curtains by the tall windows, all while ignoring her gasps.

“Unhand me at once!” she hissed, her petite frame squirming against his chest.

“Quiet, or we’re both ruined,” Rhys muttered.

He slipped behind the curtains and pressed her against the cold stone wall, the fabric cocooning them. The men’s voices—slurred, drunken—spilled into the library as the door creaked open.

“How dare you!” she whisper-shouted, her breath hot against his ear, her body rigid under his.

Her silk dress rustled, every inch of fabric somehow managing to brush against his coat. The tension lit a spark inside him, small, easily killed once he left her presence.

Rhys clamped a hand over her mouth, his amber eyes locking onto hers. “Stop talking,” he mouthed, his lips barely moving, his face inches from hers in the dim moonlight filtering through the window beside them.

Her warmth seeped through his shirt, her curves pressed against his chest, and his pulse quickened despite himself. The spark burned a little brighter, his heart flipping every time he caught her stern glare.

No scandal, not now .

He could almost hear his father laughing at him, mocking him from his grave. The former Duke had always believed his son could do nothing right.

I need a wife, not ruin.

“She ran this way, I swear,” one man slurred from the library’s center, his boots scuffing the rug. “I can smell her perfume. She must have been here. That green dress—God’s teeth, what a vision.”

The woman glared harder, her eyes blazing from behind her mask, as if she was psychically trying to set him on fire.

Ouch!

Her teeth sank into his hand. Rhys stifled a grunt, his jaw tightening as he pulled his hand back and shook it slightly.

“Feisty little thing, aren’t you?” he whispered, his tone a mix of irritation and amusement. He leaned closer to keep them hidden. “Fine, but know this: if we’re found, we both go down.”

“Actually,” she whispered back, “no one, not even you, knows who I am. I can’t say the same for you, Your Grace.” Her tone dripped with defiance.

Her breath warmed his cheek and somehow sent a chill down his spine at the same time.

Rhys’s lips twitched, his rakish charm battling his need for control. “Bold words for a lady hiding behind a mask. You think I’m the only one at risk? A scandal would clip your wings, whoever you are.”

“Wings? Let them be clipped,” she scoffed, her voice low but fierce, her body still pressed against his, the velvet curtain brushing their shoulders.

“I’d rather run free than be a bird with wings caged by the ton’s rules—or by a rake like you, notorious for his…

exploits.” She whispered the last word like it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

He bristled, her jab hitting a sore spot. His adventures across Europe, flaunted to spite his cold, controlling father, now haunted him, whispered about in every ballroom.

“My exploits?” he echoed, his tone mock-offended. “Careful, My Lady. You sound jealous.”

“Jealous?” Her laugh was a soft, incredulous huff. “Of what? The parade of women foolish enough to fall for your charm? I’d wager no respectable lady would marry you after your… prodigious indiscretions.”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed, her words stinging more than he cared to admit.

“You wound me,” he murmured, his voice teasing but edged with sincerity. “I’m looking for a wife. You know, my inheritance remains inaccessible to me till I get married. Duty calls, even for a rake. But you—what’s your game? Not hunting for a husband, are you?”

Her silence was telling, her body tensing against his.

The men’s voices drifted closer, their boots clomping toward the upper gallery.

“Found nothing down here,” one grumbled. “Let’s check the shelves up there.”

Celine’s gaze flicked to the stairs, then back to Rhys, her whisper fierce. “I have no interest in marriage, if that’s what you’re fishing for. Unlike you, I don’t bow to duty or desperation.”

“No?” Rhys’s brow arched, his voice a soft challenge. “Then why the dress and perfume? You’re no mere debutante playing at rebellion. You’re… something else.”

Intrigued by her defiance, he searched her gaze. That sharp wit cut through his usual careless charm.

Not a simpering miss.

His interest deepened. She was a puzzle, one he wanted to solve.

“Something you’ll never understand,” she shot back, her voice trembling with suppressed fire. “Now, let me go before I scream and ruin us both.”

“Scream?” He chuckled. He lowered his face slightly, his breath warm against her ear. “You won’t. No matter how much you want to spite the ton, you’re as keen to avoid scandal as I am.”

His hand hovered near her arm, not touching but close.

“Aren’t you, My Lady?” he asked as he pulled away, his eyes meeting hers.

This time, she did not glare at him. She bit her lip, the small action drawing his gaze and somehow holding his attention.

Everything about her was intoxicating. Tension brewed between them, crackling like a storm.

The men’s laughter echoed from the gallery above, their slurred banter about the “elusive lady” growing fainter.

Celine shoved against him, her palms firm on his chest. “They’re moving on,” she whispered. “I’m leaving. This was a mistake.”

Rhys stepped back, releasing her, but his eyes held hers, a spark of curiosity flickering.

“A mistake? Or an adventure?” he murmured, his tone teasing but softer now, as if testing her.

She adjusted her mask, her movements brisk, her voice cold. “Call it what you will, Your Grace. I’m done here.”

She slipped out from behind the curtains, her emerald-green skirts swishing as she darted toward the door, her perfume lingering like a taunt.

Rhys watched her go, his heart pounding with an unfamiliar thrill. As he stepped forward, his boot nudged something on the rug—a dance card, its edges worn.

He crouched, and picked it up, his amber eyes scanning the elegant script. But instead of the names of dance partners he had been expecting, it was detailing a daring list of challenges. His brows climbed higher with each line, a slow smirk curving his lips.

What secrets are these?

His pulse quickened. The list was bold, reckless, a litany of defiance that intrigued him more than any debutante’s smile.

Then, he saw it—a crest embossed at the bottom. The Woodsworth lion and rose.

His smirk widened, a predatory edge to it.

“The hunt begins,” he murmured, tucking the parchment into his pocket.

The Stone Cold Spinster, Lady Celine Huntington, was hiding a far more intriguing side than gossip had ever suggested.