Page 30 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)
Chapter Twenty-Three
C eline stared at the massive mahogany door as she stood rooted to the faded blue carpet, as if she were no more than a ghost, doomed to haunt this exact spot for eternity.
The hallway behind her was empty, echoing, but she knew somehow that every room off this hallway held a secret that belonged only to her.
She reached for the doorknob, but her hand would not obey.
“You have to open it,” said a voice, as warm as late summer.
She turned, startled, and saw Rhys standing behind her, dressed not as a duke but in the linen shirt he wore only when reading in bed. He looked at her with a half-smile—no mockery this time, just a calm confidence that she envied.
“I don’t want to,” she said, but her voice came out smaller, the words strange in her mouth.
“Isn’t that the point?” He stepped closer, careful not to touch her. “If you wait forever, you’ll never know what’s inside.”
Celine wanted to argue, to tell him that she knew, that she’d always known, but his eyes—dark, impossible—were so steady that she could only nod.
He gestured, as if granting her permission, and the old anxiety unfurled in her chest, slow and slick. She took a single step, then another. The doorknob was cold, but when she turned it, the door yielded with surprising ease.
From inside, she heard the music again. Louder now. Her mother’s voice was unmistakable, humming a tune she’d sung to Celine every night until the day she died. It was as if time had looped back and resurrected her for a single, perfect moment.
Celine smiled and let herself be swept inside.
It was not her mother’s bedchamber as she remembered, but a forest. The trees were tangled and lush, the sunlight filtering through the dense green canopy. The air buzzed with the scent of moss and rain.
She looked back, hoping to see Rhys or the safety of the hallway, but found nothing—only endless forest, stretching in every direction.
The music faded, replaced by the howling of the wind and the distant thunder.
Celine called out, uncertain whether she meant to summon her mother or Rhys. “Where am I?”
No one answered.
She turned in a slow circle, searching for any path out. The forest deepened, shadows crowding closer, until it was impossible to tell which direction she had come from.
She began to walk, forcing herself forward, though every instinct screamed for her to hide.
Somewhere far away, her mother called, “Celine! Come here, darling.”
Celine ran, her skirts catching on thorns, branches clawing at her arms. “Mama!” she cried, trying to follow the voice.
“Celine,” her mother called again, but this time her voice was wrong, contorted by pain and fear.
The trees thickened. The green faded to black. There was only the sound of her own breathing and the brittle snap of twigs beneath her shoes.
“Where are you?” Celine whispered.
“I’m here, darling. Don’t go.”
She wanted to turn back, but the path had vanished. Panic rose in her chest. She tried to run, but the trees pressed in, blocking every step.
And then, suddenly, her mother’s voice changed. Not a song anymore, but a cry. Then a scream, raw and jagged, echoing the memory that had haunted her sleep since childhood—the night her mother died, the night her brother was lost before he could draw breath.
She clapped her hands over her ears, but it did nothing. The screams were inside her, old and endless.
“Please,” she sobbed, crumpling to her knees on the cold ground. “Please stop. I can’t ? —”
Above her, the trees seemed to loom closer, their trunks shifting into the shapes of a hundred watchful eyes.
She looked up and saw her mother’s face, pale and distant, floating just beyond reach.
“Don’t go,” Celine begged. “Please don’t ? —”
The world stilled, as if holding its breath.
Then, she heard Rhys, clear as day, his voice slicing through her terror. “Celine, come back to me.”
She opened her eyes, and the forest vanished, replaced by the soft dark of her bedroom and the sensation of arms—real, solid arms—wrapped around her, holding her so tightly that she could barely move.
She was soaked through, her hair plastered to her scalp, her chest heaving with sobs she could not contain.
“It’s all right,” Rhys murmured into her ear. “You’re safe.”
She wanted to answer, but the words lodged in her throat. He pulled her closer, if that was possible, and rocked her gently, murmuring nonsense—her name, fragments of old nursery rhymes, things she had not heard since she was a girl. His heart thumped steadily against her temple, slow and strong.
She let the sound anchor her. She gripped his shirt with both hands and gasped for breath.
“Was it a nightmare?” he asked, his chin rough against her hair.
She managed a nod. “I… I thought I’d lost you.”
He smiled, the expression half hidden by the dark. “It would take a great deal more than a nightmare to get rid of me. I’m annoyingly persistent, you know.”
She choked out a laugh, then a sob, then another laugh. “You’re infuriating.”
“So you’ve told me.” His hand rubbed small circles on her back, as if smoothing out the fear with each stroke.
She pressed her face into his chest and breathed him in—leather, ink, a hint of tobacco. “Thank you for staying,” she whispered.
He shrugged, though she could feel the movement as much as see it. “You called my name. I came.”
There was something unguarded in his voice, a roughness that suggested he, too, knew this kind of darkness.
“Do you have them?” she asked. “Nightmares?”
He was quiet for a beat, then answered, “Sometimes.”
She waited, but he said nothing more.
She wanted to ask what haunted him, what left him hollow in the mornings, but she understood the rules of old pain: you never pressed.
She wrapped her arm around his waist, suddenly desperate not to lose the warmth.
“Would you—” She cut herself off, uncertain if it was too much. “Would you stay the rest of the night? I don’t want to be alone.”
He drew back enough to look at her, the faintest grin stretching his lips. “I have an appointment at dawn with the ledgers and a particularly vengeful auditor, but if you command me to abandon my duties, I suppose I’ll be forced to obey.”
She rolled her eyes, then sobered. “I’m not commanding you. I’m asking you.”
He leaned forward and kissed her, soft and sure. “Then I’m here, Duchess. For as long as you want me.”
She closed her eyes and let herself fall into the quiet, the safety of his arms. For the first time since childhood, she dreamed of nothing.
The next afternoon, Celine opened the door to Rhys’s study and poked her head inside, taking in the evidence of his early industry: a half-empty pot of coffee, an open ledger, and Rhys himself, hunched over a letter, his dark brows furrowed in a scowl so severe that it was almost comical.
She cleared her throat and entered with a flourish, her hands tucked behind her back. “If you frown any harder, your face will stick that way,” she observed, coming to stand just opposite his desk.
He looked up, surprised, and the severity in his expression melted away.
“Lord,” he said, tossing the letter aside. “I was rather hoping the scowl would frighten the creditors into forgiving the debts and returning what I had already repaid.”
“Did it work?”
“Not in the least.” He rose and rounded the desk. “But perhaps it will frighten you into pitying me. What brings you to my den of despair?”
She tried for insouciance, but her heart was doing a reckless tarantella in her chest. “I am here to collect on a promise, actually.”
“Oh?” He drew closer, his eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Which one? I seem to recall making several last night, some of them in a state of undress.”
She nearly choked, then narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re incorrigible.”
“You married me.”
Celine produced, with great ceremony, a single sheet of paper from behind her back and unfolded it in front of his nose. “You said you’d help me fulfill every item on my list. I am here to hold you accountable.”
He plucked the page from her hands, ignoring her attempt to snatch it back.
“I am a man of my word,” he announced, reading with exaggerated care. “Let’s see: attend a masquerade ball, no one knowing it’s you. Wear that dashing green dress and a French perfume. Kiss a gentleman.” He frowned. “Have we not already done that?”
She blushed. “You’re not supposed to pay attention to that.”
Rhys drew her close, his gaze holding hers in that electrifying manner that never ceased to send her heart racing. “Shall we do it again?”
“Rhys—”
He was kissing her before she could finish.
“Now, shall we continue?” He laughed, his dimple threatening to undo her entirely. “Swim in the Serpentine—bold, but hardly criminal.”
“Rhys, I don’t think you should be reading that aloud.”
“Why not? Do not tell me that you are still embarrassed by something you penned yourself.”
She lunged for the paper, but he held it above her reach, delighting in her struggle. “Give it back!”
“In a moment.” He scanned the list, his lips twitching. “Swim in the Serpentine. Now, this is properly rebellious. You realize the water is likely lethal?”
“All the best things are,” she said, putting her hands on her hips.
He laughed again, holding the page between two fingers as if it were a particularly interesting artifact. “You’re determined to tarnish my reputation, aren’t you?”
She snatched at it again, this time catching his wrist and holding it fast. He grinned, then softened as he looked at her— really looked, in the way that sometimes made her feel like the only person in the world.
“You’re trembling,” he noted.
“I am not,” she lied. “I’m simply… eager.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “Is this about last night?”
She bristled, ready to deny it, then stopped. “Yes. Or perhaps about all the nights before it.” She loosened her grip on his wrist but did not pull away. “I want to do something. Anything. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
His eyes were serious now, the playful edge tempered by something deeper. “You were never afraid, Celine. Not really. You’re the bravest person I know.”
She scoffed. “You haven’t met many people, then.”
He caught her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Let’s prove it, shall we? What do you want to do first?”
He signed the bottom of the page with a flourish and presented it to her, official as a royal proclamation.
“There. A binding contract between the Duke and Duchess of Wylds, to commit acts of mild to moderate wickedness together, so long as we both shall live.”
She took the sheet, trying not to smile. “You realize the servants will gossip if you keep reading my list aloud?”
“They already do,” he said, waving off her concern. “Besides, if you are to be the Wild Duchess, you ought to give them something worth talking about.”
Her mouth quirked. “Very well. I’d like to swim in the Serpentine.”
A very slow, very wicked grin spread across his face.