Page 33 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)
Chapter Twenty-Six
“ H as His Grace returned yet, Mary?”
Celine’s voice, clear but edged, startled the lady’s maid, who paused in the midst of pinning a sapphire drop to her mistress’s earlobe.
“No, Your Grace,” Mary replied, smoothing a wisp of hair from Celine’s brow. “Mr. Grayson says that the Duke left before dawn for the tenant farms. He hasn’t sent word yet, but I expect he’ll?—”
“He won’t,” Celine cut in, glancing at her reflection in the mirror.
The dress fit perfectly: midnight velvet, shaped to her waist and draping in scandalous folds to the floor.
Rhys’s blue.
The color was bold, more suited to an actress or a courtesan than a duchess at her debut ball, and precisely the statement she imagined Rhys meant her to make.
She reached for the letter on the vanity, the one he’d left her the night before, and ran a finger along the still-sharp crease.
Mary, sensing her mood, busied herself with the last touches. “Shall I fetch the tiara now or after?—”
“Now,” Celine said, her eyes fixed on her own face, searching for something that might hold through the night.
Mary obliged, retrieving the velvet box from the dresser and opening it with the care of a priest unwrapping relics. The tiara gleamed, a line of sapphires and diamonds set in white gold, somehow both delicate and barbaric.
“It will sit best here,” she said, arranging Celine’s curls with practiced precision before setting the crown in place. “There. Perfect.”
Celine smiled thinly. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mary. If I fail to conquer the ton tonight, it won’t be for want of armaments.”
Mary curtsied, a real smile breaking through. “You’ll do fine, Your Grace. Better than fine.”
But Celine saw her glance at the door, the unspoken question hanging in the air. She turned away, peering through the vanity’s reflection at the dark hallway, half-expecting to see Rhys swagger in, all careless charm and snide remarks, here to poke fun at her nerves.
Of course, nothing moved in the hall but the ghost of her own expectations.
A brisk knock rattled the silence. Mary darted to answer, returning with Mrs. Hargrove in tow.
“Your Grace,” the housekeeper said, bowing with more formality than Celine recalled from her childhood. “A note for you. From His Grace.”
Celine accepted the sealed envelope, her fingers betraying a tremor. She broke the seal and read:
Estate matters detained me. Will arrive at the ball before the third quadrille. Try not to maim Lady Harrington before I get there. – R.
Celine exhaled, half-relief and half… what? Disappointment?
She crushed that thought and folded the note with methodical care, tucking it into the little beaded reticule she intended to carry.
“He’s not coming,” Mary guessed, her tone soft.
“He’ll come,” Celine said, but her voice lacked conviction. “Just not for the dull parts. Which is to say, everything until midnight.”
She swept a hand along her skirt, smoothing imaginary creases.
Mrs. Hargrove eyed her with an expression that seemed to say, You’re braver than you look, child . Then, seeing herself dismissed, she swept out, Mary following behind.
Left alone, Celine stared at herself in the mirror.
The woman looking back was not the Celine who had once hidden in the eaves at country balls, or the one who had slunk through the back hallways of Wylds House to avoid her mother’s ghost. She was new, untested, a duchess in every line but not yet in truth.
She took a deep, deliberate breath, exhaled through her nose, and studied the effect: the crease at her brow smoothed, her jaw unclenched.
“It’s just the ton,” she said to the silent room. “It’s just every person who ever wished you ill, every debutante who whispered your name with malice, every man who ever thought you less than enough. You survived them once. You will again.”
She rose, gathering her reticule and gloves, then reached for the perfume bottle Rhys had placed on the dressing table. It was her own formula, a mix of rose and tobacco and the faintest edge of bergamot. She dabbed it along her throat and behind each ear, as if to armor herself in the scent.
Then, she adjusted her tiara, feeling the pinch of pins against her scalp, and straightened her spine. She looked taller, older, her eyes cold and clear, though her stomach rebelled with every second that passed.
She stepped into the hall, where Mary waited with her wrap, and let herself be led down the stairs and into the carriage that would deliver her to the slaughter. The footman shut the door with more force than necessary. Perhaps he, too, sensed the occasion.
As the carriage lurched away from the house, Celine closed her eyes, letting the motion steady her nerves. She reached inside her reticule and thumbed the edge of Rhys’s note, feeling the promise in its jagged, hurried script.
I am not afraid . I am the Duchess of Wylds, and I will not be made small. Not tonight. Not ever again.
The carriage rattled on through the dark, and she braced herself for whatever waited on the other side.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Wylds,” the majordomo announced with a flourish as Celine walked into the ballroom.
She heard the sharp intakes of breath, the flutter of fans, then the cascade of whispered rumors traveling at the speed of venom. She braced herself and began the long walk across the ballroom, past knots of gentlemen in glossy black and ladies draped in sorbet silks.
Each step was measured, confident. Her mother had always said, “It is not the lion that rules the jungle, but the lioness who keeps her stride unhurried when all else flees.” And so Celine did not rush.
She smiled at acquaintances who did not quite remember her name, at debutantes who eyed her with blatant envy, at dowagers who pursed their lips as if already composing tomorrow’s letters. She smiled at them all, her mouth so fixed that she feared it might snap.
The first to approach her was a gentleman who had once, years ago, tried to court her in the most literal sense by leaving a bouquet of dead violets at her door.
“Your Grace,” he intoned, bowing deeply. “I must congratulate you on your stunning ascension. The ton is, dare I say, agog.”
“How fortuitous,” she said, raising her brows. “I so rarely have the pleasure of causing mass hysteria. Tell me, Lord Bering, how fares your wife?”
He flushed, muttered something about his wife being in Kent, and then excused himself so quickly that he nearly collided with Lady Harrington, who was next in the feeding line.
She wore a dress of such lurid yellow that it ought to have been outlawed. She took Celine’s hand and squeezed it, the very image of predatory benevolence.
“Your Grace. Alone tonight? I daresay the Wild Duke is busy, hm?”
Celine slipped her hand free and let her smile sharpen. “I expect His Grace is detaining a horse thief or wrestling an escaped boar. The country is so full of exciting wildlife.”
Lady Harrington tittered, but her eyes narrowed. “Such strength in adversity. You have adjusted quickly, Celine. I would have thought you’d be overwhelmed.”
Celine arched a brow. “Overwhelmed? No. The view is rather improved from the top, don’t you think?”
Lady Harrington blinked, then withdrew, her smile as thin as gruel.
Celine let herself breathe, just once, before being swept into the tide of conversation.
A pair of elderly viscounts congratulated her on her “good fortune.” A matron commented—twice—on the depth of her dress’s neckline.
Celine accepted the remarks with the grace of someone quietly drowning, all the while scanning the doors for Rhys, who was, of course, nowhere to be seen.
At last, an oasis. Lady Eliza Ashford and Mrs. Lydia Wentworth stood by the refreshments table, both sipping orgeat and observing the crowd with the air of expert ornithologists. Celine made her way to them, her heart thudding with relief.
“Eliza,” she called, mustering a genuine smile. “You look positively dangerous tonight.”
Eliza, clad in emerald-green satin and armed with a quizzing glass, grinned and pulled her into an embrace. “Celine! At last! I feared the London gossips had eaten you alive.”
“They tried,” Celine said. “But I’m hard to digest.”
Lydia offered her hand, her smile gentle but knowing. “You’re brave to come alone,” she praised. “The ton is rabid for news of you.”
“Rabid is the correct word,” Eliza confirmed. “You’ve been the talk of every drawing room since the banns were read.”
Celine cast a glance over her shoulder, lowering her voice. “Do you think they’ll notice if I drown myself in punch?”
“Only if you’re unsuccessful,” Lydia murmured.
Celine almost laughed. Almost.
“Lydia,” she said, changing the topic. “How are the children?”
Lydia’s face softened. “Robert has taken to dressing as a pirate and terrorizing the staff with a wooden sword. Leah refuses to wear anything but pink muslin. Marcus tried to ride the neighbor’s goat, but was—regrettably—unhorsed.”
The thought of Robert as a pirate and Marcus as a tiny, indignant equestrian set something right in Celine’s chest, at least for a moment.
“You’ll have to bring them to the manor when the weather is warm. I miss them terribly.”
Lydia beamed. “We’d love to.”
A familiar voice called from behind, “Is it true that you are undefeated at cards, Your Grace, or is that a legend invented by the scandal sheets?” Dahlia, radiant in sapphire silk and clutching a reticule shaped like a pineapple, swept into their group with Helena in tow.
“Dahlia!” Celine clasped her hands, grateful for the reinforcements. “If it were a legend, you’d be the one to start it.”
Dahlia affected wounded pride. “I am a source of only the highest accuracy. Helena, wouldn’t you agree?”
Helena, immaculate in ivory with a fan half-concealing her smile, nodded. “Dahlia is notorious for never exaggerating.”
“Precisely,” Dahlia said, then took Celine by the arm. “Now, I must borrow the Duchess for a moment. She owes me a turn about the room.”