Page 34 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

“Should we not linger here, where less attention is upon us?” Celine asked, aware that half the room was watching her.

Not having Rhys by her side had her nerves tightly wound.

“It’s practically required,” Dahlia said. “If you refuse, Lady Harrington will declare that you are crippled.”

Celine, feeling emboldened, let herself be led away.

“So,” Dahlia murmured as they wove through the crowd. “Where is your wolfish Duke?”

“He’s—” Celine almost said unavoidably detained , but the words caught in her throat. “He’s always late. I expect he’ll come to collect me when the scandal reaches critical mass.”

Dahlia squeezed her arm. “Are you all right, truly?”

Celine nodded, then shook her head, then shrugged. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I feel as if I’m on display. I don’t want to fail in front of all these people.”

Dahlia laughed and tossed her copper curls for the sake of the ton. “Fail? You’re the only woman here who has not tripped, blushed, or insulted someone’s embroidery. You are an inspiration. Watch this—” She pointed at Lady Harrington, who was very obviously pretending not to watch Celine.

“Do you think she’s plotting my murder?” Celine muttered.

Dahlia considered. “No, but she might challenge you to a duel at dawn.”

Celine managed a real laugh, the first since she’d entered the ballroom. Helena and Lydia joined them, and soon Celine was surrounded by her friends, all of them outshining the debutantes and drawing the eyes of every eligible man in the room.

She was too busy keeping up with Dahlia’s jokes to worry about Rhys, or the stares, or the future.

But several minutes later, reality crept back in. Helena took her aside as the others headed toward the refreshments table.

“You’re holding up well,” she remarked. “But your hands are shaking.”

Celine looked down, surprised to find it was true. “I keep expecting him to walk in,” she admitted. “And every time the door opens—” She couldn’t finish.

Helena patted her arm. “He’ll come. And if he doesn’t, we’ll scandalize the city without him.”

Celine mustered a smile and let herself be led back to the refreshments table, where Lydia and Eliza waited with another glass of orgeat and a plate of candied orange peel.

Lady Harrington materialized at Celine’s elbow, her face a perfect mask. “Such a pity that your Duke is missing this spectacle,” she purred. “Do you think he’s gone to the dogs? Or perhaps another woman?”

Celine turned and met her stare head-on. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Lady Harrington, that as the Duchess of Wylds, I outrank not only you but also your husband and your entire family. One would be wise not to make an enemy of a duchess.”

Helena choked on her drink. Dahlia bit down a laugh so fierce that she had to look away.

Lady Harrington’s smile remained, but her eyes went cold as a fishmonger’s cart.

“I shall remember that, Your Grace,” she said, then stalked off.

Celine watched her go, feeling a surge of vindication. But then the momentary exhilaration crashed, leaving her with nothing but fatigue and an ache behind her eyes.

The evening blurred on. There were more dances, more conversations, more rounds of congratulation or thinly veiled envy. The ton orbited around her, drawing closer with each pass, as if testing to see whether she would crack.

She did not. But as the night deepened and the doors remained closed, her smile became harder to maintain. She found herself checking the entrance between every set, her fan fluttering faster, her hands white-knuckled on her reticule.

Helena and Dahlia remained at her side, but she could feel her composure cracking with each minute. It was as if the world had conspired to keep Rhys away, to see how long she could last before she shattered.

She made it until midnight, and then she excused herself, just once, for air. The hallway was blissfully empty. She pressed her forehead against the cool marble and let herself feel the disappointment that had chased her all night.

He wasn’t coming. Or if he was, it wouldn’t matter anymore. She had survived the ball, but it felt like a hollow victory.

After a moment, she straightened, adjusted her tiara, and returned to the ballroom. She smiled, she laughed, she danced again, and not one person there would ever know how close she had come to breaking.

You are a duchess now . You must be twice as strong as any man who would leave you standing alone in a crowd.

She lifted her chin, summoned a bright smile, and stepped back into the light.

She held herself together for another hour, maybe two, performing as a duchess ought to.

She even managed to laugh at Dahlia’s jokes, to banter with Helena and Eliza, to smile through Lord Bering’s third attempt at conversation—though by now, she suspected he was only speaking to her to satisfy a dare.

All the while, her eyes kept drifting to the entrance, catching on every tall figure, every flash of dark fabric, searching in vain for Rhys.

At the stroke of one, the musicians launched into a waltz so overripe with longing that Celine thought her ribs might crack from the pressure. She finished her orgeat, set the glass down, and turned to her friends with a smile that even she knew was brittle.

“I must excuse myself,” she said, careful not to let her voice tremble. “All this grandeur is making my head spin.”

Lydia reached for her hand, concern softening her features. “Do you want someone to come with you?”

“No,” Celine said. “I think if I breathe the same air as Lady Harrington for another moment, there will be blood on the parquet.”

She smiled, and the others returned it, but she could see they were not fooled.

She swept out of the ballroom, her skirts swishing like angry waves, and ducked into a side hallway. The hush was immediate, the air sharp and cool.

She walked blindly, turned a corner, and found herself on the narrow balcony that overlooked the garden. Here, the night was dark and indifferent, the city’s glow visible only as a thin line over the hedges.

She leaned on the stone balustrade, her fists clenched so tight that her knuckles ached. For one perfect moment, she let her shoulders sag and her jaw unclench. She closed her eyes, willing herself to just… breathe.

That was when she heard the voices. Three men, somewhere on the terrace below, their laughter muffled but their words clear in the hush.

“She’s not so bad, is she? Wylds could have done worse,” said the first one, a voice she recognized vaguely from the House of Lords.

“Not if he wanted an heir,” replied the second, dry as gin. “Heard he swore a blood oath never to breed. Can’t imagine she’s thrilled by that arrangement.”

A third man cackled. “More likely, she’s grateful. I’d sooner bed a scorpion than marry into that family. The old Duke nearly strangled his own son at the Christmas hunt, you know.”

The first man snorted. “Wylds only married that chit because he needed a wife. Despite his vow to his father.”

“And he deliberately chose the most unsuitable lady in all of London,” added the third with a theatrical sigh. “Still, she’s prettier than the last. If you’re into ice sculptures.”

Laughter ensued, quick and mean, then the scrape of heels as the men wandered away.

Celine’s body went rigid. She stared out into the darkness, her breath thick in her throat, her hands glued to the stone. Her mind reeled.

Of course, they would say such things. Of course, the ton would slice her open in absentia. Of course, her marriage was the punchline to every ugly joke in London. But to hear it so baldly, to have it confirmed without pretense…

She gripped the balustrade so hard that her palm stung. For a second, she thought she might snap it off and hurl it into the garden. Instead, she forced herself upright, smoothed her skirt, and walked back inside with the slow, dignified steps of a condemned queen.

Ice crept into her heart, which had been warming to Rhys’s charm, walling it away.