Page 36 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

C eline sat in her father’s morning room, watching a pair of sparrows fight over the cracked edge of the sundial, neither of them winning, both of them too stubborn to quit.

She had not set foot beyond this room all morning. It was easier to sit in her old wingback, embroidery pooled in her lap, and let the hours pass in silence.

The creak of the door was all the warning she got before her father entered.

Edmund Huntington wore the same battered morning coat and lopsided cravat he had favored since Celine’s infancy. The years had stolen most of the color from his hair, but not from his eyes, which surveyed her now with a precision that missed nothing and forgave little.

He did not bother with the usual pleasantries. “My dear, would you like to explain why the butler has had to refuse entry to the Duke of Wylds four times in as many days?”

Celine kept her gaze on the garden. “I suppose he is persistent,” she said, looping her thread through a stem of satin-stitched yarrow.

Her father crossed the carpet, tugged at the edge of his spectacles, and sat in the high-back chair opposite hers. “Persistence is one thing. Standing in the rain for an hour and a half, arguing with the footman about whether or not the Duchess wishes to be disturbed, is quite another.”

She braced her thumb against the embroidery hoop, careful not to let the linen quiver. “I have nothing to say to him.”

Her father made a show of considering this, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“It’s unusual for a newlywed to decamp to her father’s house before the ink on the marriage license has dried.

” He squinted, as if the right angle might reveal her secret.

“Is there a particular reason you’ve chosen to ignore your husband’s requests to see you? ”

She jabbed the needle through the fabric. “I doubt he wants anything more than to congratulate himself on his cleverness.”

Her father’s brow rose. “You suspect a trick, then.”

“I know a trick when I see one.”

He sat back, folding his hands over his waistcoat. “Celine, your mother and I had our share of quarrels. You recall, I’m sure.”

She did recall—the way her mother’s voice could cut through stone, the weeks of glacial silence, the sudden thaws that came in the form of rare, impromptu picnics in the rain.

She remembered her father’s hollow-eyed retreat to his books, his desperate, fumbling apologies delivered in the language of ancient philosophers. She’d learned to read Greek not from tutors, but from the margin notes he’d scribbled in every volume.

“Of course I remember,” she said.

He steepled his fingers. “What you may not remember is that we never went a day without talking to one another. Even at our lowest, we never gave up on the conversation.” His voice softened, thickening at the edges. “A marriage can survive almost anything, Celine, except silence.”

She stared at the garden, the sparrows now circling each other in a sullen, feathery orbit.

“I’m not interested in salvaging what isn’t there,” she said, the words spilling out like acid.

Her father leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You were always the cleverest girl in the house, but cleverness can be a shield as well as a sword.” He let the words sink in, searching her face for signs of surrender.

She refused to give him the satisfaction. “And what would you advise, Father? That I sit across from him at dinner and pretend nothing has happened? That I smile and nod and let him continue his little war with his dead father’s memory, using me as his proxy?”

His mouth opened as if to object, but he closed it with a click. He shifted in his chair, fidgeted with his watch chain—a sure sign of distress.

“I am only saying that the longer you go without speaking, the harder it becomes to start again,” he said, staring at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger. “Your mother was the most infuriating, glorious woman I’ve ever known, but even she understood the value of a well-timed word.”

Celine’s fingers tangled in the embroidery floss, her own words locked behind the ice around her heart.

Her father blinked rapidly, the old pain flaring behind his spectacles.

“I miss her every day.” He coughed, then straightened, his voice tightening back to the familiar academic drone.

“Which is why I am so determined not to see you follow the same path. You are not your mother, Celine, and Wylds is not me. Whatever his flaws, he clearly cares enough to stand in the rain and risk pneumonia for a five-minute audience.”

She nearly laughed at that. “He’s not in love with me, Father. He’s in love with being contrary. With proving that he can outlast the world.”

Her father snorted. “That may be. But it seems to me that two people who pride themselves on never giving in might spend their lives circling the same patch of ground, too stubborn to move closer, too frightened to break away.”

She stabbed the needle into the yarrow’s heart and left it there, trembling.

Her father watched her in silence, then reached across the narrow table and covered her hand with his own. His skin was papery, but his grip was fierce.

“I would like to see you happy,” he said quietly. “If that means letting Wylds go, so be it. But don’t let pride rob you of the chance to find out what could be salvaged.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He patted her hand, let go, and stood up. He paused at the door, as if searching for a final lesson to impart.

“I was never good at this,” he admitted. “But I know you, Celine. You are stronger than you think, and kinder than you let on. Don’t spend your life regretting the words you never said.”

He left, and Celine sat very still, feeling the warmth of his hand slowly bleed from her own. She stared at the garden until the sparrows flew off in different directions, defeated by their own endurance.

For a long time, the only sound was the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, counting out the seconds between decision and regret.

Celine lifted the embroidery hoop, found the thread snarled and useless, and let it fall to her lap.

She did not cry. She did not even close her eyes. She only sat, letting the silence draw itself tight around her, and wondered if this was how it began for her mother—if this was how the distance grew, fiber by fiber, until the only thing left was the memory of what might have been.

He was never going to love me.

Celine was lost in that thought when Mary entered, carrying a silver tray. There was a folded letter on it, sealed with blue wax.

Mary didn’t ask permission; she set the tray on the tea table. Then, with a glance at the empty cup, she poured Celine a fresh cup.

“It’s from His Grace,” she said, her eyes fixed on her work. “The boy at the gate says he’s been there since six.”

Celine stared at the letter. “Tell him I don’t want to read it.”

“Oh, but he had departed, Your Grace.” Mary’s mouth twitched. She set the teacup precisely in front of Celine, then gathered the tray and headed for the door. She turned and added, “Should I add this one to the rest?”

Celine nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Mary left, and Celine sighed. A moment later, however, Mary returned with a stack of letters that she put on Celine’s lap.

“What is this?” Celine asked, startled.

“His Grace has written every day,” Mary said. “For each time he called and was refused.” She bent close, her voice soft. “I have an inkling that a certain stubborn duchess is denying herself what she truly wants.”

Celine blinked up at her.

Mary gave a small, conspiratorial smile. “You know I am often right.”

With that, she left.

Celine stared at the letters. Her fingers shook as she untied the knot and opened the first letter.

Celine,

I won’t waste words on apologies. I know I have done something to injure you, but I cannot fix it if you will not tell me what it is.

I only wish to speak with you. Please, just five minutes.

There are things I never explained about the night of the ball.

About why I was late. It was not a slight, I swear it.

If you refuse me, I’ll come back tomorrow. I’m not above making a fool of myself in front of your father.

Rhys.

She reread it, her lips pressed tight, then set it aside and reached for the next.

Celine,

It’s raining, and I forgot a hat, which you would find funny if you were here. Your father’s footman nearly threw me bodily out of the hall.

I’ll say it plainly, since subtlety never got me anywhere with you: I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t even tie my cravat straight. I am not myself without you, and I do not wish to be.

If you read this, I beg you—speak to me. Let me fix it.

I know you are angry. You are allowed. But I am allowed to be sorry.

Rhys.

The penmanship on this one looked worse, as if he’d written it while pacing, or kneeling on a bench, or holding the page against his knee. Her breath caught in her chest, and she shoved the letter under the first one, as if they might contaminate each other.

She reached for the third letter, her hands trembling now, and broke the seal.

My Duchess,

If you are determined to hate me, at least tell me so in person. The not-knowing is worse than any verdict.

If you recall Penelope’s book—the one you insisted I read, A Lady’s Secret Vow—the hero only redeemed himself because the heroine gave him a chance to make it right. I am not that man, but I would try to be, if you would let me.

There is more to say, but I know you never read long letters.

Yours, in stubborn misery,

Rhys.

Celine let the paper fall. She covered her face with both hands, fighting the urge to scream or sob or simply burn all three letters to ash and start again. But the words would not leave her. They ran circles in her mind, taunting and aching and raw.

“That hero loved his wife, Rhys,” she whispered to the empty room. “I do not know if you love me.”

Her voice broke, and for a moment, so did she.