Page 38 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

“ I s there a law requiring me to wear this blindfold, or have you developed a taste for melodrama?” Celine asked as Rhys led her along the flagstones.

“Given your penchant for uncovering all my secrets, I thought you’d appreciate a rare moment of suspense,” he replied.

She arched a brow beneath the soft silk, which surely looked more fetching than the handkerchiefs sold by the drapers in Covent Garden. “You’ll bruise my arm before we reach the murder site.”

“You are scandalously unromantic,” he said. “But only twenty yards further, I promise. Unless you’d like to guess?”

“Hm. If it’s the duck pond, I shall scream,” she threatened, half-expecting the squelch of mud beneath her slippers.

Instead, the ground turned smooth, echoing with a hush she recognized from somewhere in her memory.

“You may thank me for not tossing you into the Serpentine again,” he said, then stopped her with a decisive hand to her shoulder.

The world stilled. Rhys untied the blindfold.

The darkness faded away to reveal a stage. Not a metaphorical one, but the literal sort, framed in gold and lit with a dozen gas jets that cast fairy rings on the polished floorboards.

They were alone in the bowels of the King’s Theatre, the house empty except for the two of them and a single drowsy attendant in the gallery.

Celine gasped, blinking at the riot of painted scenery behind the footlights. It was a fantastical landscape: a glittering arctic palace edged in frosted glass, with painted wolves frozen mid-howl and a cutout moon suspended in the rafters.

The footlights made the whole thing shimmer, as if it might melt at any moment.

“Rhys,” she breathed, “this is?—”

“The item on your list. The one you wrote in the margin and never intended for anyone to see.” He smiled, wicked and proud. “Dance on a stage, preferably with the world watching. But I thought a private audience would do for the first attempt.”

She turned to him, her mouth open, every retort burned away by sheer, ridiculous delight. “You remembered.”

He looked impossibly smug. “You doubt me still? I’ve been planning this since last autumn. The chest is over there. Left wings.”

She followed his gesture to the corner of the stage, where a battered travel chest sat, absurdly out of place among the painted snowdrifts. It was the same trunk she had seen two months ago being carried down the hallway at Wylds House, the porters sweating as they steered it around corners.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I saw you ordering the footmen to pack it. I assumed you were plotting to exile me to Siberia.”

“Close,” he quipped. “Siberia has fewer amenities, but a comparable dress code.”

He moved to the trunk and opened it with a flourish.

Inside, neatly folded atop a nest of tissue, was a dress of blue so pale that it seemed spun from moonlight.

Crystals—hundreds, perhaps thousands—caught the footlights and threw back pinpricks of fire.

The shape was simple: a high, fitted bodice, sleeves trimmed in white, and a skirt full enough to swallow half the orchestra pit.

Celine stared at it, at the memory stitched into every seam. “You planned for me to wear this at Lady Ashford’s ball.”

He shrugged, a little sheepish. “It was meant as a reward, for when you outlasted the ton. But I was called away to the estate—missed the damned ball. By the time I returned, the only thing waiting was your note and the empty glass you left for me.”

She laughed, the sound as bright and sharp as the dress itself. “So instead, you kidnapped me and brought me to the theater at dawn.”

He stepped close, his voice softer. “I wanted to make it up to you. That night was supposed to be… different. I was meant to be there. Instead, you had to fight off Lady Harrington on your own, and I?—”

His hands flexed at his sides, like he wasn’t sure if he should reach for her.

She reached first, taking his hand. “You always dwell on the wrong part of the story. I didn’t need you to rescue me, Rhys. I needed you to believe I could survive. You’ve never failed me in that.”

He squeezed her hand, then pressed his lips to her knuckles, careful as a priest.

“You’re impossibly noble for a former scoundrel,” she said.

He grinned, some of the tension easing. “I do my best.”

She eyed the dress, then the stage, then the empty theater. “What if I fall and crack my skull?”

“Then I shall write a dramatic letter to the scandal sheets and mourn you with dignity,” he replied, already opening the trunk’s lower compartment to reveal a pair of slippers trimmed in silver.

She picked up the dress, marveling at its weight and shimmer. “Did you choose the color?”

He gave her a look. “Of course.”

She laughed. “Because I am the Stone Cold spinster?”

“Because you are the Duchess of Wylds, and you look better in blue than any woman alive,” he declared, his gaze lingering with such open affection that she nearly dropped the dress.

She ducked behind the scenery to change, expecting him to linger, but he had the decency to step away and feign fascination with the painted wolves.

It took her twice as long as usual to fasten the dress—the hooks were minuscule, and the crystals threatened to snag on every thread. But when she stepped out, she felt transformed.

The skirt floated when she walked, the bodice hugged her without pinching her skin, and she suspected she looked less like a duchess and more like the heroine of a very expensive fairytale.

Rhys turned when he heard her steps. His eyes widened, then softened. “You’ll bring the house down.”

“Then you’ll have to pay for the damages,” she quipped.

But the banter didn’t come as easily as before. She was nervous, all of a sudden.

He saw it and came to her side. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she insisted, surprising herself with the truth of it. “But not alone.”

Rhys sat at the pianoforte and grinned at her. “Ready, my love?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

He played while she danced on the stage, feeling her heart soar with the freedom she had only ever dreamed of.

Rhys had helped her cross not one but two items off her list: To dance in a theater and to feel alive.

The latter had been fulfilled long before tonight. And with Rhys, she could scale those heights over and over again.

Four Months Later

“Whoever chose the color palette for this room should be tried for crimes against taste,” Rhys said, surveying the ballroom from behind a massive urn of hothouse lilies.

“Shall I fetch the bailiff, or will you make a citizen’s arrest?” Celine asked, gliding up to him.

She wore a deep blue dress and diamonds, the sort of ensemble that would have cowed a lesser man into submission.

“How about a bribe? I’ll let the matter rest if you agree to a dance,” he said, bowing as if the fate of his soul depended on her answer.

She rolled her eyes but gave him her arm. “You do realize that the entire city is watching us for evidence of discord, right?”

He grinned. “Then let’s disappoint them spectacularly.”

They swept onto the dance floor as the orchestra struck up a cotillion, the tempo brisk and the melody bright.

Rhys, who had never much cared for court dances, found himself almost enjoying it—the way Celine anticipated his steps, the occasional brush of her hand against his shoulder, the hush that followed them wherever they moved.

“You’re smiling,” she noted, her lips barely moving. “That alone will have the scandal sheets filled for a week.”

He shrugged. “I’m well on my way to villainy. Why stop now?”

He twirled her, and for a moment, she looked lighter, unburdened. Four months had turned her from a stormcloud duchess to something more formidable—a woman who could hold her own in any room, even one with Lady Harrington skulking in the wings.

“Edmund seems well,” Rhys said, nodding toward the hearth, where Celine’s father was cornered by an ex-governor and a minor lordling.

The Earl looked robust, gesturing with his brandy, his laughter too loud for polite society.

“He’s insufferable,” Celine scoffed, but her eyes softened as she watched him. “I suppose the London air agrees with him.”

“Or maybe it’s the company,” Rhys suggested, keeping her close as the music changed. “He’s proud of you, you know.”

She flushed, then deflected. “He still hasn’t forgiven you for that prank with the garden frogs.”

Rhys barked a laugh. “He shouldn’t have bet against me.”

A swirl of debutantes swept them apart, and Rhys found himself at the edge of the dance floor with a glass pressed into his hand by a well-meaning servant. He took a sip and watched Celine glide through the set, her face animated, her laugh brighter than any chandelier in the room.

Surprisingly, he found himself content.

Movement near the door caught his attention. He turned to see Lady Helena weaving her way through the crowd, flanked by two of her sisters and trailed by a trio of hopeful bachelors.

At the same moment, the newly ennobled Duke of Bolton—formerly Lord Julian Ashford—sauntered into the ballroom. As soon as he spotted Rhys, he picked up a glass of sherry from a passing tray and started toward him, grinning like a clown.

“Wylds,” he called. “Am I to be permitted at your soiree, or is this a trap?”

Rhys smirked. “Depends. Are you armed?”

“Only with wit and an unhealthy sense of self-importance,” Julian replied, navigating the throng.

The orchestra switched tunes, and as the sets shifted, Helena found herself face-to-face with Julian. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, as if taking stock of a worthy opponent.

Then, as if on cue, a footman behind Helena lost control of a tray of champagne. Helena spun to avoid collision at the exact moment Julian stepped forward with his sherry. The two glasses met in a flurry of red and gold, and a perfect arc of wine splattered down the sleeve of Helena’s dress.

The silence that followed was so thick that Rhys could hear the wheels turning in Julian’s head as he calculated the best escape route.

Helena looked down at her dress, then up at Julian, her expression flat. “Is this your customary method of greeting a lady, Your Grace?”

Julian’s eyes went wide with horror, then narrowed with sudden inspiration. “Only when the lady is far too lovely for words. I resort to gestures.”

Helena gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Charming. I do hope you intend to pay the cleaner’s bill.”

“I’ll have it settled by morning,” Julian said, already fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it with an earnestness that was almost comical.

Helena accepted the handkerchief and dabbed at her sleeve, her face composed but her eyes blazing.

Rhys caught Celine’s eye across the room and saw she was watching the exchange with a knowing half-smile. He raised a brow at her, and she responded with a minute shake of her head, as if to say, Let them fight it out.

“The servants will gossip, you know,” Celine said, tugging the last of her pins free and letting her hair spill down her back. She regarded Rhys in the mirror, one brow lifted. “We left the ball precisely two minutes after Lady Harrington retired.”

“Let them gossip,” Rhys huffed, sinking into the armchair nearest the fireplace. He loosened his cravat with a sigh of almost indecent relief, then looked over at her. “The rumor mill needs grist, or else the city will collapse in on itself.”

Celine snorted, dropping her necklace into a lacquered tray. “You enjoy it, don’t you? Being the object of speculation.”

“I enjoy you ,” he said, honest enough to startle them both.

She paused, a flush spreading up from her collarbone. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

He grinned. “I’m practically an invalid. Thirty-two, and already tamed.”

She finished divesting herself of her jewelry, then crossed the rug to where he sat. She stood behind him, her fingers working the knots from his shoulders.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the snap and hiss of the fire.

Rhys let his head tip back, his eyes closed. “If you keep that up, I’ll forget my own name.”

“That would never do,” she said, but the words were softer than usual.

They stayed like that, comfortable in the hush, until Celine moved to the hearth and perched on the edge of the ottoman, facing him.

“Do you think it went well?” she asked, gathering her knees to her chest.

Rhys shrugged, careful not to ruin the moment with too much pride. “No one was murdered, and the parlor remains intact. I’d call it a resounding success.”

She considered. “Helena nearly throttled the new Duke of Bolton.”

“That was the highlight of the Season,” he snorted. “He deserved it.”

She smiled. “I think she enjoyed it.”

“Undoubtedly.”

They fell quiet again, and Rhys studied her across the spill of firelight.

The past several months had reshaped her. The sharpness was still there, but the old brittleness had softened into something stronger. He loved her more now than he had ever thought possible, and the realization unsettled him.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking,” he started, and immediately regretted how ominous it sounded.

She cocked her head. “About?”

He searched for the right words. “About next year. About… well, all of it.” Clearing his throat, he tried again. “You’ve never been shy about what you want, Celine. But I’ve never actually asked you what comes after this. After the Season. After the parties and the estates and the madness.”

She looked toward the window, beyond which snow was dusting the city in ghostly white. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I never thought I’d get this far.”

He reached out and took her hand in his own. “We could do anything, you know. Anything.”

She squeezed his fingers, then looked back at him, her face open and a little frightened.

“Would you hate it,” she said quietly, “if we stayed in the country for a while? Just… us. No titles, no expectations. I could read for days, and you could write angry letters to Parliament about the price of oats.”

Rhys laughed. “I would love nothing more.”

She smiled. “And maybe, in a year or two, we could…”

He held his breath, waiting.

She swallowed. “We could think about children. If you want.”

He blinked, startled by how much the idea did not terrify him. “I think I’d like that,” he said, meaning it.

She smiled, but then her face twisted in mock severity. “You’d be a terrible influence, you know. You’d teach them to cheat at cards and to eat cake for breakfast.”

“And you’d teach them Latin and how to win an argument at five paces,” he shot back.

She leaned forward. “It’s called debate, Rhys. There are rules.”

He pulled her off the ottoman and onto his lap, letting her laughter warm him as much as the fire.

“Let’s write our own rules,” he said, tucking her close and kissing her.