Page 5 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Four

“ M e? A duchess?” Celine’s voice rang through the drawing room, sharp and incredulous, as she paced the floral-patterned rug, her blue muslin dress swishing with each step.

She clutched a scone, crumbs scattering across her fingers as she took a fierce bite, her black hair slipping from its loose chignon.

The morning light streamed through the tall windows, glinting off the silver tea tray on the mahogany table, where Lady Helena Ayles and Lady Dahlia Hill sat, their eyes wide with amusement.

“Can you even picture it, Celine?” Helena said, her tone teasing but kind. “You, draped in ducal jewels, curtsying at court? It’s positively absurd.”

Dahlia, lounging in a crimson day dress, her eyes dancing, let out a dramatic laugh, tossing her curls. “Oh, I can picture it! Lady Celine, the Duchess of Wylds, sweeping into court, terrifying everyone with that icy stare of hers. The Wild Duke won’t know what hit him!”

Celine stopped pacing, her blue eyes flashing as she waved the half-eaten scone. “It’s not funny! That… that cad had the audacity to waltz into my drawing room, waving my list like some trophy, and propose marriage! As if I’d ever consider it!”

She took another bite, crumbs dusting her chin, her cheeks flushed with indignation.

Helena set her teacup down, her calm voice cutting through the air. “But you said no, didn’t you? So why are you stress eating? Even in our circles, forced marriages are unheard of.”

“But I heard that his father never loved his mother,” Dahlia chimed in.

Helena frowned. “Yes, most men do not love their wives, but he can’t make you wed him.”

Celine resumed her pacing, her slippers scuffing the rug, her gaze darting to the windows.

“Well, not exactly,” she muttered as she stuffed another scone in her mouth, chewing furiously to avoid their stares.

She had heard of the late Duke of Wylds from gossip, how he was a stern man who never had any proper regard for his wife and son.

Dahlia’s jaw dropped. “Not exactly? Celine Huntington, you didn’t say no to the Duke? Have you lost your senses?”

“I didn’t say yes either!” Celine snapped, turning to face them. “He… he mentioned a marriage purely on paper. A convenience, nothing more. Even I had to stop and think before dismissing a duke’s offer outright.”

Helena’s brow arched, her voice calm but probing. “A marriage on paper? What does that even mean? No love, no… expectations? Why would he propose such a thing?”

Celine avoided their eyes, brushing the crumbs from her chin.

“He didn’t say, exactly. Something about duty, his estate.

I don’t know, and I don’t care! I don’t want that trap—love, childbirth, all of it.

You know why.” Her voice cracked, the memory of her mother’s screams, her father’s brokenness, flashing through her mind.

Dahlia leaned forward, her face softening. “Oh, Celine, not every marriage ends in tragedy. Some arranged marriages end with the couple falling in love.”

“Love doesn’t exist,” Celine snapped. “It’s a fantasy. It’s only in novels, Dahlia.”

Helena’s smile was gentle. “You’re scared, and that’s understandable, after what happened to your mother. But a marriage on paper? That’s not love or childbirth; it’s a contract. If it’s freedom you want, why not consider it? You’d have a title, independence, and no one could touch you.”

Celine stopped, her eyes narrowing. “A contract? It’s still a cage, Helena. And with him? The Wild Duke, who flirts with anything in a skirt? I’d sooner marry a toad.”

But her flushed cheeks betrayed her, the memory of his lips on her wrist—warm, daring.

Dahlia clapped her hands, laughing. “A toad? Oh, please! You’re blushing like a debutante, Celine! Admit it, he got under your skin.”

“Part of it?” Celine scoffed, reaching towards the plate, her hands dusting crumbs from the scone. “He’s a rake, Dahlia. He’ll forget me by next week, chasing another conquest. I’m not falling for his charm.”

Helena tilted her head, her voice still teasing even though it held some truth. “But why propose, then? A duke doesn’t need to chase spinsters like us. He could have any debutante. There’s more to this, Celine, and you’re dodging it. Why are you so rattled if you’re sure he’ll forget you?”

Celine’s gaze dropped, her fingers twisting in the folds of her dress. “I’m not rattled,” she lied, her voice quivering. “I just… I don’t want him thinking that he can toy with me. That list was a mistake, and he’s making it worse.”

The door creaked open, and Mary entered, carrying a silver tray with a fresh teapot and porcelain cups.

The trio fell silent, the air thick with unspoken words. Mary’s graying hair was tucked under her cap, her brown eyes flicking between them with a knowing glint.

“Tea, My Ladies,” she said, setting the tray down, the clink of china loud in the quiet. “Anything else you need?”

Celine forced a smile, her heart still racing. “No, thank you, Mary. That’s all.”

Dahlia bit her lip, her fingers tapping the armrest, while Helena’s calm facade barely hid her eagerness to continue. Mary lingered for a moment, adjusting the cups with deliberate care, then curtsied and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

Dahlia pounced the moment she was gone. “You’re avoiding the question, Celine! Why does this duke have you in such a state? You didn’t just say no—you’re thinking about it!”

“I’m not!” Celine protested, pacing again, her slippers scuffing.

“He’s insufferable, smirking like he owns the world.

A marriage on paper might sound practical, but it’s still marriage.

I saw what it did to my mother—nearly dying birthing me, then dying birthing my brother.

I won’t risk that, not for a title or anything else. ”

Helena’s voice was soft but firm. “I understand, Celine. I do. My sisters are why I’ve sworn off marriage. I can’t abandon them to the ton’s wolves, not with our parents absent. But a marriage on paper? It’s not a terrible idea.”

“You’re both mad. He’s a rake, not a savior. He’d probably expect… things, even in a marriage of convenience. And I’d rather die than let a man control me.”

“Control you?” Dahlia laughed. “You? You’d have him on his knees in a week. I say, call his bluff. See if he’s serious or just playing.”

Helena’s smile was wry. “Or ignore him entirely. He’ll move on, as you said. But you don’t seem convinced that he will.”

Celine’s cheeks burned, her mind flashing to Rhys’s amber eyes, his breath on her wrist.

“He will,” she said, her voice firm but uncertain. “He’s a rake, after all.”

Helena and Dahlia’s carriage rattled away, leaving Celine alone in the quiet hall, the scent of scones and tea lingering. Her blue muslin dress swished as she turned to the butler, who stood by the door.

“Stokes, has Father eaten yet?” she asked, her voice soft but edged with worry.

Mr. Stokes’s expression tightened, his eyes sympathetic. “Not yet, My Lady. His Lordship hasn’t come down for dinner again. He’s been in his study since breakfast.”

Celine sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Of course he has.”

Even now, the Earl of Woodsworth was warm-hearted but absent, lost in his books and papers, forgetting meals as easily as he forgot the passage of time.

“I’ll take a tray up. Thank you, Stokes.”

She moved to the kitchen, assembling a tray of cold roast beef, bread, and a wedge of cheese, the clinking of china steadying her nerves.

Her mind churned with Dahlia’s teasing, Helena’s words, and most of all, Rhys’s audacious proposal, the word ‘Duchess’ echoing in her head like a taunt.

Shaking her head, she climbed the oak staircase, the tray’s weight grounding her as she approached her father’s study. The door was ajar, spilling candlelight into the dim hallway.

“Father?” Celine called, nudging the door open with her hip.

The study was a chaos of papers, books stacked precariously on the desk, ink bottles teetering, and dust motes dancing in the flickering light.

Lord Woodsworth sat hunched over a ledger, his graying hair disheveled, his spectacles slipping down his nose. The room smelled of wax and old parchment, the air stale despite the spring evening.

“Hmm?” He looked up, blinking his warm brown eyes as if waking from a dream. “Celine, my dear! Is it supper already?”

“It’s past supper,” she chided gently, setting the tray on a clear spot. “You forgot to eat again. Look, I’ve brought roast beef. You must be starving.”

He sniffed the air, his face brightening like a child’s. “Oh, that smells divine! I hadn’t realized I was hungry till now.” He reached for the bread and tore off a piece with a grin. “You’re too good for your old father, my girl.”

Celine smiled, her heart aching at his frailty. His once-robust frame had thinned, his cheeks sallow from too many hours indoors, shunning the ton’s balls and even the fresh air of Hyde Park.

“You’d waste away without me,” she teased, moving to the heavy drapes. “This room’s a tomb. Let’s let in some air.”

She tugged the curtains aside and pushed open the windows. A cool breeze drifted in, stirring the papers.

“Careful!” her father protested, his voice rising as a page fluttered. “You’ll send my papers flying!”

“They need to fly a bit,” Celine retorted, her hands on her hips, her blue eyes scanning the clutter. “Have you been refusing the maids again? This place is a disaster.”

“They mess everything up!” he said, waving a hand, crumbs falling from his bread. “I know where I leave my things, and if they move them, it’s a cluttered mess! I can’t find a blessed thing after they’ve been through.”

Celine sighed, picking up a stack of books, their spines worn from his endless reading.

“You sound like me, avoiding the ton’s nonsense. But you can’t hide in here forever, Father. You’re… not well.” Her voice softened, her gaze lingering on his trembling hands, the pallor beneath his warmth. “A walk in the garden, just once?”

He chuckled. “You worry too much, my dear. I’m fine with my books and ledgers. The world outside’s too loud, too cruel. You know, your mother…” His voice faltered, his eyes distant.

Celine’s throat tightened, her fingers pausing on a dusty tome.

“I know,” she said quietly, moving to tidy his desk, stacking papers with care. “But you’re letting this house—this room—swallow you. It’s not healthy.”

“Healthy?” He laughed, a weak but genuine sound, before taking a bite of cheese.

“I’m an old man, Celine. My health’s the least of my worries.

It’s you I think of—always have—since that night we lost her.

” He reached for her hand, his grip surprisingly firm.

“I kept you close, perhaps too close, but I couldn’t lose you too.

Maybe all those years I spent raising you by myself are the reason why you’re so eccentric. ”

“Come on, Father. I’m not eccentric. It’s alright not to like what everyone else is into. Besides, you’re never going to lose me,” she said, squeezing his hand, her heart aching. “But you need to eat, and let the maids in. I can’t tidy this mess alone.”

He waved her off, his spectacles glinting. “You’re as stubborn as she was, you know? Always fussing. But you’re right, I’ll try—for you.” He paused, his gaze softening. “What about you, my dear? I’ve never heard you speak of a man who’s caught your interest. Are you still against marriage?”

“Yes, Father, I’ve made it clear as day more often than I can remember.”

“True.” He nodded. “Your friends, Helena and Dahlia—they have plans, don’t they? That Ayles girl, managing her sisters, and the Hill girl, with her parents’ fortune. They’ll be set for life, one way or another. But you…”

Celine’s breath caught, her hands stilling on a ledger. “Me? I’m fine, Father. I don’t need plans like theirs. I’m content as I am.” Her voice wavered, the lie heavy on her tongue.

Lord Woodsworth’s eyes grew serious, his voice low.

“Content? You’re a spinster by choice, I know, and I’ve indulged it.

But I don’t have the means to set you up for life, Celine.

The estate is stretched thin—debts from my grief, bad investments.

Without a husband or some miracle, you’ll have nothing when I’m gone. I’d hoped… but I’ve failed you there.”

The words landed like a blow, knocking the air from her lungs.

Helena had her deal with her parents: taking care of her sisters in exchange for a settlement to live a comfortable life as a spinster. Dahlia had her family’s wealth. But Celine? She had no backup, no safety net. Her defiance, her list, her books—they couldn’t secure her future.

Once more, Rhys Harken’s audacious offer echoed in her mind.

“By making you my Duchess.”