Page 6 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)
Chapter Five
“ T he nerve of that woman,” Rhys muttered to himself.
He was walking at a brisk pace, as if he hoped to outrun his thoughts. His boots clicked on the cobblestones of Bond Street, the crisp spring air doing little to cool the irritation simmering in his chest.
Lady Celine Huntington’s rejection of his proposal had stung more than he cared to admit.
“By making you my Duchess.”
He almost cringed at the sound of his own voice in his head. But still, no woman had ever resisted his charm, not the coquettes of Paris nor the widows of Vienna.
Even those he avoided, wary of marriage traps, fluttered their fans and batted their lashes. Yet Celine, with her icy wit and blazing blue eyes, had dismissed him like a tiresome suitor.
Unaffected, is she?
His jaw tightened as he strode toward White’s, the gentlemen’s club where he sought distraction. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Through the polished window of Madame Dubois’s Emporium, a flash of black hair and a familiar glint of green caught his eye.
“Hmm, Interesting,” he murmured.
Celine stood within, examining a display of reticules, her petite frame poised yet unguarded. The moment her gaze met his, her posture stiffened, and—God help him—she crouched behind a shelf, her shawl slipping as she ducked out of sight.
“Right, totally unaffected,” Rhys muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm.
A grin tugged at his lips, unbidden, and before he could think better of it, his boots carried him toward the shop’s door. The bell jingled as he entered, the air warm with the scent of lavender and polished wood.
Celine was still half-hidden, her fingers clutching a shelf as if it could shield her from him.
“Need help finding something, My Lady?” Rhys drawled, his voice smooth as brandy, leaning casually against the counter.
He towered over her, his navy blue coat accentuating his broad shoulders, his amber eyes glinting with mischief.
Celine shot upright, her cheeks flaming a vivid red that clashed charmingly with her cool expression.
“I’ve found it, thank you,” she said, snatching the nearest reticule—a garish confection of pink ribbons, ruffles, and lace that screamed of debutante folly.
Her eyes widened, a hint of regret crossing her face as she held it up.
Rhys’s lips twitched, his grin widening. “That?” he asked, raising a brow. “A bold choice, Lady Celine. All those… ribbons. Planning to dazzle the ton with pink lace?”
Her blush deepened, her fingers tightening on the reticule as she tried to muster dignity. “It’s… perfectly suitable,” she said, her voice faltering as she glanced at the monstrosity, clearly unable to stomach her own lie. “I like it.”
“Like it?” He stepped closer, his boots soft on the polished floor, the space between them shrinking. “You’d sooner wear a bonnet made of feathers. Admit it, you grabbed the first thing you could to avoid me.”
Celine lifted her chin, her blue eyes flashing. “Avoid you? I’m simply shopping, Your Grace. Not every lady swoons in your presence.” But then her gaze flickered with hesitation. “This reticule is… is perfectly… reticular.”
She winced, realizing her blunder.
“Reticular?” Rhys chuckled, the sound sending a shiver through her. “A new word for the lexicon, perhaps? Or are you flustered, My Lady?”
He leaned in, just enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume, his gaze lingering on her reddened cheeks. An odd possessiveness rose inside him, unbidden, her blush igniting something he couldn’t name.
“I’m not flustered,” she snapped, her voice sharper now, though her hands betrayed her, fumbling with the reticule’s ribbons. “And I don’t need your… your commentary on my choices. Perhaps you should find a mirror to flirt with, since you’re so fond of your charm.”
He laughed, undeterred, his eyes dancing. “A mirror? No, I’d rather flirt with a lady who bites my hand and hides behind shelves. It’s far more entertaining.” His tone softened, teasing but edged with curiosity. “Why run from me, Celine? Afraid I’ll mention that list of yours?”
Her breath hitched, her eyes widening before narrowing. “I didn’t run,” she bit out, stepping back but finding the shelf at her heels. “And that list is none of your concern. You returned it, as you should have.”
“Returned it, yes,” he relented, closing the distance between them again, his boots inches from her slippers.
“But I can’t forget it. A lady who undertakes such…
adventures intrigues me. Tell me, what’s next?
I’m well aware you crossed off some after the night we met, so I guess you’re going to ride a horse astride next? ”
Celine’s cheeks burned hotter. “I… I don’t plan to… do anything of the sort, Your Grace. And I’d thank you to keep your… your speculations to yourself.”
She clutched the reticule like a shield, her poise crumbling under his gaze.
“Speculations?” Rhys tilted his head. “I’m merely curious. You rejected my offer, yet here you are, blushing like a debutante. Perhaps you’re not as immune to my charms as you claim to be.”
“Immune?” she scoffed, her voice regaining some fire, though her hands shook. “You’re insufferable, Your Grace. I’d rather marry that reticule than entertain your… your nonsense.”
But her eyes darted away, her blush betraying her, and Rhys felt that possessiveness again, a tug he tried to ignore.
“Marry the reticule?” he echoed seriously, picking up another from the display—a sedate navy silk. “This one’s more your style.”
“I don’t need your comments,” she said, her voice sharp but unsteady, her fingers twisting the pink ribbons. “Or your company. Good day, Your Grace.”
She moved to sidestep him, but her foot knocked into a display, sending a fan clattering to the floor.
Rhys bent to retrieve it, his fingers brushing hers as he handed it back, their eyes locking. “Careful, My Lady,” he murmured, “or you’ll give me ideas about rescuing you.”
Celine snatched the fan, her blush now a furnace, her words a jumble. “I don’t… don’t need rescuing.”
Celine’s heart pounded like a war drum, her cheeks still aflame from her mortifying stumble— reticular , of all things—in front of the Duke of Wylds.
The shop’s lavender-scented air felt suffocating. The pink-ribboned reticule in her hands seemed to mock her. She’d sounded like a blubbering idiot, tripping over words under his honeyed gaze, and she hated herself for it.
Her spinster’s armor—stone-cold, defiant—had shielded her for years, but Rhys’s charm, his audacious proposal, chipped at it, stirring a dangerous curiosity.
She wasn’t as resolute against marriage as before, not with her father’s debts looming and the ton’s scorn—not that she cared for it. But still, the realization terrified her. She was losing control, and she couldn’t let him unravel her further.
His teasing grin, his insufferable charm—it was too much. She couldn’t let him toy with her any longer.
“Just stop beating around the bush,” she blurted, her voice sharp as she thrust the reticule onto the counter. “Ask me and get this over with.”
Her words hung in the air, bold and reckless. She jutted her chin, waiting for him to repeat his scandalous proposal.
Rhys’s brows rose, his navy blue coat swaying as he leaned against a display of silk gloves, his athletic frame relaxed but his eyes keen.
“I wasn’t going to ask you anything,” he said, his voice smooth, a hint of amusement curving his lips.
Celine’s stomach lurched, her breath catching. “You weren’t?”
She stepped back, her emerald-green shawl slipping slightly, her fingers fumbling at the counter’s edge.
Of course, his offer wouldn’t stand. She had rejected him, hadn’t she? A duke, even one with his rakish reputation, could find a dozen ladies willing to overlook his past.
Her mind raced, conjuring images of simpering debutantes vying for his title. So why did her chest tighten with… disappointment?
“I mean, good,” she said too quickly, her eyes darting to her sleeve, where she pretended to pick at invisible lint. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”
Rhys’s lips twitched, his gaze softening as he stepped closer, his boots silent on the polished floor.
“You misunderstand,” he said, his voice low, almost tender.
He reached out, his gloved hand gently lifting her chin, guiding her gaze to meet his. His touch was light, but it sent a jolt through her, her skin prickling under his warmth. His smile was different now, almost gentle. It lacked the cocky edge she’d come to expect.
“I’ve done my part, Celine. If you wish to accept, you need to come to me.”
Her breath hitched, her blue eyes locked on his amber ones, the shop’s bustle fading to a distant hum. The sincerity in his expression unnerved her, stripping away her defenses.
“Come to you?” she managed, her blush creeping down her neck. “You think I’d… I’d chase after a rake like you? After that… that nonsense about being your Duchess?”
He chuckled, his thumb lingering a moment longer before dropping, leaving her skin tingling. “Nonsense? I thought it was rather poetic.” His tone was teasing, but his eyes held a challenge, searching hers. “And here you are, demanding that I ask again. Why is that, Celine?”
“I wasn’t demanding!” she snapped, her defenses crumbling as she stepped back, her shawl catching on a display of fans. She yanked it free, her hands trembling. “I just… I thought you were going to… to bring it up again, and I wanted to end this—this farce.”
She turned to the counter, pretending to inspect a black reticule to avoid his gaze.
“Farce?” Rhys’s voice was closer now, his presence warm at her side, his sandalwood cologne mingling with the scent of lavender.
“You’re blushing like it’s more than that.
Tell me, are you disappointed I didn’t ask?
” He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear.
“Or are you afraid you will say yes the next time I do?”