Page 8 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Six

“ T here has to be another way,” Rhys murmured to himself from behind his mahogany desk, the weight of his dukedom pressing heavier than the ledgers before him.

Candlelight flickered across the room, casting shadows on the oak-paneled walls, the scent of wax mingling with old leather from the bookshelves. His amber eyes scanned a tenant’s report—crumbling cottages, failing crops, and debts piling like storm clouds.

The solutions that had kept Wylds afloat—shrewd investments, leased lands—were now faltering, his father’s will a noose. Even in death, the man still found ways to make him suffer.

All he needed to do was marry to access his inheritance.

A bride, any bride.

But Celine’s defiant face haunted him, her rejection a sting he couldn’t shake off.

A commotion broke his reverie—rapid footsteps, a breathless voice, and the study door bursting open.

Celine stormed in, her black hair loose under a straw bonnet, her blue muslin dress swirling, her blue eyes blazing with purpose. Behind her, old Jenkins, the butler, shuffled in, panting, his silver hair disheveled.

“She was too fast, Your Grace,” he wheezed, clutching the doorframe. “I tried to announce her?—”

“Never mind, Jenkins.” Rhys rose, his navy blue coat taut across his broad shoulders, a grin tugging at his lips. “Lady Celine clearly has urgent business. You may go.”

Jenkins bowed and retreated with a mutter, the door clicking shut behind him.

Celine lifted her chin, her cheeks flushed, her presence like a spark in the quiet room.

“I accept,” she declared, her voice firm, cutting through the silence. “But on one condition: ours will be the biggest, most enviable wedding the ton has ever seen.”

Rhys’s brows shot up, his heart jolting with surprise and something warmer—triumph, perhaps. He stepped around the desk, his boots soft on the Persian rug, his eyes locked onto hers.

“A wedding to rival the ton’s dreams?” he asked, his tone teasing but intrigued. “With the wealth we’ll unlock, I’m in the mood to celebrate. Name your terms, My Lady.”

She folded her arms, her posture defiant. “A spectacle, thousands of roses, silk dresses, a banquet to make all the mamas weep. I need the ton to choke on their envy.”

Rhys laughed—a low, rich sound.

He moved closer, the air between them crackling. “You drive a hard bargain, Celine. But I promise you a wedding to rival a king’s.”

He took her ungloved hand and raised it to his lips, his kiss deliberate, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“That’s another thing,” she added sharply, yanking her hand away. “You said this would be a marriage of convenience, on paper only. So stop this charade. You don’t need to convince me or pretend that we’re courting. It’s a business deal, and it’s settled.”

Rhys’s smile faltered, her words a jab at his rakish pride, though her blush betrayed her.

“A charade?” he said, his tone mock-offended. He leaned back against the desk, his athletic frame relaxed but his gaze intense. “I thought my kisses were rather convincing. You seemed to enjoy them last time.”

Her eyes widened. “No, I didn’t,” she snapped, her hands fisting in her skirts. “This is about necessity—your wealth, my security. Not… not romance. So keep your charm to yourself.”

He tilted his head, a half smile forming. “And your list?” he asked, his voice soft. “That final item— feel alive, wasn’t it? How will you complete it without a… charade?”

Celine’s breath hitched. “I guess I’ll just have to suffer the dissatisfaction,” she said, rolling her eyes. She then turned to the door, the ribbons of her bonnet swaying. “Good day, Your Grace.”

Rhys’s voice stopped her, low and gravelly, sending a shiver down her spine. “I wouldn’t make a habit of it.”

His words were laced with warning, a promise, and something darker, his eyes burning into her back.

She froze, her hand on the doorknob, her heart racing. “A habit?” She glanced over her shoulder, her tone defiant despite the tremor. “Of what? Your nonsense?”

“Of denying yourself.” He drew closer, his steps slow and deliberate, the candlelight catching his dark hair. “You’re fire, Celine, not ice. This marriage may be on paper, but life isn’t. Don’t settle for less than you deserve.”

Her breath caught, his words striking too close. Her fear of marriage, her mother’s death, and her father’s debts clashed with the spark he ignited.

“I know what I deserve,” she declared, opening the door. “And it’s not your games.”

He watched her go, his grin returning, slow and predatory.

“We’ll see, My Lady,” he murmured as the door clicked shut, the ledgers forgotten as her scent lingered like a challenge.

Celine sat at the writing desk in the morning room, drafting a list—not her scandalous one, but a new, cautious plan to tell Helena and Dahlia about her engagement to the Duke of Wylds.

The floral wallpaper glowed in the midday sun, the scent of her perfume lingering on her blue muslin dress, a reminder of her reckless promise in Rhys’s study: a grand wedding, a marriage on paper.

Her heart raced. How to explain it without betraying her intrigue, her fear?

Casual, I’ll keep it casual .

She nibbled on the quill, her black hair slipping from its pins.

The door burst open, and Helena and Dahlia swept in, their bonnets barely removed, their faces alight with purpose.

“Celine!” Dahlia exclaimed, tossing her crimson shawl onto the velvet settee. “Don’t you dare play coy with us. The scandal sheets are buzzing, and we demand answers!”

Celine’s quill clattered to the desk, her blue eyes widening, her cheeks flushing. “Scandal sheets?” she said, her voice light, rising to smooth her dress. “I was just writing… letters. Nothing to fuss over. Tea, perhaps?”

Helena, her curls neat under her bonnet, perched on a chair, her smile sharp. “Oh, please, Celine. The Morning Post hints at a ‘certain spinster’ and the ‘Wild Duke’ in an ‘unexpected alliance.’ Sound familiar?”

Celine gasped, her hands fidgeting with the sash at her waist. “How did that make the news already? Where are the sheets?” she asked, moving closer, her slippers soft on the floral rug. “I didn’t think the news would spread so quickly.”

Dahlia flopped onto the settee and snapped her fan open, her eyes sparkling. “Prattle? Oh, Celine, you’re as red as my shawl! You didn’t just trip into an ‘alliance’ with the Duke of Wylds. Out with it, or we’ll interrogate you till you crack!”

“There’s no need for theatrics,” Celine huffed, though her blush deepened. “It’s… nothing dramatic. I may have… agreed to marry him. A business deal, really. No fuss.”

She waved a hand, as if dismissing a servant, but her fingers trembled, betraying her.

Helena’s laugh was soft. “What happened to your previous take on the matter? You had practically sworn against it.”

“Exactly!” Dahlia chimed in, her tone teasing. She leaned forward, her curls bouncing around her face. “You, the Stone Cold Spinster, affianced to a rake? It’s scandalous! Admit it, you’re swooning over him.”

Celine’s jaw tightened, her nails were now digging crescents in the palm of her hand.

“Swooning? Oh, please!” she snapped, pacing the rug.

“It’s practical. Father’s debts, my future—Rhys needs his inheritance, I need security.

It’s on paper, nothing more.” Her words rushed out, her blush clashing with her icy tone.

Dahlia’s fan paused, her smile sly. “Then why do you keep blushing? I bet he’s got you dreaming of crossing items off your list. Feel alive . Wasn’t that your last addition?”

Celine had scribbled that last bit after she got home from her night with her friends, certain that the list was something she really wanted to follow. She was tired of feeling stifled. She wanted to feel more. To feel everything .

She heaved a sigh. “What if I admitted something? Would you judge me if I said that I’m a bit intrigued by him? Not affection, just… curiosity?” Her gaze dropped, her heart pounding in her chest.

Helena leaned forward, her tone gentle. “Judge you? Celine, we’re sisters in spirit. Our spinster vow was for freedom, not chains. If the Duke of Wylds intrigues you, then we’re happy—thrilled, even. Marry the damn man!”

“More than happy!” Dahlia echoed, clapping, her eyes bright. “And think, Celine! You’ll finally check ‘kiss a man’ off your list. A duke’s kiss must be divine, all smolder and fire!” She winked.

Celine’s lips twitched, a laugh breaking through. Her shoulders dropped as relief washed over her—an odd, buoyant warmth she hadn’t expected.

“You’re both impossible,” she said, sinking into a chair.

“I’m not kissing anyone, not even him. It’s business, I swear it.

But… thank you.” Her eyes met theirs, her gratitude shining through.

“I was scared that you’d think I’d betrayed us.

I think that has also been one of the reasons I’ve been… hesitant.”

Helena smiled, reaching for her hand. “Spinster or duchess, you’re Celine, and we love you so, so much.”

“You know what this means, right?” Dahlia asked, her eyes glinting with mischief.

“I don’t understand—” Celine started, but she was interrupted by Dahlia’s excited giggle.

“We’re going dress shopping!”

Celine stood before a gilt-framed mirror in Madame Dubois’s shop, the rustle of taffeta and silk filling the air, the scent of lavender mingling with the crisp starch of new fabrics.

Her blue muslin dress felt plain amid the opulence, her black hair pinned loosely under a straw bonnet, her blue eyes wide as she gazed at a wedding dress displayed on a mannequin.

The dress was made of ivory silk, its lines sleek and elegant, with delicate jasmine embroidery tracing the bodice and hem—a quiet beauty that stirred her heart. Yet her promise for a “most enviable wedding” loomed, demanding grandeur to silence the ton’s sneers.

“I’m certain if her mother were still alive…”

The words of Lady Beatrice and Miss Langley still haunted her. Was that how the ton saw her? A pathetic, motherless spinster?

I’ll prove them wrong. This wedding will show them.

Helena and Dahlia flanked her, their heads bobbing as they surveyed bolts of lace and satin. Helena, her curls neat, held a swatch of gold-trimmed tulle, her gaze assessing. Dahlia, vivid in her crimson shawl, clutched a fashion plate, her green eyes sparkling with romantic fervor.

“Celine,” Dahlia said, her voice bright, “that dress is divine! It’s you—bold but not fussy. Try it on!”

Celine’s fingers brushed the silk, her breath catching, a rare smile softening her face. “It’s… beautiful,” she agreed softly.

She imagined herself in it, not as a duchess or a stone-cold spinster, but as herself . Doubt crept in almost immediately. Would it dazzle enough?

“But it’s too simple.” She stepped back, her hands twisting her reticule. “The ton expects a spectacle.”

Helena’s brow arched, her tone measured. “Simple? It’s elegant, Celine. You’d outshine every chandelier in St. George’s. Is this about the ton or you?” Her eyes searched Celine’s, sensing the tension beneath her friend’s resolve.

Celine flushed, her gaze dropping to the polished floor. The shop’s hum—clinking pins, Madame Dubois’s murmured French—faded.

“It’s… both,” she replied, her voice wavering. Her fear of marriage rose to the surface, her mother’s loss a shadow. “I told the Duke I’d make them choke on envy. A plain dress won’t do that.”

Her words lacked conviction, her heart drawn to the jasmine-embroidered silk.

Dahlia tossed her fashion plate onto a velvet chair and put her hands on her hips.

“Plain? It’s a dream, Celine! Like something Penelope Lovelace would write— heroine defies the ton in quiet splendor .

You’re not marrying for them, are you?” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes held concern, her romantic heart sensing Celine’s struggle.

“I’m not marrying for myself either. I’m marrying for…

necessity,” Celine said, her voice low. She turned to a rack of dresses, her fingers grazing a gaudy confection of gold lace and puffed sleeves, its ostentation screaming wealth.

“Father’s debts, my future—it’s a deal, not a fairytale. This one’s better.”

She lifted the golden dress, its weight heavy in her hands. Her chest tightened as she forced a smile.

Helena stepped closer, her tulle swatch forgotten, her voice gentle but firm. “Better, or safer? Celine, you’re no peacock strutting for gossips. That ivory dress lit you up. Why choose something that dims you?”

Her logic cut through as her hand touched Celine’s arm, a sisterly anchor.

Celine’s eyes glistened, the golden dress sagging in her grip. “I… I don’t know,” she whispered, her vulnerability slipping through, her defiance cracking. “I want to be me, but the ton—they’ve mocked my mother, called my engagement a jest. I need them to see that I’m not… nothing.”

Her voice broke, the cord of her reticule digging into her palm, her list’s spark buried under duty.

Dahlia’s eyes softened, her shawl slipping as she moved to Celine’s side. “Nothing? You’re our hellion, Celine! That ivory dress is your fire, not this… gold monstrosity. Even your rakish betrothed sees it—he promised you a king’s wedding, didn’t he? You don’t need to try so hard.”

Celine’s breath hitched, her gaze drifting back to the ivory dress, its jasmine embroidery glinting like a secret.

“Rhys,” she murmured. He was eager to fulfill her wishes, but she had to play her part as well. “That reminds me, I need to meet him for tea tomorrow.”

“Oh, really?” Helena drawled teasingly.

“How romantic,” Dahlia added.

Celine laughed, the tension leaving her shoulders. “You’re both impossible.” She set the golden dress down, her eyes lingering on the ivory silk. “I’ll… take the golden one.”

Her heart protested, yet she turned to Madame Dubois and ordered the gaudy dress, her friends’ concerned glances trailing her.

Was the wedding changing her?