Page 9 of A Duke, a Spinster, and her Stolen List (Duchesses of Ice #1)

Chapter Seven

C eline sat at a small round table at Gunter’s. Her gloved hands fidgeted with a silver teaspoon, her blue eyes darting to the door, her heart a tangle of nerves.

She’d invited Rhys to discuss wedding plans—flowers for the breakfast, perhaps—but a second, weightier purpose pressed on her: to define their “marriage of convenience” and protect herself from the intimacy she feared.

Rhys entered, his navy blue coat hugging his strong frame, his dark hair catching the light. His honeyed eyes scanned the room until they found her. A smile curved his lips, forming what almost looked like dimples on his cheeks, but it didn’t last long.

Celine’s breath hitched, her resolve wavering as his presence stirred a warmth she couldn’t name.

He wove through the tables, his boots clicking on the polished floor, and bowed, his charm effortless.

“Lady Celine,” he greeted, his voice warm, taking the seat opposite her. “A tea shop summons? I’m intrigued. What’s afoot?”

Celine forced a smile, her fingers smoothing the tablecloth, the scent of bergamot from the steaming teapot grounding her.

“I wanted your opinion,” she began, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “On the wedding. Flowers, to start. Lilies for St. George’s, perhaps? Or roses—hundreds, to dazzle the ton?”

Her words rushed out, and her eyes flicked to his, seeking approval. But her heart wasn’t in the grandeur; the doubts she had in the dress shop lingered.

Rhys’s brow arched, his fingers drumming lightly on the table, his gaze keen but unreadable. “Lilies? Roses by the hundred?” he said lightly, pouring tea with practiced ease. “Bold choices, My Lady. But they sound… expected. Is that what you want?”

His question was casual, but his eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. Did he believe that her choices echoed the ton’s demands, and not her fire?

Was he right?

Celine flushed, her teaspoon clinking against her cup, her uncertainty surfacing. “Expected is… necessary,” she said, her voice softer, her gaze dropping to the amber liquid. “I promised a spectacle, didn’t I? To make them envy us.”

Her words echoed her vow in his study, but they felt hollow. The golden dress she’d chosen over the ivory silk one weighed on her mind, her friends’ gentle doubts echoing.

Rhys leaned back, his smile teasing, though his suspicion lingered.

“A spectacle, yes,” he agreed, sipping his tea, his eyes never leaving her.

“The roses would be beautiful. They’re every debutante’s choice, but…

they don’t feel like you. What about jasmine?

Subtle, daring, like a certain lady I know. ”

Celine found herself blushing hard at his playful tone.

“Jasmine?” She met his gaze briefly before looking away. “It’s… lovely but too quiet. The ton wants more.”

Her excuse was weak, her vulnerability slipping through. Why did every decision feel like she was losing herself?

Rhys tilted his head, and his eyes narrowed, though he kept his tone light. “The ton wants, does it? And what does Celine want? We can’t plan a wedding based solely on what the ton wants. It’s your wedding. What do you want?”

His question was soft, but it cut. His ease disarmed her, his eyes searching hers for the truth he sensed she was hiding.

She swallowed, her hands twisting in her lap, the shop’s warmth stifling. “I… I’m not sure,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, her blue eyes glistening. “I thought I knew—freedom, my way. But this wedding is… it’s bigger than me.”

Her confession was raw, her uncertainty laid bare, her resolve fraying under his gaze and the ton’s expectations.

Rhys set his cup down, his face softening. “Bigger, maybe, but it’s yours, Celine. You’re not their puppet. Choose what sets you alight.”

His calm confidence—his refusal to push—made her heart flutter.

Was he aware of how he made her feel? She hoped not.

Celine nodded, her blush deepening, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “There’s… another thing,” she added, lifting her, her resolve hardening. “I asked you here to clarify something. Our marriage—it’s on paper, as you said. To me, that means… we won’t share a bed.”

Her words were firm, but her cheeks burned. She had hoped a marriage on paper would imply that they didn’t need to consummate their marriage, but she needed to hear it from him.

Rhys’s brows rose, his smile fading, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he regained his composure.

“No bed,” he affirmed, his voice low, his gaze assessing her. “Clear enough, My Lady. A contract, nothing more. Is there anything else you want?”

His tone was gentle but probing, almost like he could sense the fear beneath her resolve. There was no need to talk about her mother or her fear of childbirth.

Images of that night flashed through her mind without warning.

Her breath hitched, and her eyes darted to the window, beyond which a carriage rattled past. “It’s… what I need,” she said, her voice trembling, her hands clenching in her lap. “I can’t—I won’t risk more. You said freedom, and I’m holding you to it.”

Her words were a shield, but her uncertainty bled through, her attraction to him—a spark she couldn’t name—clashing with her fear.

Rhys leaned forward, his eyes warm. “Freedom, then,” he said, his tone sincere, though a hint of challenge lingered.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She didn’t know why, but it felt right in the moment.

“You’re welcome,” he answered.

His smile returned slowly; it made her squirm in her seat.

Celine sat frozen, her tea cooling, her heart a tumult of relief and doubt, his words—fire, not a shadow—lingering, threatening to unravel her carefully drawn lines.

Celine sat at the mahogany table in the morning room, her quill poised over a notebook, the sunlight filtering through the lace curtains casting dappled patterns on her blue muslin dress.

The scent of her jasmine perfume mingled with the faint aroma of beeswax polish, grounding her as she planned the wedding breakfast, a spectacle to fulfill her vow of having the most enviable wedding.

Mary, her lady’s maid, stood nearby. Her graying hair was tucked under a white cap, her hands smoothing a linen cloth, her brown eyes watchful.

“Turtle soup, perhaps,” Celine said flatly, noting down the dish. “And gilded pastries—gold leaf, to dazzle the ton. Maybe ortolan in aspic?”

Her blue eyes flicked to Mary, seeking approval, but her heart wasn’t in it. The extravagance clashed with her soul, although she told herself it was simply because she had never had to plan a wedding before.

Mary’s lips twitched, her maternal warmth softening her tone. “Turtle soup’s fine for lords, My Lady, but it’s a heavy choice. Your mother, God rest her soul, preferred simpler fare—roast lamb, fresh herbs. You’re not yourself with all this… show.”

Celine’s quill paused, her chest tightening at the mention of her mother. “It’s not about me, Mary,” she said, setting the quill down. “I promised a spectacle to silence the ton’s sneers. They mocked me—insulted my mother’s memory.”

Her fingers picked at the embroidery of her skirts as she remembered the interaction at the perfumery that had set all of this into motion.

Mary stepped closer and rested her hand on the table, her voice gentle. “The ton’s always sneering, love. You’re marrying for you and your father’s debts, not them. Why not add something of yours? Jasmine centerpieces, like your favorite perfume? It’d be a nod to your heart.”

Celine’s eyes softened, remembering one of the items on her list— create a perfume .

“Jasmine,” she murmured, a spark of warmth breaking through. “And maybe a syllabub, spiced with clove, like I’ve been mixing. It’s bold, like… like me.”

She gave a smile, small but genuine, her fear of losing herself in marriage subsiding under Mary’s care.

“Aye, that’s my girl,” Mary said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Your mother would be proud, seeing you shine. Don’t let the ton dim your light.”

A knock interrupted, and the butler entered, carrying a large parcel wrapped in muslin, along with a sealed letter tucked beneath the ribbon.

“From His Grace, the Duke of Wylds,” he announced with a bow, his gray livery pristine. “And an invitation, My Lady.”

Celine’s heart skipped a beat, her fingers trembling as she took the parcel, the morning room’s warmth suddenly stifling.

“Thank you, Stokes,” she said, her voice steady despite her fast pulse.

The butler retreated, and Mary raised a brow, lingering as Celine broke the seal and unfolded Rhys’s note.

Celine,

This is your wedding, not the ton’s. Choose what brings you joy, not what silences their whispers. Wear these as you wish, or not at all.

I’ve secured us an invitation to Lady Worthing’s ball. Join me, and let’s show them just how bright you can burn.

Rhys.

Her cheeks warmed, for the words echoed Mary’s. Did everyone else but her notice the way her joy dimmed with each new choice?

She untied the parcel, revealing two dresses. The first was a wedding dress—ivory silk, sleek and elegant, with delicate jasmine embroidery. The very one she’d fallen in love with at Madame Dubois’s but rejected for not being showy enough for the ton.

“Helena and Dahlia,” she murmured, realizing her friends had conspired with Rhys.

It was the only way he could have known about the dress. After Mary’s words, she was glad they’d gone behind her back, her heart lifting at the dress’s authenticity.

The second dress stole her breath. It was a masterpiece of emerald-green silk, its daring cut nearly identical to the dress she’d been wearing when she first met Rhys. Its neckline was deep, the fabric shimmering.

“He remembered,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the silk.

Mary chuckled, peering over her shoulder. “That man’s got good taste, I’ll give him that. The wedding dress is you , love—pure fire. And that green one? You’ll set that ball ablaze.”