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S ummer always had a way of brightening any mood.

Well, almost any mood, Lady Cecelia Bloom thought as she spotted her good friend, the Duke of Frosthaven, across the lawn, standing in a spot of shade, swatting away at bugs. Tall, handsome, and visibly uncomfortable. Also known to hate long summers. And heat in general.

“Barnaby!” Lady Cecelia called, though she was known as Celia to her close friends. She clutched her fan and strode toward him with a grin. “What are you doing out here? I didn’t think you capable of leaving the comfort of your study.”

His eyes met hers, and she laughed at the note of broodiness there. “A reprieve from my mother and the incessant racket she is he creating,” he answered equally broodingly.

Celia laughed. “Racket? You mean her preparations for tonight’s masquerade ball? I hear it’s going to be the event of the countryside.”

“Why she insists on holding one, God only knows,” he muttered, dabbing a handkerchief over his brow.

Only then did she notice he’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms. Surprise filled her.

It must be the first time she’d seen him so unpoised.

“Perhaps she wants you to find a wife without the pressure of a normal ball. A masquerade is quite fun and is known to create a certain allure.”

“I think,” he said dryly, batting at a rather persistent bug, “I don’t want to find a wife yet. A life untroubled needs no mending.”

“Perhaps if you had engaged more with the guests these past two days, she might feel more reassured. I fear she will go to every possible length over the next five days of the house party.”

A grunt. “I still don’t want to find a wife.”

Celia smiled. An interesting thought. “You might not, but I certainly do.”

His brow instantly furrowed. “You want to do what?”

“Well, I’m going to find a suitor,” Celia announced brightly into the storm clouds gathering on his countenance.

For three seasons she hadn’t given any man the time of day.

She’d been too busy enjoying the sparkle and spice of each season, much to her family’s growing dismay.

But lately, a yearning had sprouted in her heart.

She wanted to find a partner. A man. Love.

“For what purpose?” he asked, the furrow deepening.

“Why, to marry of course. Why else?” Honestly, this man!

“Marry?” He paused mid-swat. “You?”

“Why not me?” she challenged, instantly ruffled, planting her hands on her hips. What was with that tone? “Can’t I marry?”

He coughed, tugging at his cravat. “Of course you can. I only meant,” another tug, “whatever madness has possessed you to decide this now?”

She didn’t quite know the answer to that question, just an all-consuming sense that it had to be now, so she simply said, “It’s the natural way of things, Barnaby.” She cocked her head, eyes narrowing on him. “Or do you not believe I could find a suitor here?”

“On the contrary,” he said looking both alarmed and annoyed. “I have no doubt you could have the pick of the lot. I simply assumed you’d be content as a spinster for life.”

Celia blinked at the man. “So, you are saying that you already see me as a spinster, then? Do I give off a spinsterish scent? How horrifying.”

“Don’t be absurd. There is nothing spinsterish about how you smell.”

“Yet here you are believing I’d stay one.”

“Damnation, all I’m saying is that you’ve never shown interest in marriage before.”

Well, that was true. “I should be offended, but you are right. I have never given any indication of wanting to marry, but I never meant to remain unattached all my life.”

“I see.” A beat passed. “It seems I’ll be left behind in bachelorhood, then.”

“If you’re so worried, perhaps you ought to find a match yourself. Use this masquerade. Let us get married together.”

“What an absurd thought.”

Celia laughed at his sneer. “What is so ridiculous? You finding a match or us wedding together?”

“Both.”

“Don’t look so put out. Miracles happen when you give them a chance.” She reached out and gave an absent brush to a stray lock on his forehead. “Perhaps, tonight, you will meet the woman of your dreams.”

“You mean the dream I never knew I had,” he said sourly.

Exactly. “And perhaps I shall meet mine.”

*

So, Celia wanted to find a husband.

Barnaby Westbrook, fifth Duke of Frosthaven, didn’t know how to feel about that.

Other than happiness, he shouldn’t feel anything about it.

Yet all he tasted was a note of bitterness.

He’d known Cecelia for fifteen years of thirty—half his life—and they’d become close friends in that period of time, and this was the first time she’d never used the word marriage .

He winced again.

A spinster for life?

What possessed him to utter such a thing?

He supported her in everything, but this made him deuced uncomfortable.

As though he had been shoved to the brink of losing something precious.

After all, if she married, she would direct all her attention to her husband.

That’s how these marriage things worked, did they not?

He’d be lucky to get tossed a scrap of her time.

Perhaps Celia had a point. Perhaps he should find someone, too.

If only his whole body didn’t balk at the idea.

And where would he find another woman like her?

Another woman who didn’t stand on ceremony because of his title?

Who didn’t hesitate to scold him whenever he vexed her.

But most importantly, where would he find someone who could carry on a discussion with him about anything and everything under the sun?

Celia was the first—and only—person who made conversation feel like breathing.

Now she wanted to marry.

Barnaby tugged at his cravat.

This damnable heat. He swatted away another bug that arrived to buzz at his ear.

“I know what you are worried about,” she said, snapping open her fan and waving it near her face in slow strokes. “You’re not certain you shall find common ground with any lady, enough to form true a companionship.”

Barnaby sighed, glancing up at sky. He dreaded that possibility, yes. Things were perfect as they were now, were they not? “You know me too well.”

“If you are troubled at the thought that affection may not take root in your union, just try to find someone you can share a laugh with first.” She nudged his arm. “Perhaps someone you have the desire to kiss.”

His gaze fell on her smile, before bursting out, “What are you saying?”

She outright laughed, directing her fan at him to fan his face. “What? Did I offend your terribly sensitive sensibilities?”

Barnaby scowled, swatting the thing away. Little witch. “You don’t just meet someone and have the desire to kiss.” He paused, an unsettling thought popping into his head. “Do you have someone you desire to kiss?”

“Not yet, no.”

He cursed the relief that pulsed through his veins at her response. “Stop talking about kissing,” Barnaby grumbled. “We men are visual creatures. I’d rather not have an image of you kissing a man in my head.”

The witch’s grin widened. “Do you find the thought of me kissing a man that off-putting?”

“Of course.” He bloody well didn’t want that picture creeping into his head. “It’s like imagining my father kissing my mother.” Her jaw dropped, and Barnaby cursed. “That came out more awkwardly than I intended.”

“I cannot believe you just compared me to your mother!”

What could he say? “She is a formidable woman.”

“That’s not the point!” She snapped her fan shut and pointed it at him. “Wait, does that mean you think kissing me would be like kissing your mother?”

“What nonsense are you spouting?” It wasn’t remotely the same. His mother and Celia... Blast it. Yet another picture he didn’t want in his head. “I know the difference.”

She crossed her arms, her whole body puffing up in challenge, demanding, “Then would you kiss me?”

“What the devil are you saying, woman? I could never kiss you. It would be like kissing my—” She arched a brow. “My... sister. If I had one.” Confound it. How had the topic taken such a harrowing turn?

She snapped her fan open with a scoff. “I suppose I cannot fault you for that.”

Barnaby froze. “How so?” he asked before he could think better of it. Her entire tone practically beckoned him to step into some sort of female trap.

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, I think I agree. Kissing you might very well be like kissing a brother.” She pulled a face. “Let’s not talk about this ever again.”

Oddly offended, but choosing not to argue, Barnaby muttered, “Agreed.”

She fixed him with a pointed stare. “So, are you going to accept my advice and at least attempt to find someone with whom to share a laugh with this evening?”

Barnaby clamped his mouth shut in answer, lest he agree to something he would most certainly regret. His gaze shifted to where the servants were carrying furniture out into the garden. Much like Celia, his mother was utterly unreserved for the occasion. It made his skin itch with unease.

“No need to answer that,” Celia murmured. “I can see that you’re not.”

“I’m not as enthusiastic as you are.” If he should ever find a prospective wife, he’d want her to be his best friend, too.

And he doubted there was another woman as Celia in the world.

But she wasn’t interested in him that way.

And he wasn’t interested in her that way.

Who the devil had created marriage anyway?

His gaze locked onto a bug hovering just above the exposed curve of Celia’s throat. Without thinking, he batted the creature away, his fingers accidentally brushing against her skin. Barnaby yanked his hand back. “My apologies.”

“What’s the matter?” she asked, brows furrowing at his clenched hand.

“A bug,” he muttered, unfurling his fist, and said, to distract her and himself, “I can’t promise that I will meet someone to share a laugh with, but I shall try.”

Her eyes widened, almost in disbelief, but most certainly in delight. She grabbed his hand and swung it about. “Splendid! Barnaby, look at you slowly crawling out of your shell!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He was probably going to regret his words, and any actions they prompted him to tonight.

No, he most certainly would.