Page 18 of The Duke
Celine walked sedately towards Kate. She had surely never looked so wholesome, so pristine. Wrapped in virgin white linen, she embodied the moral virtues of fresh laundry and baby swaddling, while the suggestion of bedsheets wrapped about her legs added a singed whiff of the scandalous—no more than a perfumer would have added. She stopped before Kate and raised her brows as though to say smugly,Well?WillI do?
She was beautiful.
She wasbeautiful.
The effect on Kate was considerable, but it was a purely animal response to what attracted her, and it could be controlled. With some effort, she did so. It allowed her to remember what was at stake here and what Celine’s beauty meant. She smiled. Good. Ifher own response to Celine was anything to go by, this was very good news indeed.
Should Lord Burnley need any reason to propose beyond the twenty thousand she was offering, here it was.
She touched her gloved thumb to Celine’s cheek, then to her mouth. She said to Everett, “Apply more colour here, and here, until her natural colour returns.” This close, she could smell Celine—rosemary and peaches from her hair, the bitter tang of face powder and a confounding whiff of the church. Warm and fathomless beneath those scents, like the sea bearing up small boats, was Celine’s native scent. The hair rose along Kate’s arms when she felt a pang of recognition. She dropped her hand.
“Follow me.” She turned sharply and strode towards the door, her cane ringing against the stones. Despite the distance she put between them, she still caught snatches of the familiar scent, as though she were being followed by a ghost.
THE FRONT YARDof the duke’s house was a large, paved courtyard with a fountain in the middle, flanked on three sides by the house and screened off from the street by a row of pillars. On each end was an imposing iron gate for entry and exit. Both the stone and iron looked far older than the house itself, which reared up around Celine like the white cliffs of Dover, crisp and square.
An open landau waited in the yard, with four horses on. Eight footmen and the driver attended, all dressed in blue and silver. She had no doubt whatsoever their buttons were made of pure, polished silver. The duke’s crest was inlaid into the side of the carriage in the same metal.
They swayed into motion. Sunlight travelled over the duke’s hair and face, flashing heaven-bright and then dimming to the thousand subtle shades of bleached bone. She wore a tall hat of brushed felt that picked up a brilliant shine. She looked out into the street, and passing shadows threw her chin and cheeks into shifting silhouettes, brutal and breathtaking by turn. Her lips were a uniform,hard line. Celine felt a squirming disbelief, remembering how she’d once aspired to please that grim mouth. How, knowing nothing, she had thought she could make it smile. The duke’s shoulders were pressed back into the deep-buttoned seat, her long, powerful legs sprawled before her, one booted toe tapping out an impatient rhythm. Her gloved hand gripped the top of a cane: a silver wolf’s head with diamond eyes, its mouth folded back into a snarl.
Celine felt a deep, spreading pressure beneath her breastbone.
She had never hated anyone like she hated the duke. Her childhood idolisation had been so stupid.
The duke turned to her and their eyes met. Only then did Celine realise she’d been staring. The duke betrayed no surprise at meeting her gaze; she had been aware the whole time of the unwavering attention.
Flustered—angry with herself—Celine looked away.
The narrow shops that stood shoulder-to-shoulder along the street, jostling for space, opened suddenly into a broad, muddy junction presided over by an imposing statue of a man on a horse. They passed effortlessly through the traffic and rubbish, pedestrians moving quickly out of their path.
“Do you have a plan to see me married?” she asked, plucking agitatedly at the downy feathers of her muff. She couldn’t believe she’d been staring—as though she didn’t know better. “I don’t want to waste any time.”
“Don’t concern yourself that I have forgotten your demands, or that I balk at them now. You are entirely aware I may not.”
Startled, Celine glanced over her shoulder at the two tall, handsome footmen who rode behind. Each looked impassively ahead as though ignorant of all conversation. Perhaps the footmen couldn’t entirely make out what was being said, but Celine wouldn’t have bet her secrets on it.
The duke said, “They don’t understand French,” then leaned forward. “But you needn’t worry about the servants talking. I may as well tell you—you’ll hear the rumours soon enough—there was a maid some ten years ago who sold information about me to thegossip rags, and I had her killed. A slight overreaction, you might think, but it keeps them loyal.”
Celine reared sharply back.
Killed!
It somehow shocked her when it shouldn’t have. The duke had let Bastien die rather than save him. The duke had leftherto die. But to have a servant, no matter how badly she had misbehaved,killed…
The enormity of what she was doing rushed in on her.Thiswas the monster she had caged. How was she going to come out of it alive?
The duke settled back into her seat, looking as though Celine amused her.
“Would that I had an offer tomorrow,” Celine said, “and could be done with you. We were speaking of a plan?”
“I have taken a survey of the field and selected the most promising of the available bachelors to be your husband. He’s from a good family, his reputation unimpeachable, and his future prospects considerable.”
They had entered a pastoral green, palaces and cathedrals brushed neatly to its edges, and drove down a treed avenue, the horses picking up pace.
She frowned. “A husband? Who?”
“Henry Farnsworth-Baxter, the Viscount Burnley, heir to the Pecke earldom.”
It was a solid, gleaming shield of a name, so grand a flush suffused her skin. She couldn’t deny her interest, or the acquisitive heat of her response. Could she win herself such a prize?
