Page 42 of The Duke
Oh, the glory of that moment. She had never won an advantage so decisive or landed a blow so devastating to him, and she was there to see itland.
And there was nothing he could do. Leap up and rant and rave, gaining himself no advantage?But I didn’t do my reading, sir!No. He would look foolish. He would look like a sore loser, a figure of fun. The great Lord Wroth, diminished.
All he could do was seethe and let her see in his eyes that there would be no forgiveness. That he would hit back, and it would hurt.
She nearly laughed aloud.
Let him try. Her single weakness was so well hidden, he would never find it. Against all expectation, Celine had taken society by storm; she was their darling, above reproach. Within the month she would be married, and Kate would have burned the letter. In every other regard, Lord Wroth had taught her too well. He himself had formed her to be able to withstand any attack. She was like a body that, surviving his early attempt to destroy it, had become inoculated against him.
WHEN KATE LEFTWestminster Palace an hour later, she tilted her head up to the sun and took a deep breath. It felt sweet. New.
With great speed, the church would now take the mines into their pocket. The Crown, glad to be spared the expense of this piece of public welfare, would make no objection.
Lord Wroth could not have the mines back.
And Kate… she scarcely knew how to feel. She had expected it to be a lifetime’s work. Expensive, exhausting, with few wins and far too many losses. But with no warning at all, it was done. The weight of fifteen years, lifted from her shoulders.
A small piece of recompense made, at last.
And all because of Celine. Celine, who had used Kate’s private pain as a weapon. Celine, who had found the means by which Kate could begin to make amends.
She walked home with an unsettling eagerness. She had promised to take Celine for a drive in the park before their celebratory dinner with the Peckes. Four footmen bowed her through the street gate, and she strode impatiently across the front courtyard.
As she approached the front door it opened, expelling the person who so thoroughly occupied her thoughts. Celine wore a walking dress with voluminous skirts that fluttered then settled round her legs. The material was muslin, printed with tiny flowers. A long blue shawl fell from her elbows at uneven lengths, and her shoes were of fine kidskin in the same colour. She put a hand to her bonnet to keep it from flying away and stood for a moment atop the steps of Howard House, her face turned into the sun’s warm, caressing touch.
When she caught sight of Kate finally, her expression became opaque.
Warmth unfurled in Kate, pouring into the gaps between her resentment, her rage. How was she to think of this woman, this parasitic tick, this beautiful strategist? Celine’s lush upper lip pulled down into fine, curling lines that looked like they’d been drawn with a pencil; the sun lit her green eyes on fire.
Slowly, Celine came down the steps until she stood one step above Kate.
“Well?” Celine said.
“Well,” Kate said, and a smile broke free of her iron control. “We won.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Celine dreamt she was drinking broth—huge, drowning mouthfuls. But she couldn’t keep it down. Every mouthful came up again, and she gasped her apologies between retches. It was like an ocean pouring from her mouth, covering the floor of the garret.
Louise didn’t seem to notice. “You’re doing it wrong,” she said, annoyed now. Louise favoured satin dresses with a low bodice, though she had no bosom to speak of. Her dishwater hair was scraped back off her face.
Celine tried to say, “Mathilde’s lying on the floor. She’s going to drown.” More urgent, though, was finishing the soup. Ravenous, hopeful of success, she drank down another mouthful.
“Don’t!” Marie cried out, and Celine woke, the word as clear as if it had been spoken aloud in her room. As if it, from outside the dream, had been what woke her.
She lay still and wide-eyed until the last echoes of Marie’s voice faded. She cringed away from opening the bed curtains, deathly certain Marie stood directly on the other side. She made herself breathe slowly, visualising what she knew in reality she would see: an empty room, the fire burned low. She was in London. She was safe.
She and the duke had dined at the Peckes’ on Friday evening in celebration of Lord Pecke’s bill passing. They’d attended the opera in Lady Pecke’s box, gone to church, and eaten Sunday dinner together. Lord Burnley had begun to treat her with a marked attention.
The nightmare had receded a little and with it, the certainty that Marie was in her room, but it still took some courage to fling the bed curtain open. A huge figure loomed on the other side of it.
She leapt across the room so fast she knocked over the chair by the fire. It was pure instinct. Her heart—or was it her breath?—was making such a racket she couldn’t hear anything, though every sense was straining.
Someone was in her room.
Someone was in herroom.
Someone had come in here while she was asleep and waited patiently, quietly in the dark. Her heart kept speeding up, it wouldn’t stop, it only got faster, it was going to burst.
