Page 60 of The Duke
In a stilted voice, the duke said, “I understand flowers are the appropriate gesture when someone is sick. When you woke, I wanted you to know… That is, I wanted you to wake to comfort.”
In their abundance, the flowers were neither appropriate nor comfortable, but she had woken to beauty, and she didn’t know what to make of it.
Casting about for another topic, she could no longer ignore that reality awaited her attention, an impatient queue of boulders, each requiring effort: Lord Burnley, Lord Seaton, the ball of the season, the letter, the blackmail, Markham… There were grooves worn into her where each rested. But the idea of picking a single one up made her feel nauseous and so weak she began to tremble.
But if she didn’t pick them up, she would be crushed anyway.
“Have you seen Lord Burnley? Twelve days is more than enough time for a man to lose interest. I’ll need to let him visit, as soon as I—”
The duke gently pressed her hand and said, “No.” Nothing more, justno, and yet it was spoken with such authority that Celine’s burdens seemed to recede; and she could breathe again. “You will not see anyone, or make any plans, until you are well. I have locked the gate. The bridge is drawn up, and none may come within the walls while you are recovering. You will be well again. No, more than that, you willthrive.”
The sensation of the duke’s considerable power curling protectively around her, guarding her, being put to use on her behalf, was overwhelming. In contrast, she suddenly knew what a weak copy of the real thing it was she’d managed to wrestle for her own use.
The temptation to sink inside it and let the duke keep the world at bay was powerful. But she made herself stay vigilant, an urgency in her mind about what it would mean to cut Lord Burnley off—
“No, Celine,” the duke said with absolute authority. “There isnothing for you to do. All is well. You see”—she gave a small, peculiar laugh—“I have finally understood why you wish to marry, and why Lord Burnley in particular. The Peckes are very good people—in fact I know none better—and with them, you will be loved and cared for. I have taken care of everything. I have spoken to Lord Burnley and given him leave to ask for your hand at the Demi Lux. You have three weeks to rest and recover, to prepare. But you need have no anxieties. You will have your ball, and by the end of it you will have your fiancé as well. There is nothing more you need do butrest.”
She should have felt overwhelming relief—the duke had finally understood her—but instead she felt pricked into unhappy agitation.
She said crossly, “You don’t wish to wait three weeks for my engagement. Even with a quick wedding, it would be almost two months before the letter is returned to you!” As mention of the letter passed her lips, she realised, “No! You are buying yourself time to find the letter and wriggle out of every—”
“Celine.”
“—commitment to me—”
“Celine.”
It was the ragged note in the duke’s voice that finally pulled her up short.
“Perhaps you won’t believe me, but I no longer begrudge you the marriage you wish for. I will happily be the instrument through which you achieve all your heart desires. I will do everything in my power to see you married to Lord Burnley.”
No, worse, that wasworse.
Perhaps taking her silence for scepticism, the duke said calmly, “I haven’t even looked for the letter. You still have it. You still have the letter, so I must do what you say. You have the power here, not me.”
Yes,of course! She still had the letter; that was why the duke was doing all of this. The duke couldn’t afford to let her die. The dukehadto see her married. She breathed a sigh of relief, and at last lay back into her welcoming pillow.
KATE MADE ITa couple of paces down the hall before her knees gave out and she leaned against the wall, turning her face and covering it with her hand.
Celine had woken up. She wasawake. She was going to be all right.
On one of the first days of Celine’s illness—Kate couldn’t remember exactly when; those awful, raving, fevered hours had felt impossibly long—they’d had to change the mattress because it had become soaked through. Kate had been sitting in the armchair, Celine cradled in her arms. She had been thinking about the degradations Celine had preferred to endure rather than come to her. Why hadn’t Celine at least sold the sapphire ring to alleviate some of her desperate poverty? And as two footmen lifted the mattress away, beneath it, Kate had spied something.
She knew, even without looking more closely, that it was the letter. The original.
There, within arm’s reach.
The letter that had been the keystone of her life, the beginning of all that pained her. There, for the taking.
But she couldn’t take it without putting Celine down.
So she sat with Celine’s head sheltered carefully against her shoulder, with Celine’s body wrapped safe within her own, and watched the footmen lumber in with a new mattress and place it on the bed frame, covering the letter.
It wasn’t, however, until that desperate hour when the doctor had held Celine’s wrist, feeling her pulse and slowly shaking his head, that Kate had finally understood herself. She had stared at the limp, sickly body in that bed, whom no one would miss.
What multitudes it contained! The polished young debutante dressed in the first stare of fashion. The calculating, unscrupulous blackmailer with buttons undone and hair down to her bottom. The society exquisite. The jaded streetwalker. The tremblingcourtesan. The exhausted, artless strategist, laying out the path forward, step by step. The child crying because she was hurt. The damsel charming the dragon. A world without Celine in it was impossible to contemplate.
If Celine died, one person would miss her. Kate would miss her.
