Page 62 of The Duke
“A sodomite, you wretch.”
The duke began to laugh—lips whose sharp contours had been scraped from clay with the side of a knife, the slow curve that revealed the duke’s teeth: hard and sharp, her canines long, like a fistful of knives. A mouth made for gnashing and devouring.
And close enough that she could lean forward and lick it. And smiling, tender.
She couldn’t stand it. She grabbed one of her pillows and began beating the duke with it, which only made the duke laugh more, arms held above her head.
“Stop,” the duke cried, and then more calmly, “Stop, Celine, I don’t wish to see you overtax yourself.”
Celine sat back in a huff. “You won’t let me go farther than the garden, and that for no more than twenty minutes—”
“You did nearly swoon the first time, to be fair. Only my arm kept you from—”
“You won’t let me eat the sweets Lord Seaton sent. Indeed, while we’re on the topic, you won’t let Lord Seaton visit me—”
“I have told you, the bridge is drawn up.”
She felt, but would never admit to, the warm security of knowing she need see no one and go nowhere until Lord Seaton’s ball in three weeks. “The castle walls are secure while I recover, yes, you have said, but perhaps if you would let me eat anything more substantial than— One cannot subsist on tea and broth and pornography alone, you know.”
The duke laughed and closed the book. “I simply wanted to remind you there are still some small pleasures worth living for.”
Well, that was sobering. “Was it as bad as all that?”
The duke’s face changed. “There was a day or two,” she said carefully, “when you were rather poorly. It… displeased me.”
Celine shivered, thinking of Mathilde’s body on the floor, of the way a body died.
She wondered suddenly what had happened to the other two women who had lived with them in the garret room, Louise and Marie, and couldn’t think why the question hadn’t occurred to her before. The last time she saw them, Marie had been offering herself to the undertaker, begging him to take Mathilde’s corpse away. Mathilde had been dead two days already, going on three.
She could see the two women so clearly, like the image had been right there this whole time, close, waiting for her to look. They’d been pale and exhausted. Drawn and almost skeletal. Looked like you’d catch something if you touched them. And still, the undertaker had been interested.
Celine had walked out the door then and there with nothing but a coat, a letter, and the Duke of Howard’s ring.
Louise and Marie hadn’t possessed any such treasures. There had been no path of escape for them. One or both would be dead by now.
The duke was holding her hand and gently rubbing it. Celine was warm. She was safe. She was in London, in a room full of flowers, and sweets she wasn’t allowed to eat, with an English duke who hadn’t left her side in days. “Don’t cry,” the duke said quietly, “my dear little friend, don’t cry. You will make the gentlemen and their interesting back door feel so awfully wretched.”
She smiled through her tears and pushed the duke’s shoulder. Her hand lingered. Such warm strength. She felt it beside her when they took their daily turn about the garden. Strength she could rely on. Lean on.
A warm hand came suddenly around hers. The duke lifted Celine’s hand away, then pressed her face into it for a moment, eyes closed. Not a kiss, but enough to make Celine think, stunned,The duke tried to kiss me.It came back to her. Standing in the green parlour downstairs, the duke’s feral eyes locked on hers, the duke’s mouth pressing a passionate kiss into her palm.
Her scalp constricted sharply. The duke’s eyes met hers for a bare moment before looking away. The duke folded Celine’s hand neatly into a fist and put it down on the covers. Prim and proper, like a butler folding napkins.
“Perhaps I can find something a little more improving for the mind,” the duke said mildly, standing, “and less liable to make you cry. I’ll go down to the library and return shortly.”
“No,” Celine said, her voice coming out a mere rasp. The duke’s eyes were hooded, suddenly unreadable. Celine cleared her throat and tried again. “No, don’t bring another novel. You may invite Mr. Shaw to join you in my room and discuss the matters that need your attention. I assume he will suffer an aneurysm if you make him wait any longer?”
The duke seemed to freeze, giving no response.
“Forgive me, will you require Miss Everett as well?” Celine asked. “She’s welcome to join you.”
Slowly, colour infused the duke’s high cheeks. “Thank you, Celine,” she said, not meeting Celine’s eye. Ghostly remembrance brushed over Celine’s skin. “I should have known you would— That is, it’s very like you to realise what must be done. I’ll call for Shaw now.”
Shaw, predictably, was ready with a stack of correspondence and folders enough to require four footmen to carry them all in. The small writing desk disappeared. Miss Everett insisted the duke was due a haircut. Mr. Hill required an audience regarding some household business, and the housekeeper came soon after.
And so, Celine’s bedroom became the most crowded room in the house, where all the day’s business was conducted.
“THERE’S SOMETHING Iwanted to ask you,” Celine said after supper, when she and the duke were alone. Supper had been broth, of course. She might be tempted to tip the next bowl of the stuff down the duke’s shirtfront. “I wonder if you can help me find someone in France?” The question, from her own lips, was a surprise. She’d been thinking of Louise and Marie but hadn’t known she’d decided on a course of action. “Two people, actually. Two women. I’d say the chances of them already lying in an anonymous grave are high, and the chances of finding them if they’re alive are minuscule, but do you think you could…”
