Page 67 of The Duke
For a moment, there was nothing but a kind of blank surprise on Celine’s face before finally, she began to smile. It was a wicked, wicked smile that lit up her eyes. “I love you,” Celine said ardently, the words formed and thrown by her vulgar mouth.
Kate bit off a curse and looked away.
“I love you,” Celine said with sadistic thoroughness. “I love you.”
She was constantly underestimating Celine and constantly paying for it. Perhaps she should have taken warning from their night together in Paris. Perhaps if she hadn’t so thoroughly closed the door on it, she would have remembered how there was nothing Celine wouldn’t do, no intimacy she wouldn’t give or receive.
Perhaps from the first moment she saw Celine in London, she would have felt the level of caution Celine merited.
“Well?” Celine said smugly. “Have I proven myself?” She had returned to her own side of the seat. It didn’t seem to matter. Kate could still feel her.
She had to clear her throat a couple of times before she could answer. “You know you have.”
No lover had ever intuited her desires the way Celine had just done. Celine had unravelled her using only words. What would it feel like if Celine brought the skill of her body to bear as well? If she had put her mouth on Kate’s neck, and her hand between Kate’s legs?
Kate swore again.
She hadn’t at any time forgotten it was a performance, a demonstration, but while she raged with desire, the ease with which Celine now dropped the act and returned to normal conversation was hard to swallow.
She thought, jealously, of the lovers Celine had had in Paris. Then she remembered those lovers had enjoyed the performance and never known the woman. Which would Lord Burnley have? She thought of Celine’s eyes opening this morning and the warmth with which they’d regarded her. Her face grew hot again.
If you think I’ll let you near me, then you have taken absolute leave of your senses.
“I hope Mr. Benson has thought to provide a tea on our arrival,” Celine said in an easy, unselfconscious voice. “A day out in the countryside is such a rare treat. You must tell me about your country estates, Duke, I know nothing about them.”
Thus, Celine drew Kate into measured, pleasurable conversation, and slowly Kate was able to forget her embarrassment, her confusion. She was able to enjoy the sunshine and the company, to think with anticipation of the horse she was going to buy.
It was greater proof than anything that had come before it of Celine’s skill.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mr. Benson’s house was a comfortable manor made of brick, worn in and lovingly used. Mr. Benson stood on the overgrown gravel drive waiting for them. He was an unpretentious, countrified gentleman, who handed Celine down from the phaeton himself.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Genet. The drive was not too exhausting, I hope?”
(I love—)
“Not at all, Mr. Benson,” she said, shaking off her preoccupation and exerting herself to smile. On the other side of the highflier, the duke handed the reins off, her tone cold and impersonal as she instructed the groom. “I enjoyed seeing more of the English countryside. What a lovely old house you have!”
He coloured with pleasure. “May I see you inside, to freshen up after your journey? It’s a little rough and ready, but you’ll find all you need.”
“Please.”
After she had washed off the dust from the road in a private room, she was shown to a gallery—preceded through the door by three enormous dogs whose tails whacked her skirts—where Mr. Benson awaited her. She had no idea where the duke had gone and was somehow embarrassed to ask.
Mr. Benson had begun telling her some of the history of his house when sounds from outside intruded: squawks and laughter that could be heard from all the way down the long drive. She came to the front stairs on Mr. Benson’s heels and saw twocurricles haring up the driveway carrying four young men apiece, nearly overbalancing the seat at every slight turn.
Mr. Benson shook his head, saying with exasperation, “They’re sportsmen to a man, come to admire what they themselves can’t hope to buy. I know them from the racing circuit. Horse-mad, all of them.”
The boisterous young men decanted themselves from the curricles and tripped up the stairs to try to jolly their way inside. The first of them caught sight of Celine and fell back a step, a stunned look on his face, with disastrous consequences for his fellows, who were still rushing up the stairs behind.
She laughed, delighted, and in a trice, she had the chaotic group organised around a single uniting principle: herself.
The party moved inside into a cluttered, well-used parlour that became very crowded once they all filed in. The large, glowering gentleman already ensconced in the corner was, Celine surmised after some time, the thwarted Russian buyer. Tea was served.
The mood was lively and admiring, and Celine was enjoying herself enormously when the stableboy dashed in some twenty minutes later. His neckerchief was askew, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes shining. “They’re bringing Bold Titus out,” he said. “Quickly, follow me!” And she was supplanted in everybody’s interest by a horse.
BOLD TITUSMADEthe duke’s carriage horses—that ill-mannered, athletic pair—look like ponies. Celine hadn’t a clear idea what his English name meant, but she would’ve resorted to cliché in order to capture him: Lucifer, Beelzebub, Devil.
