Page 71 of The Duke
Celine stumbled back a little, her skirts swaying around her. She was red-cheeked and breathing hard.
The sight filled Kate with guilty concern. Had she been pushing Celine too hard?
Celine fell suddenly into a curtsey so that Kate could no longer read the expression on her face. When she straightened, she looked composed, her cheeks returned to their normal, healthy colour.
Kate breathed a sigh of relief. “Shall I ask Mr. Forsyth’s opinion of debutantes dancing the waltz?” she asked in a light, teasing tone. She was strong enough to do this. “I’m sure he shall have something rational to say on the matter.”
“So long,” Celine rejoined pertly, “as you also ask him whether a debutante may ever lead.”
CELINE WAS INagony. Celine was going out of her goddamn mind. An afternoon in the duke’s arms, basking in her playful attention, was torture. And she was still no closer to knowing whether a future with the duke was possible.
After days of deep thought and careful observation, she had come to two conclusions. The first was that the duke was not immune to her. In fact, she had come to believe the duke felt something closeto her own infatuation and had even let herself cautiously imagine this had been the reason the duke nursed her through her illness.
The second was that there was a powerful obstacle that kept the duke from pursuing her. There was an invisible line between them beyond which the duke refused to step: like when the duke had uttered those insane words,Thank you for not dying, and she had not been able to help moving towards the duke—and the duke had pulled back.
Most likely the obstacle was the letter. Not only Celine’s possession of it, but that Celine had threatened the duke with it. Certainly,shewould never forgive such a thing. How could she dream the duke might one day trust her, or freely love her?
“Celine.” The way the duke spoke her name—the sudden change in her tone from playful to private—pulled her out of her reverie.
The duke’s gloved hand was on her bare arm. Her body was sensitised from an afternoon in the duke’s company, but for all it sent thrills through her, the touch was impersonal, and the duke’s eyes were dark and sober.
“Some correspondence came for me this morning, I wanted to tell you. I’m so sorry, I—”
And suddenly, she knew. The heat leached out of the afternoon.
“They’re dead, aren’t they? Louise and Marie. They died as well.” She didn’t even know why she’d asked the duke to look. Of course they were dead. She’d left them nearly two months ago in Paris, arguing with the undertaker over Mathilde’s corpse, and things would only have worsened for them since.
The duke said, “I have the testimony of the man who buried Marie, and her landlady’s testimony as well. The description and circumstances match what you told me.”
Landlady was clearly a polite euphemism. She looked down and saw her gloves lying on the floor. She must have pulled them off. “And Louise?”
“The gravedigger mentions a second woman the landlady wanted him to bury, but she couldn’t afford to pay him for both. The landlady herself only mentions one. I’ll write again.”
There was no use. The second body would be Louise. Celine hadn’t even particularly liked either of the women. “No, don’t—”
“Celine,” the duke said very gently, and clasped her hand. “I’ll write again.”
She looked up, unable to speak.
The truth was that she should be dead as well. It had been almost certain, except for the ring she’d never sold and the letter she’d kept hidden. With those two artefacts, she had bought herself a stay of execution—and she would be able to live out the rest of her days in luxury.
Except, she thought, looking up at the duke, tall and powerful and intent, it was all for nothing. She no longer wanted everything she had bought for herself. She only wanted this.
The duke took Celine’s face lightly in her hands, stroking, searching. “My dear little friend, what is it? Is something more troubling you?”
Please have me, she thought senselessly, the words moving through her whole body.Please have me. Please.Her heart was breaking with longing. She very nearly spoke then, but a deep, calm voice within urged caution. She didn’t yet understand the obstacle in her path. It might be impossible for the duke to hear what was in her heart. She had done nothing to prepare the way. If she spoke of marriage now, and the duke was horrified, or cold, or sorry, or embarrassed, she wouldn’t get her chance back.
“It’s nothing,” she said, and forced a smile to her lips. “I am well.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
That night Celine couldn’t sleep, so when the duke started yelling, she heard it. It was the same pained screaming she’d heard what felt like a lifetime ago, soon after she first arrived in London. That time, Margot had stopped her from going to the duke and had instead taken her down to the kitchen to share chocolate and stories. The valet, for reasons Celine still didn’t fully understand, had filled in some of the duke’s history for her.
Margot had been right to stop her, then. What business had it been of hers?
Silence fell for some minutes, and she sank back into bed gingerly, all her senses alert. She closed her eyes and made a halfhearted pretence at going to sleep. The yelling started again, and again she was sure it was a name the duke yelled, indistinct at this distance.
She slipped out of bed, stopping to wrap a shawl about her shoulders and light a hand candle, then made her way down the long hallway. The door to the duke’s bedroom—into which she had never been admitted—drew her forward. Behind that door, the duke was in pain.
