Page 77 of The Duke
Now that she knew what to listen for, she had thought she might detect a hint of Celine’s peasant past in her speech. But there was none, just as Celine’s English was rapidly becoming flawless.
Kate smiled warmly and stood. “Then allow me to escort you downstairs.”
She turned a deaf ear to her heart, the way she would have to an unwanted visitor pounding on the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Celine was busy. When she wasn’t in one of the endless dress fittings overseen by Margot, she was chasing down Shaw for information, or dancing with the duke, or keeping up her correspondence that had, frankly, grown a little out of hand (the spectacles had arrived, at last). In the evenings she sat up late, gossiping in English with Adele. But busier still was her mind, formulating its plan.
There was a war in Kate Howard between love and fear, and Celine intended to give love a reason to win. The duke had once tried to kiss her, despite her insalubrious past and standing, and despite a terrible blackmail, which proved the duke could overcome any qualm—given enough inducement.
The obvious place to start was the letter.
Not as a means of forcing the duke into marriage—the very idea was disturbing. But as a gift. As her dowry. A sweet bribe to take what the duke already wanted.
She had a physical advantage as well. The duke wanted her every bit as much as she wanted the duke, a raw attraction she could use.
After some thought, she decided to make her bid for the duke at Lord Seaton’s ball: a perfect setting. It was the event of the season, and she was to be the guest of honour. She would look ravishing. The entire evening would be a persuasive argument:I can belong here with you, in your world. See how they celebrate and adore me? Make me your wife.
She put down her pen, abandoning the letter she’d been writing,and brushed her lips. They were sensitive, as though she had spent three whole days kissing Kate. Her lips, all animal, wanted to kiss.
She stood with a curse, the chair juddering across the floor. She took her unfinished cup of tea and nursed it, staring down into the fire.
She had been writing to Lord Burnley, telling him in the gentlest possible language that she could not receive his addresses at the ball. But the closer the ball came, the harder it was to concentrate on anything other than the event she felt certain was also drawing closer. She and Kate, promised to one another. The duke promising to be hers for a lifetime.
The kissing, afterwards. And not only kissing.
She couldn’t explain her certainty. It was as though after seeing the true shape of the duke’s hesitations, the whole picture had begun to come clear, going back to the night they’d first met. But the picture didn’t only encompass the past—it went before her as well. There was an inevitability to it, a weight, and she knew how the events of the ball would unfold. The night would be a seduction, from start to finish.
The duke would be struck speechless by the gown she and Margot had dreamed up, for which the duke’s own evening dress would be a perfect match. The first unconscious collusion. She would sit beside the duke in the carriage and flirt with her, touch her, make the necessity of parting when the carriage arrived at Lord Seaton’s house a pleasurable pain. During dinner the duke would be seated by her, and she would give the duke the first taste of what it would be like, socially, to have Celine Genet for a wife.
And then the minuet: the slow, maddening dance in and out of each other’s orbit, barely touching before they must part again. She shivered, imagining what the duke would do when the duke first saw her in brilliant candlelight. She thought there was a fairly good chance the duke would kiss her then and there, onlookers be damned, propriety be damned. And as soon as the duke could get her in private, the duke would propose.Marry me, be mine, I love you.
A knock startled her out of her furious soothsaying. She blinked, coming back to her sitting room and the pale, dreary light of an ordinary day. The less handsome footman came to stand just inside the door. “A woman’s asking for an audience, miss.” There was something sceptical in his voice. “She says you’re expecting her.”
It was early in the day for visitors, and she couldn’t think who it might be. Perhaps Lady Florence Morton had grown impatient with their correspondence and decided to storm the castle? Celine wouldn’t put it past her. She waved the footman on, and he admitted the visitor.
Celine’s cup dropped to the carpet from nerveless fingers. The tea would stain, she thought distantly. She would have to ask someone to treat it as soon as possible, or the stain would never come out.
The woman who had entered was tall, pale, and very thin. Her hair was scraped back into a bun, and she clutched a knotted cloth before her that likely held all her worldly possessions. She looked extremely unwell. No wonder the footman had been sceptical. Her eyes were fixed on Celine, dark and resentful.
Is this what I looked like?The thought was incredibly painful.
“Louise,” she whispered.
She didn’t quite know how it happened, but a moment later Louise had dropped her bundle and they were in the centre of the room, in each other’s arms. Louise’s arms were thin and strong, and Celine buried her face in Louise’s neck. She tried to get even closer as she sobbed and held the woman she’d thought was dead. Somehow, against all the odds, Louise had survived. The world had thrown her away, and she’d refused to die.
A distant part of Celine thought, incredulous,You didn’t even like her.But she was deep in the experience of her body, the warm, shuddering happiness. The tears and the vulnerable laughter when at last they looked at each other and Louise ran her thumb beneath Celine’s eye, and more tears rushed in.
“I thought you were dead,” she said at last. “Marie is dead, did you know? How have you survived? I’ll call for food. You mustbe starving. Tea, as well. My God, Louise.” She held Louise’s face and looked at her. It was almost frightening how familiar she was. Celine knew her smell, knew the tightness around her eyes that meant Louise was going to start taking issue with all sorts of annoying little details no one had any control over. Sheknewher. “Forgive me, I—I hardly know what I’m saying. Come, sit. I’ll ring for food.”
Louise sat, dirty and tired, almost swaying. Celine rang for tea and food—too much food, she knew, even as she ordered it. She was remembering her first breakfast in this house. The idea that she had once been like Louise—closer to death than life in a way that was strongly off-putting—kept coming back to frighten her. And yet the duke had seen her like this. The duke knew her like this, and still loved her.
She sat beside Louise and clasped her hand. “You’ll stay here with me, of course. You can go out for work when you’re ready, or spend the rest of your days idle on my coin. I don’t care. Just say you’ll stay.”
Louise nodded and squeezed her hand back.
The footmen brought in tea, cakes, sandwiches, soup, and a meat pie. The more handsome footman stole curious glances at their tearstained faces.
