“And French, Italian, and a little Greek. Languages are patterns. Once you understand the structure, the rest follows logically.”
“Like people?” she asked, sliding the Byron back into place.
“People are rarely logical.” He stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the warmth of him despite not quite touching. “They act against their own interests. They choose emotion over reason. They convince themselves of the most extraordinary lies.”
“Is that what I’ve done? Convinced myself of a lie?”
“That depends on what you’ve told yourself about this marriage.”
She turned to face him. “I’ve told myself it’s a business arrangement. That we’re each gaining something we need. That it doesn’t have to be more than that.”
“And is that enough for you?”
The question hung between them, heavy with meanings she wasn’t ready to face.
“It will have to be,” she said at last.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It will.”
Morrison appeared in the doorway with impeccable timing. “Tea is served in the blue drawing room, Your Grace.”
The blue drawing room was, unexpectedly, very much blue—soft powder-blue walls with white moulding, furniture upholstered in deep sapphire. It was the first space in the house that felt intended for comfort rather than intimidation.
“This was my mother’s favourite room,” the Duke said, gesturing for her to sit. “One of the few that my father permitted her to arrange as she liked.”
“It’s lovely.” Celine accepted the tea Morrison poured, noting the delicate china, the silver polished to a mirror sheen. “Your mother had excellent taste.”
“She had opinions,” he corrected. “Whether they amounted to taste is debatable.”
“You did not approve?”
“I was seven when she died. My approval was not sought.” He took his tea black—no sugar, no milk—which somehow did not surprise her. “But I kept the room as she left it. Sentiment, I suppose.”
“You don’t strike me as sentimental.”
“No?” He set his cup down with his usual precision. “And what do I strike you as?”
It was a dangerous question, but she was tired of being careful.
“Controlled. Calculating. A man who has built walls so high he has forgotten what they’re protecting.”
His expression didn’t shift, but the air between them did—subtly, unmistakably.
“And what do you think they’re protecting?”
“I don’t know. Not yet.”
“But you intend to find out.”
“Perhaps.” She met his gaze levelly. “Unless you would prefer I didn’t.”
“What I would prefer…” He rose abruptly and moved to the window. “What I would prefer is irrelevant. The bargain is made. The terms are set.”
“Including separate bedchambers.”
“For a month, yes.” He turned back to her, something unreadable in his eyes. “I’ll show you to your rooms. You’ll want to rest before dinner.”
He led her up the grand staircase to the third floor and down a corridor lined with portraits of severe-looking ancestors. At the far end, he opened a door to a suite that took her breath.
