“Probably,” she admitted.
“Good.” He finished his brandy. “I despise boredom above all things.”
He set down his glass, moving toward the door. “I have business to attend to. Don’t wait up.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He paused at the door. “One more thing. We’re expected at Lady Ashford’s soirée two days hence. Our first public appearance as husband and wife. Can you manage it?”
“Can you?”
“I have been managing society for years, wife. The question is whetheryoucan smile and behave as though you are madly in love with the Beast of Berkeley Square.”
“I thought we agreed on ‘privately attached for months.’”
“Same fiction, different chapter.” His gaze swept over her. “Wear something that complements the sapphires. Blue or grey, I think. Not pink.”
“You’re choosing my clothing now?”
“I’m ensuring we present a united front. Unless you’d prefer to face the gossips alone?”
He was right, though she disliked conceding it. “Blue, then.”
“Excellent. Sleep well, Lady Rothwest.”
And he was gone, leaving her alone with the dying fire and a half-finished glass of brandy.
Lady Rothwest.She would have to get used to that name, to this house, to him.
But as she climbed the stairs to her beautiful new rooms, she realised she was not thinking of what she had lost. She was thinking of what she might discover.
The Beast of Berkeley Square had layers—depths, complexities, secrets—and she had a month of locked doors to decide whether she wished to uncover them.
She prepared for bed with Sally’s help and dismissed her as soon as possible. Alone in the dark, she listened to the house settling, imagining him in the room next door—separated by a wall, a locked door, and certain promises that would expire in exactly thirty days.
Her wedding night, spent alone in a beautiful chamber in a cold house with a dangerous man just out of reach.
She had thought she knew what she was agreeing to when she signed that contract. But lying there, the new ring catching what little moonlight found its way through the curtains, she realised she had no idea what she had truly begun.
And perhaps that was for the best. If she had known—truly known—what awaited her in Rothwest House, would she have had the courage to sign?
The question followed her into sleep, where she dreamed of grey eyes, dangerous smiles, and doors that locked—and unlocked—from both sides.
Chapter Six
“My lady, it’s nearly eight o’clock.”
Sally’s voice pierced the cocoon of concentration Celine had woven around herself in the library. She looked up from the volume on medieval architecture she’d discovered, blinking in the lamplight.
“Is it?” She made no move to rise from her place curled in the window-seat. “How time flies when one is reading about flying buttresses.”
Sally shifted, wringing her hands. “His Grace is very particular about punctuality, my lady. Especially at dinner.”
“So I’ve been told.” Celine turned another page, admiring an illustration of Notre-Dame. “Morrison informed me at breakfast, Mrs Vanceley at tea, and even the footman who delivered my post felt compelled to caution that ‘His Grace appreciates promptness in all things.’”
“They only wish to help, my lady, Sally murmured. “The last time someone was late to dinner…” She stopped abruptly, eyes widening as though the words had escaped her.
“What happened?” Celine asked, setting down her book.
