“That must be very convenient,” she managed, proud that her voice remained steady.
“It’s not about convenience. It’s about order. Discipline. The understanding that chaos begins with small infractions.” He lifted his wine glass, studying the way the candlelight played through the liquid. “Ten minutes today. Twenty tomorrow. An hour next week. Where does it end?”
“Perhaps,” she said, “with a life lived rather than scheduled.”
“Chaos,” he replied, “in disguise.”
“And we certainly wouldn’t want a moment of chaos disturbing Rothwest House.”
He smiled then—that sharp, unsettling curve she was beginning to recognise as his version of amusement. “You did this intentionally.”
Not a question. Still, she answered. “Yes.”
“To test me.”
“To understand you.”
“And what have you learned?”
She considered him across the expanse of polished mahogany and glittering crystal. “That you’re not angry. You’re afraid.”
The temperature in the room did drop then, just as Sally had described. The candle flames seemed to dim, and even Morrison shifted uncomfortably.
“Afraid,” the Duke repeated, voice a silken threat. “How fascinating. Pray, elaborate on your diagnosis after a mere three days of marriage.”
“You fear disorder,” she continued steadily. “Unpredictability. Anything that lies beyond your ability to control through rules and schedules. The question is—why?”
He rose with fluid grace. Every servant in the room seemed to retreat without moving. Instead of coming toward her, he strode to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy with controlled precision.
“You may test me once,” he said quietly, his back still turned. “Do not make a habit of it.”
“Or what?”
He turned then. Something flickered in his eyes—not anger, but something more dangerous.
“Or I might forget that I am attempting to be civilised.”
The words hung between them like the poised edge of a blade. Then he drank, set down the glass, and left the room without another word.
“Shall I serve the meat course, my lady?” Morrison asked, discreetly clearing his throat.
“I believe I have lost my appetite,” Celine said, rising. “Pray convey my compliments to the chef.”
She left the dining room, but instead of going to her chambers, she found herself following the path the Duke had taken. She caught a glimpse of his coat disappearing into his study.
She approached carefully, peering inside. He stood at the window, one hand braced against the frame, his shoulders tense beneath his perfectly tailored coat.
“You are not particularly skilled at being ignored,” he said without turning.
“Neither are you,” she replied.
A short, sharp laugh. “No, I suppose not.” He faced her, every line of him taut with contained emotion. “Why did you do it, Celine? Truly?”
“Would you believe boredom?”
“No.”
She stepped inside, taking in the immaculate order—books aligned by height and subject, papers in perfect formation, hearth stacked with mathematical care.
