“I wanted to see what would happen,” she admitted. “Everyone warned me about your rules. Your schedules. Your exactness. But no one could tell me why. Or what happens when those rules are broken.”
“And now you know.”
“Do I?” She moved closer. “All I know is that my arriving ten minutes late to dinner appeared to unsettle you almost as profoundly as my father losing eight thousand pounds. That is… interesting.”
“Your father’s losses were predictable. I knew the outcome before he sat.” He adjusted an already-straight sheet of paper. “Your lateness was not.”
“And the unpredictable is intolerable?”
“In my experience, unpredictability begets destruction.” The words were flat, factual—yet something lived beneath them.
“What happened?” she asked softly. “What made you need this much control?”
For a moment, he seemed on the verge of answering. Then the shutters came down behind his eyes.
“We are expected to depart for Lady Ashford’s soirée within the hour,” he said. “You should change.”
“Should I? Or is my afternoon dress another unpredictable element you must endure?”
“Your attire reflects on us both. Your punctuality at dinner reflected only on me.” He opened the door in unmistakable dismissal. “The blue gown. With the sapphires I sent up this afternoon.”
“You sent jewellery to my room?”
“You are the Countess of Rothwest. You will be properly adorned.”
She paused in the doorway. “And if I choose to wear the green gown instead?”
“Then you will clash dreadfully with the sapphires, look ridiculous, and provide ample fodder for the gossips.” He leaned in—close enough for his cologne to curl around her, smoke and winter. “But if small rebellions make you feel powerful, wear the green.”
She should have been insulted. Instead, she nearly smiled. “You’re calling my bluff.”
“No.” His voice softened, wickedly amused. “I am recognising a pattern. You push, I respond, you push harder. A dance of sorts.” His breath brushed her skin. “The question is whether either of us knows the steps.”
“I’ve always been good at improvisation.”
“And I have always been dreadful at it.” He straightened, restoring polite distance. “One hour, Lady Rothwest. Whatever you choose to wear.”
***
She wore the blue.
It was petty, perhaps, to grant him that victory—but the gown was exquisite, midnight silk that lent her skin the sheen of pearl, and the sapphires were breathtaking. A full parure: necklace, earrings, bracelet, even a delicate tiara Sally nestled into her dark hair with surprising deftness.
“You look like a queen, my lady,” Sally breathed, stepping back to admire her handiwork.
“I look like his creation,” Celine corrected, studying her reflection. The woman in the mirror was elegant, composed, untouchable—everything a Countess of Rothwest ought to be. Nothing like Celine Beckett, who read Gothic novels, climbed into attics to think, and arrived late to dinner simply to see what might happen.
The Duke was waiting in the entrance hall, devastating in evening black. When she began her descent, something flickered across his face—too quickly to name.
“Magnificent,” he said simply, offering his arm.
“The jewels are beautiful.”
“I wasn’t talking about the jewels.”
Before she could respond, he guided her to the carriage, assisting her with a competence that suggested long practice. He took the seat opposite hers—as had become their habit—but tonight the carriage felt smaller, the air drawn taut by something that had little to do with their earlier quarrel and everything to do with the way he was looking at her.
“Stop that,” she said.
