“Stop what?”
“Looking at me as though you’re cataloguing my weaknesses for future use.”
“I am, in fact, cataloguing your strengths.” He tilted his head, studying her with unashamed intensity. “The way you lift your chin when you’re uneasy but determined not to show it. The tension in your shoulders that suggests you’re braced for battle. The way your fingers tap your gown when you’re preparing a cutting remark.”
Her fingers stilled at once. “That is remarkably invasive.”
“That is marriage.” The carriage turned onto Brook Street. “We are about to enter a ballroom full of people desperate to decipher our union. To sniff out scandal, misstep, any imperfection they can use for amusement. If we are not united, they’ll devour us both.”
“And you care what they think?”
“I care about power,” he corrected. “Social, financial, political—they are intertwined. Lose one, the others tremble. Your father learned that too late.”
She stiffened at the casual cruelty. “Was that necessary?”
“Yes. You must understand the field on which we are playing. They smile as they sharpen their knives. They will call you beautiful while whispering that I purchased you. They will congratulate our marriage while wagering how soon you’ll take a lover.”
“I would never—”
“I know.” The certainty in his tone startled her. “You have too much pride to be ordinary. Buttheydo not know that. All they know is that Baron Broker’s daughter wed the Beast of Berkeley Square scarcely a week after whispers of debts and gaming rooms.”
The carriage slowed before Lady Ashford’s townhouse, ablaze with light and thronged with guests.
“So what do you propose?” she asked.
He leaned forward—close enough that any onlooker would assume intimacy. “We give them a different story. A prettier one. One they will prefer to the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That you tamed the Beast.” His smile flashed, sharp as winter. “That the cold Duke of Rothwest has been brought lowby love. They’ll still gossip—but it will be the gratifying sort rather than the ruinous kind.”
“And how do we sell them this charming fiction?”
“Like this.” He took her hand, raising it to his lips and kissing her gloved fingers—a gesture that looked tender and felt scorching through the silk. “Follow my lead, wife. Attempt to look besotted rather than apprehensive.”
“I’m not apprehensive.”
“No?” He helped her alight, his hand at her waist both proprietary and unexpectedly protective. “Then what is it I see in your eyes?”
“Anticipation,” she admitted, surprising herself with the truth of it.
He laughed quietly—a low sound meant for her alone. “Then mercy be upon us both.”
They entered Lady Ashford’s ballroom like generals entering enemy territory. Conversation faltered; heads turned; fans fluttered in agitation. The Beast and his unlikely bride had arrived.
Lady Ashford swept toward them immediately, a vision in puce silk and ill-advised diamonds. “Your Grace! And the new Duchess, Lady Rothwest! What adelight.”
Her tone suggested she meantscandal.
“Lady Ashford.” He bowed flawlessly. “How kind of you to invite us.”
“Well, one simply couldn’t ignore such news! Married so quietly—and soswiftly. You’ve positively shattered poor Miss Weatherby’s heart. She was certain you would offer this Season.”
“I doubt Miss Weatherby was aware of my existence,” the Duke said dryly. “As I was blissfully unaware of hers.”
“Oh, you dreadful man!” Lady Ashford tittered, already turning her talons on Celine. “And you, my dear! What a triumph! However did yousecurehim?”
“I am not certain I take your meaning,” Celine replied with a serene smile.
