The blue salon was packed with ladies arranged in strategic clusters—alliances of silk and fanwork. They descended upon her with predatory enthusiasm.
“Lady Rothwest! How enchanting you look!”
“Those sapphires—wedding gifts, surely?”
“Such a whirlwind romance! You must tell us every detail!”
Celine settled into a chair, arranging her skirts with care. “Ask, and I shall answer what I may.”
“Well,” Lady Weatherby breathed, “how did he propose? We are absolutely dying to hear.”
“Are you?” Celine allowed herself a demure sip of wine—time enough to craft a plausible fiction. “It was not what one would expect.”
“Nothing about His Grace is what one expects,” Mrs Faxtone observed. “The man is a complete enigma.”
“He is quite straightforward once you understand him,” Celine said. “He simply does not waste words on matters of little import.”
“And you matter?” Lady Ashford asked, her tone sugar-laced scepticism.
“I must. He married me.”
“Yes, but so quickly…” Lady Ashford pressed. “Forgive me, my dear, but there are rumours…”
“About my father’s debts?” Celine kept her tone mild. “I’m aware. He has had some… reversals. But my marriage had nothing to do with that.”
“Truly?” Miss Weatherby sounded crushed by the lack of scandal.
“The Duke proposed before my father’s recent difficulties,” Celine lied smoothly. “We were simply discreet. He has little patience for public spectacle.”
“But that little scene on the dance floor tonight!” Mrs Charles fanned herself dramatically. “That was spectacle enough.”
The ladies tittered. Celine felt warmth rise in her cheeks but maintained perfect poise.
“My husband is a man of strong feeling,” she said. “He chooses his moments.”
“And in private?” Lady Weatherby’s tone dripped with insinuation.
“In private,” Celine said calmly, “my husband is everything a wife could wish.”
The ladies collectively exhaled in satisfaction—vague insinuation was the finest fuel for gossip. Yet even as she said the words, Celine felt something inside her shift. Was it possiblethat the man who touched her hand so carefully, who smiled at her barbs, who had faltered—just for a heartbeat—in the conservatory, could be everything a wife might wish?
If he ever allowed himself to be.
After another quarter hour of artfully deflecting inquiries, she excused herself on the pretext of needing air.
She found the Duke alone on the terrace, the night wind stirring the edges of his coat.
“Survived the inquisition?” he asked, still staring into the dark.
“Bloodied but unbowed.” She joined him at the balustrade. “They wanted scandal. I gave them romance.”
“Clever.”
“I told them you were everything a wife could wish in private.”
He turned. “And what does a wife wish?”
The question hung between them—too large, too intimate.
