He exhaled—quiet, almost a laugh, though not quite. “Tonight, I think I should like that locked door between us.”
The words drifted between them, softened at the edges by the lateness of the hour.
“Why?” she asked softly.
He hesitated, and for once the hesitation didn’t feel calculated. “Because if it weren’t locked,” he said slowly, as though choosing each word to keep it from slipping further than he intended, “I might forget that you are owed a month’s peace. I might forget that we are strangers performing familiarity. I might forget…” His gaze flicked to her mouth, then away. “Everything except the way you looked when—”
He stopped himself, jaw tightening faintly. “Goodnight, wife.”
“Goodnight, husband,” she said, meeting his gaze until he was the one who looked away.
She climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, keenly aware of his gaze following her. In her room, she dismissed Sally and sat alone with the storm of sensations the night had stirred.
She’d meant to test him.
Instead, she had discovered something far more dangerous:
He could crack.
He could warm.
He could want.
And she could want him back.
Twenty-seven more days of locked doors.
She wasn’t entirely sure either of them would survive it.
Chapter Seven
Saturday morning arrived grey and softly raining—an echo of Celine’s unsettled mood. She sat at breakfast, absently pushing eggs around her plate. She’d barely slept; her mind kept replaying the previous evening—the brush of his lips on her hand, his admission at the foot of the stairs, the way he had said her name like it was something precious, dangerous, and entirely unguarded.
“The master requests your presence in his study at your earliest convenience, my lady,” Morrison intoned, materialising with his customary silence.
“Thank you, Morrison. I shall go at once.”
She found the Duke in his study, surrounded by ledgers, papers spread across his desk in what at first glance appeared to be disarray—but was, she suspected, some incomprehensible system known only to him. He had shed his coat, rolled up his sleeves—revealing unexpectedly strong forearms—and an ink blot marred his right thumb, rendering him almost approachable.
“You came,” he said without looking up.
“You requested my presence.”
“I invited your participation. There’s a difference.” He indicated the chair beside him. “I’ve had Morrison bring thehousehold accounts in addition to the estate books. I thought you might find them instructive.”
She seated herself, noting the subtle way he shifted a fraction farther away, maintaining his preferred distance. “Instructive in what sense?”
“Numbers don’t lie. They show truth without embellishment. They reveal patterns, motives, habits. They tell the real story, not the social one.” He handed her a ledger. “This is Rothwest House’s household expenditure for the past year. Tell me what you observe.”
She opened the book, letting her eyes skim the neat columns. At first, everything appeared conventional—wages, maintenance, food. Then patterns emerged.
“You increased the servants’ wages in January,” she observed. “By nearly twenty per cent.”
“Continue.”
“But you halved the entertainment budget. No balls, no dinners. Minimal social expenses.” She turned the page. “You’ve spent a small fortune on books but almost nothing on clothing. The stable costs are significant for someone who rarely rides out. And there’s a recurring payment to ‘W.H.’ for unspecified services.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Conclusions?”
