The Duke accepted the silver salver, sorting through the correspondence with his usual economy. Bills, invitations, business—each arranged into its place according to some internal order she could not decipher. Then he paused, holding an envelope of such quality that even from her seat she could see the gilt edging.
“What is it?” she asked.
He broke the seal and unfolded the heavy paper. His expression, always composed, went utterly still.
“The Winter Solstice Ball,” he said quietly. “December twenty-first.”
She frowned faintly. “That is… soon.”
“Soon enough.” He set the invitation on the table between them. “We shall decline, of course.”
“Whyof course?”
“Because by the day of the ball, you will have been my wife for exactly twenty-nine days.” His gaze met hers, sharp with unspoken arithmetic. “And our appointed span of separate bedchambers will be drawing to its close.”
The implications settled over them like a held breath. They would be expected to appear as a fully married couple, with all of Society watching—curious to see whether the ardour displayed at the Ashford soirée had endured or faded as swiftly as gossip suggested.
“We cannot hide forever,” she said.
“I am not hiding. I am being strategic.”
“You are being cowardly.”
The temperature in the room seemed to dip. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” She lifted the invitation, tracing its elegant script. “The Duke and Duchess of Haverford request the pleasure of the company of the Duke and Duchess of Rothwest atwhat will be the most watched ball of the winter season—and you would decline because you are afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of a ball.”
“No. You are afraid of what comes after. When the month ends and we must decide what we truly are to one another.”
He stood abruptly, moving to the window. “We are what we’ve always been. A business arrangement that became complicated by proximity and certain... biological imperatives.”
“Biological imperatives?” She laughed—light, but with no amusement. “Is that what you call what happened in the study yesterday?”
“What wouldyoucall it?”
“Honesty. Connection. The beginning of something that terrifies you because you cannot control it.”
He turned, and for one unguarded heartbeat she saw everything—desire, fear, bewilderment, hope—before his expression closed again.
“We are leaving for the country estate tomorrow,” he said.
The shift was so abrupt she blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rothwest Manor. It is time for the annual estate review, and the tenants will expect to meet their new countess.” He moved toward the door. “We shall be gone for a week. Thatshould afford ample time to settle how we intend to approach the ball.”
“You are creating a distraction.”
He paused at the threshold. “I am providing a necessary diversion. There is a difference.”
“Is there? Because from where I sit, it appears the great Duke of Rothwest is quite eager to flee into estate matters because he kissed his wife and liked it far too well.”
“Celine—”
“Will there be locked doors at the estate as well?” she cut in. “Or will you trust the sheep and cows to serve as chaperones?”
His jaw tightened. “You are being deliberately provoking.”
