A knock at the door drew her back. Morrison appeared in the doorway with his usual impeccable composure. “My lady, His Grace requests your presence in his study.”
Celine followed him down the corridor, her pulse quickening for reasons she refused to examine. She found the Duke at his desk, surrounded by ledgers and correspondence, his pen moving with the precise, controlled script she was beginning to recognise. He did not look up as she entered.
“We need to discuss the ball,” he said.
“I thought we were declining.”
“You were right—we cannot hide.” He set down his pen at last and lifted his gaze to hers. “But if we are to attend, we do soproperly. No half measures. No uncertainty. We present a united front.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you will require appropriate attire.” He reached for a sheet of paper and slid it across the desk. “I have arranged for several gowns to be sent to the Manor for your review. You may choose whichever you prefer for the ball.”
She looked at the list—five different modistes, all the finest in London. “This is excessive.”
“This is necessary. The Winter Solstice Ball is one of the most anticipated gatherings of the winter season. Every eye will be on us, looking for cracks in our façade.”
“Our façade,” she repeated. “Is that all this is?”
“You know what I meant…”
She rose, circling the desk until she stood before him. “Not entirely. Pray elaborate.”
He drew in a slow breath, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. When he spoke, his voice was measured, as though he were choosing each word with care. “Reality and marriage rarely coincide.”
“Your parents’ marriage, perhaps,” she said gently. “But we are not them. Not inevitably. Not without choice.”
“Aren’t we?” He rose as well, and suddenly the space between them felt charged. “Tell me how we’re different.”
“Your mother may not have chosen your father,” she answered quietly. “But I chose you.”
He stilled—subtly, but unmistakably.
“You chose survival,” he said.
“I chose youas partof my survival,” she corrected gently. “Both truths can exist at once. I could have refused. Could have bargained, delayed, appealed to anyone else. But I didn’t. I looked at you that night in my father’s house and thought… there is something there. Something worth discovering.”
His expression flickered—scepticism, longing, fear, all colliding.
“And what have you discovered?”
“That you are brilliant and guarded and far more tender than you allow anyone to suspect. That you read poetry and compose music and plunge into freezing water to remember you are alive. That you fear becoming your father and fearnever escaping himjust as much.” She stepped closer. “That you want me—but you cannot bring yourself to want anything you cannot control.”
His breath caught. “Stop,” he murmured, the word almost a plea.
“And that when you kissed me yesterday,” she continued, her voice trembling like a bowstring drawn near to breaking, “you felt what I felt—and it frightened you.”
He moved before she could finish.
The kiss that followed was not gentle this time. Nor cautious. It was the sudden, shattering surrender of two people who had held themselves too tightly, too long. He caught her mouth with his, not violently but with a fierce, unfiltered urgency that stole her breath.
The world seemed to tilt. She felt his restraint finally give way—slowly at first, then all at once—as though the tension that had stretched between them for days had finally snapped. His hands framed her face, then slid to her waist, drawing her against him with a hunger that came not from impatience but from long denial.
She clutched at his coat, not to anchor herself but because she needed him closer—needed to feel the truth of this moment after so many carefully measured silences. The warmth of him, the steadiness of his hold, the way he kissed her as if it cost him something—everything—made the room fall away.
He was losing control.
And she—every nerve alight—was letting him.
