They remained suspended in that breathless moment, bodies aligned, hearts racing, until the carriage smoothed and sense returned. He helped her to sit properly again, though his hand lingered at her waist.
“How much farther?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
“An hour. Perhaps less.”
She nodded but said nothing.
How much longer,she wondered,before either of us can maintain this performance no more?
The last hour passed in charged silence. His hand remained at her back; she found herself leaning into him despite the warning bells.
When Rothwest Manor came into view, Celine gasped. It was nothing like the austere London residence—this was a sprawling Elizabethan manor of honey-coloured stone, its windows gleaming gold even in the weak afternoon sun, surrounded by gardens that spoke of care even in winter.
“It is beautiful,” she breathed.
“It was my mother’s favourite place,” he said quietly. “She spent most of her time here after… after my father died.”
“And you?”
“I come when necessary. Estate business. Tenant meetings.”
“But you do not love it?”
A pause. “I do not allow myself to love places. They can be taken too easily.”
Before she could reply, the carriage rolled to a stop before the main entrance, where a line of servants waited. The Duke helped her down, his hand lingering a heartbeat longer than propriety required.
“Welcome to Rothwest Manor, wife,” he said formally. Then, lower—just for her—“Do try not to become too comfortable. We are here only a week.”
But as Celine looked up at the warm stone and gleaming windows, she thought one week might be more than enough time for everything to change.
***
Mrs Morrison was indeed particular, but she was also warm in a way her husband never revealed. She greeted Celine with a curtsey that managed to be both respectful and genuinely welcoming.
“My lady, such a pleasure to meet you at last. We’ve prepared the Countess’s suite, of course, for His Grace said…” She hesitated, uncertain.
“Separate chambers,” the Duke said firmly. “As in London.”
“Of course, Your Grace. This way, my lady.”
The Countess’s suite was magnificent—three rooms in soft creams and golds, with windows overlooking the gardens and, beyond them, a gleaming silver lake.
“The lake,” Celine murmured.
“Yes, my lady. Beautiful, is it not? His Grace...” Mrs Morrison caught herself. “That is, the views are quite spectacular in all seasons.”
After she departed, Celine explored the suite, noting the connecting door that must lead to the Duke’s chambers. Locked, predictably. She was beginning to hate locked doors with a passion she barely understood.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. “Come in.”
The Duke entered, pausing just inside the doorway. “Are the rooms satisfactory?”
“They’re lovely,” she said. “Your mother had excellent taste.”
“She redesigned them when she married my father. Full of hope and plans.” His expression shadowed. “Before she learned what she had married.”
“And what had she married?” Celine asked softly.
