“A man who loved gambling more than his family. Who could charm anyone but couldn’t control himself. Who left her to clean up his disasters while he took the coward’s way out.”
“That is one interpretation.”
His eyes narrowed, though not unkindly. “What is another?”
She stepped closer, though still leaving air between them. “A man fighting demons he could not defeat. Who loved his family, but loved his addiction more. Who chose death because he saw no path that spared anyone further pain.”
“That is generous.”
“That is human,” she corrected. “People are complex, Elias. Even the ones who hurt us.”
He flinched slightly at the sound of his name, but he did not tell her not to use it.
“Dinner is at eight,” he said instead. “We dress for dinner even here.”
“Of course we do.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” she said with a faint smile. “Simply… predictable. Everything in its place, everything according to schedule—even here, where no one is watching.”
“The servants are always watching. And the tenants hear everything. The Vanceleys are probably already composing letters about our luncheon encounter.”
“So we are never offstage? Never allowed to simply be?”
“We are the Duke and Duchess of Rothwest. The stage is our permanent residence.”
He left then, and Celine was reminded of something her mother had told her once:The nobility do not enjoy private lives. Everything is performance, even the moments that feel real.
But as she dressed for dinner—in a gown of deep green silk that Sally insisted brought out her eyes—she wondered if perhaps the opposite was true. Perhaps everything that felt like performance was actually real, disguised as duty to make it bearable.
Dinner was more intimate than in London. The dining room was smaller, the table only meant for twelve, and though they still sat at opposite ends, the distance felt less vast. The Duke had changed into evening attire, and Celine was struck anew by how arresting he could look when he put in effort. The candlelight softened his sharp features, lending him a gentler, almost vulnerable air.
“Tell me about the tenants,” she said as the soup was served.
“There are twelve primary families who’ve been on Rothwest land for generations. Tomorrow, we ride out to visit them.”
“Ride?”
“You do ride, I trust.”
“Adequately.”
“That will not do. The Countess of Rothwest should ride excellently.” He sipped his wine. “We shall have to improve that.”
“We shall? And what else will we improve during our week of exile?”
“It is not exile. It is—”
“Diversion. Yes, you’ve mentioned it.” She set down her spoon. “What frightens you so that we must observe this diversion at all?”
“I’ve told you—”
“No,” she said calmly, “you have given me vague warnings about control and beasts and shadows I cannot see. But you have told me little of substance.”
He was silent for a long moment.
Then: “My father was not only a gambler. He was an addict in every sense. Gambling, women, wine—anything that gave him a moment’s thrill. He had no restraint. He consumed everything in his path.”
