He looked back, and for the briefest moment, she thought she glimpsed something almost gentle.
“Separate bedchambers, for the first month at least. Time to… acclimate. Despite popular belief, I do not eat innocent young ladies for breakfast.”
“Just for dinner, then?”
The retort slipped out before she could stop it.
His smile broadened, wicked and disarming in equal measure.
“Only on special occasions.”
He left then, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence settled over the hall, broken only when her mother burst into tears, and her father reached—shakily—for the brandy.
Celine picked up the document, noting the neat, uncompromising handwriting, the legal phrasing, the empty space awaiting her signature.
I, Lady Celine Broker, do hereby consent to marriage with Elias West, Fifth Duke of Rothwest…
Her hands began to tremble. She’d wanted adventure, hadn’t she? Spent three Seasons dismissing perfectly respectable suitors because theyboredher?
Well. Whatever else the Duke of Rothwest might be, boredom seemed unlikely.
“I need air,” she murmured and fled to the garden.
***
The garden was little more than a courtyard with aspirations, but it had a bench, a trellis of dying roses, and enough space to walk without feeling confined. Celine paced its perimeter once, twice, three times, thoughts tumbling like loose stones.
She could still feel the weight of his gaze, the manner in which he had looked at her—as though committing every detail to memory. There had been something almost clinical in it, yet beneath that…
Beneath that had been heat. Carefully controlled, rigidly contained—but unmistakably present. Like coals banked for the night—not extinguished, merely waiting.
The sensation ought to have terrified her. Instead… she found herself curious.
What would it take to stir those embers?
What happened when the Beast’s renowned control slipped?
“You’re considering it.”
She spun. Lucy stood in the doorway, clutching her wrapper around her nightdress, bare feet pink with cold.
“You should be in bed,” Celine said automatically.
“So should you.” Lucy crossed the courtyard with her usual lack of ceremony and perched beside her on the bench. “Yet here we are, contemplating gift-wrapping yourself for the most intimidating man in England.”
“He is hardly the most intimidating.”
“No. He is worse. The merely intimidating ones sometimes trouble themselves to be pleasant.”
Lucy tucked her feet beneath her. “Remember at the Ashford ball? He made Lord Charles cry simply by looking at him.”
“Lord Charles was drunk.”
“Lord Charles was terrified.” Lucy tilted her head. “And you’re actually considering marrying him.”
“What choice do I have?”
“There’s always a choice. We could run away, join a travelling theatre. You’ll play the tragic heroine; I’ll be the comic relief.”
