“Every stitch. He had very precise opinions on the colour, the line, the placement of the embroidery.”
Celine stared at her reflection—elegant, poised, entirely transformed. The perfect Countess of Rothwest.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“You’rebeautiful, my lady. The dress is just fabric.”
After the woman departed, Celine lingered in the gown, unable to resist the pull of the connecting door. On impulse, she knocked.
“Yes?” His voice sounded strained.
“I’m wearing the gown.”
A beat of silence. Then: “And?”
“And I think you should see it. To ensure it meets your… specifications.”
“Celine…”
“You need only look. You need not even step inside.”
The key turned. The door opened a fraction. He stood in his shirtsleeves, hair mussed, eyes burning.
His gaze travelled from hem to face, slow enough to steal her breath. His hand tightened on the door frame until his knuckles whitened.
“Turn,” he said hoarsely.
She did, letting him take in every angle.
“Well?” she asked softly.
“You know you’re magnificent.”
“I know you chose every detail. Why?”
“Because I wanted to see you in something that existed first in my imagination.” His voice dropped, unbearably raw. “And now that I’ve seen it, all I can think about is unfastening every clasp.”
Heat flooded her. “Nine days.”
“Nine days and fifteen hours.”
“You’ll drive us mad with this deadline.”
“I suspect we’re both quite mad already; and the counting is merely… scaffolding.”
***
The remaining days before the ball passed in a blur of preparations. The Duke buried himself in business with a focus that looked far more like avoidance than necessity. Celine received callers, reviewed household accounts, and tried very hardnotto recall the way he had looked at her in the burgundy gown—as though it had stripped him of breath and sense alike.
“You are both wound tighter than clock springs,” Lucy declared when she called the day before the ball. “It is quite the spectacle.”
“I’m delighted our torment provides entertainment.”
“Oh, it isn’t torment,” Lucy said breezily. “It looks rather more like…preliminaries.”
“Lucy!”
“Well, it is,” she insisted, utterly unrepentant. “The way he watches you—good grief, Celine, I’m astonished the draperies haven’t caught fire.”
