“Are you ready?” His voice through the wood was rough, as if he, too, had been fighting nerves.
“Nearly. Are you?”
A pause. “I’m never ready for these things. The performance of it all, the false smiles and empty conversations, the constant observation and judgment. I despise every moment.”
“Then why attend?”
“Because not attending would be worse. It would suggest weakness, or that the rumours about our marriage have merit, or that I’m still the broken boy who couldn’t hold his own.” His voice dropped lower. “And because, with you there, it will be… bearable.”
Celine moved closer to the door, pressing her palm against the wood. “That’s quite an admission from the man who claims to need no one.”
“I’ve made a lot of admissions lately that contradict my previous positions. You seem to have that effect on me—making me reconsider everything I thought I knew about myself.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Ask me after the ball tonight.”
Heat pooled in her stomach at his words.
Before she could respond, she heard his footsteps moving away from the door. “Fifteen minutes, Celine. Don’t be late.”
“I’m never late anymore. You’ve trained me too well.”
“I haven’t trained you at all. You’ve trained me—to want things I’d convinced myself I didn’t need, to feel things I’d sworn never to feel again, to hope for things that terrify me more than any beast reputation ever could.”
His footsteps faded, leaving her alone with the echo of his words and the rapid beating of her heart. She took a deep breath, then another, trying to compose herself for the performance ahead.
The burgundy silk swirled around her as she made her way to the stairs, each step a reminder that tonight would test them both. The Duke waited in the entrance hall, and when she saw him, her breath caught.
He wore midnight blue as promised, the coat fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The silver waistcoat caught the light like armour, and his cravat was tied in anintricate knot she didn’t recognise—something that looked both elegant and vaguely threatening. His dark hair was perfectly arranged, his jaw freshly shaved, and when he looked up at her descent, his grey eyes went almost black.
“My goodness,” he breathed, the words seeming to escape without his permission.
“Is something wrong with the gown?”
“Nothing wrong. The gown is perfect. You’re perfect. That’s the issue.”
She reached the bottom of the stairs, and he moved forward to meet her, his eyes travelling slowly from her hem to her face, lingering on the diamonds at her throat.
“The diamonds were the right choice,” he said, his voice carefully controlled. “They catch the light but don’t overpower. Elegant restraint.”
“Unlike us.”
“Exactly unlike us.” He helped her with her velvet cloak, his fingers brushing against her bare shoulders. She felt him pause, his hands hovering for just a moment before he stepped back. “The carriage is waiting.”
The ride to Haverford House was silent but charged, the space between them humming with unspoken words and barely contained desire. Celine could see him in the intermittent gaslight—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hands clenchedand unclenched on his thighs, the way he kept stealing glances at her as if reassuring himself she was real.
“You’re nervous,” she observed.
“I’m contemplating.”
“What?”
“The narrative we are creating tonight.”
“And what narrative are we creating?”
He turned to face her fully, and the intensity in his gaze made her breath catch. “That the Beast of Berkeley Square is completely, utterly, irrevocably consumed by his wife. That every rumour about our marriage being a business arrangement is not only false but laughable. That you’ve tamed me, claimed me, transformed me into something almost human.”
