Something in him answered that—something deeper than heat, something older than the arrangement, something steadier than desire.
He rose.
So did she.
They met in the middle of the small room, neither touching, but close enough that the world and its gossip seemed impossibly far away.
“What now?” she asked softly.
“Now, we—”
A discreet knock cut the moment clean in two.
Morrison appeared in the doorway, his posture impeccable but his expression tighter than usual. “Your Grace. You have callers.”
The Duke closed his eyes briefly, the smallest sign of thwarted frustration. “Already? It is barely past eight.”
“Lady Jersey, Your Grace. She insists the matter is urgent.”
A single heartbeat passed between them—Celine’s breath catching, his jaw tightening—the fragile almost-confession shattered by reality’s intrusion. Of all people, Lady Jersey. Patroness of Almack’s. An arbiter of propriety. A woman whose raised eyebrow could topple half the ton.
“Show her to the blue drawing room,” the Duke said, his tone clipped, already rebuilding his armour. “We’ll attend her momentarily.”
“Excellent, Your Grace.” Morrison bowed and disappeared.
Silence settled again, different this time—thicker, heavy with everything that had gone unsaid.
Celine drew a slow breath, smoothing her morning dress with unsteady fingers. “I should change.”
“You look perfect.”
***
Lady Jersey was waiting in the blue drawing room, resplendent in a morning dress that probably cost more than most people’s yearly income. She rose when they entered, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of their appearance.
“Your Grace, Your Grace. How good of you to receive me so early.”
“Lady Jersey,” the Duke said formally. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Pleasure might be overstating it. I’ve come about last night.”
“Ah.”
“Ah, indeed.” She resumed her seat, waiting for them to do the same. “Four dances, Your Grace. Four. In all my years as a patroness, I’ve never seen such a display.”
“We’re married,” Celine pointed out. “Surely married couples are allowed some latitude.”
“Some latitude, yes. But four dances borders on the indecent. It suggests a lack of control, a disregard for propriety, a certain... heat more commonly kept for private moments.”
“And if such heat exists in both private and public moments?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
One of Lady Jersey’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Then I should advise greater discipline in public—for your own sake. The ton is always armed and eager to wound.”
“We have both survived worse,” Celine replied.
“Separately, yes,” Lady Jersey said. “Together, you represent something new—an alliance that is either formidable or fragile. I came to discern which.”
Celine inclined her head. “And what have you discerned?”
