Chapter One

“Your lordship appears to have miscounted.”

The words sliced through the hushed atmosphere of Madame Thorne’s private gaming establishment with all the delicacy of a pistol shot. Edward Beckett—Baron Broker—felt his fingers tremble as he set down his cards, the ace of hearts mocking him from the green baize table. Around him, London’s most disreputable gentlemen leaned forward with the eager anticipation of vultures circling a dying horse.

“I assure you, Rothwest, my arithmetic remains sound.” The Baron’s voice cracked on the final word, betraying both the brandy he’d swallowed and the fear he could not. “The hand is yours, naturally, but—”

“But you haven’t the funds to cover it.”
The Earl of Rothwest did not stir from his position at the opposite end of the table. He merely regarded his winning hand with the detached amusement one might devote to a moderately diverting play. “Again.”

The word ‘again’ rippled through the assembled company like wind through wheat. Lord Broker had been losing steadily for three months now, each Tuesday evening bringing fresh humiliation and deeper debt. Tonight’s loss—eight thousand pounds—would surely finish him.

“I am good for it,” Broker insisted, though his collar had gone damp with perspiration. “My estates—”

“Are mortgaged twice over,” Rothwest cut in, his tone conversational, almost pleasant. He finally looked up, and those who knew him well enough to fear him properly edged back without realising it. His eyes were the colour of winter seas—grey, cold, and wholly without mercy. “Your London house is let to merchants. Your stable went to Tattersall’s last month—I know, because I bought your best hunter myself. Lovely animal. Responds well to a firm hand.”

Someone snickered. Broker’s face flushed the colour of aged port.

“Then what would you have me do?” The Baron’s hands spread in helpless supplication, the gesture of a drowning man reaching for a rope. “Debtor’s prison? Would that satisfy your honour, my lord?”

Elias West, fifth Earl of Rothwest—known in less polite circles as the Beast of Berkeley Square—set down his cards with deliberate precision. Every movement was measured, as though he had rehearsed this moment a dozen times. Perhaps he had.

“Debtor’s prison would satisfy no one,” he said, rising from his chair. Standing, he commanded the room even more thoroughly than seated. He was neither the tallest man present nor the broadest, yet something in his bearing suggested violence carefully leashed, power held in perfect check. “Dead men pay no debts, and imprisoned ones pay them even less efficiently.”

“Then I throw myself upon your mercy—”

The laugh that escaped Rothwest was soft, barely more than an exhale, but it silenced the room more effectively than a shout. “My mercy.” He tasted the words as though savouring a rare vintage. “How novel. Tell me, Broker, do you know what they call me in the clubs?”

The Baron swallowed hard. Everyone knew what they called the Earl of Rothwest; few dared speak it to his face.

“The Beast,” Broker whispered.

“The Beast,” Rothwest echoed amiably. “And do beasts typically exhibit mercy?”

He moved then, circling the table with the lazy grace of a predator who knows its prey cannot flee. His fingers drifted along the table’s edge, and more than one man noticed the Baron’s flinch as the Earl drew near.

“However,” Rothwest continued, pausing behind Broker’s chair, “I find myself in an unusually generous humour this evening. Perhaps it is the excellent brandy. Perhaps it is the entertainment of watching you lose your last guinea on a pair of threes. Or perhaps”—he leaned down, close enough that Broker caught the scent of something dark and costly, like smoke and winter woods— “perhaps I simply relish the notion of owning something more valuable than your money.”

“I do not understand,” Broker stammered, though the horror dawning in his eyes said otherwise.

“You have a daughter.” It was not a question. Rothwest straightened, addressing the room at large. “Miss Celine Beckett. Twenty-three, if memory serves. Unmarried, despite three Seasons. They say she has her mother’s beauty and her father’s… regrettable inclination toward stubbornness.”

The room went utterly still. Even the muffled revelry of nighttime London seemed to hold its breath.

“You cannot mean—” Broker shoved back his chair, but Rothwest’s hand descended upon his shoulder, pressing him down with effortless strength.

“I mean precisely what you think I mean.”

The Earl’s voice was smooth, immovable as polished stone. “Your debt vanishes with a signature on a marriage contract. Within a fortnight. Otherwise, I call in every marker, every note, every penny owed to every man in this room—and to a dozen others besides.”

“She would never agree to it,” Broker whispered hoarsely. “Celine is… she has opinions about—”

“About men like me?” Rothwest’s smile was a blade wrapped in silk. “How prudent of her. Nevertheless, I imagine she holds stronger opinions about seeing her family name dragged through Marshalsea Prison. About watching her mother’s jewels sold at auction. About her younger sisters’ prospects destroyed by their father’s spectacular failure.”

He withdrew then, collecting his gloves from a nearby table with unhurried ease. “You have forty-eight hours to secure her agreement. After that, we proceed with the less pleasant alternative.”

“This is barbarous,” someone muttered—young Lord Ashworth, still unwise enough to utter such sentiments in Madame Thorne’s establishment.

Rothwest’s gaze found him unerringly. “Barbarous? No, my dear Ashworth. Barbarous would be taking what I want without the courtesy of marriage contracts and church blessings. This is merely business. Broker gambled what he could not afford to lose. That it happens to be his daughter’s freedom rather than his own is simply… poetic justice.”

He pulled on his gloves, smoothing each finger into place like a knight donning gauntlets. “Forty-eight hours, Broker. I trust you can find your way home unassisted? Or has pride abandoned you along with fortune?”

The Baron said nothing, staring at the cards as if they might rearrange themselves into salvation.

At the door, Rothwest glanced back.

“Oh—and Broker? Do not attempt to run. I have associates in Dover, Portsmouth, and Liverpool. Should a gentleman of your description seek passage, they have instructions. It would be… unfortunate if they were required to act.”

With that, he was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of his cologne and a room full of men trying to decide if they’d witnessed a business transaction or the opening move in something far more dangerous.

Ashworth was first to speak, his voice tight with outrage. “Good grief, Broker, you cannot possibly—”

“What choice have I?” The Baron’s voice had aged a decade in as many minutes. He looked around, seeking sympathy, and found only calculating gazes weighing the profit in his ruin. “What earthly choice remains to me?”

***

The journey from Madame Thorne’s establishment to the respectable streets of Mayfair took Baron Broker through a London transformed by desperation. Each gaslight seemed to illuminate his shame; each passing carriage might hold creditors ready to descend like wolves. His hired hack—he’d sold his own carriage a month earlier—smelled of tobacco and despair.

How does one tell one’s daughter she has been wagered like a mare at auction?

The thought circled ceaselessly as familiar streets gave way to the modest townhouse he had managed to retain only through his wife’s increasingly creative economies. Warm light glowed from the windows, mocking his cold dread.

Marsh, his butler of thirty years, opened the door before he could raise a hand. A man did not keep a servant that long without him learning to sense disaster.

“My lord,” Marsh intoned, removing the Baron’s coat with the dignity he might have shown had Broker returned from triumph rather than catastrophe. “Her ladyship has retired, but Miss Celine remains in the blue drawing room.”

Of course she does, Broker thought bitterly. Reading, no doubt. Or writing in that infernal journal of hers. Recording all the ways her father has failed her.

He found his eldest daughter exactly as expected: curled in a wingback chair near the dwindling fire, a book balanced on her knee. Her hair, loosed from its evening arrangement, fell in dark waves over her shoulder, catching the firelight like spilled ink touched with gold. She looked up as he entered, and he saw his late mother in the arch of her brow, the resolute set of her chin.

“Papa,” she said, setting aside her book—some Gothic novel, by the look of it. “You’re home earlier than expected. Did luck favour you tonight?”

The irony of the question nearly choked him. “Celine, my dear—”

She was on her feet at once, alarm sharpening her expression. “What’s happened? Is it Mama? The girls?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort.” He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a generous brandy with hands that would not steady. “Your mother and sisters are well. Sleeping peacefully, I’m certain.”

“Then what?” She approached him with the careful steps of someone navigating a room full of broken glass. “Papa, you’re frightening me.”

You should be frightened, he thought viciously. We all should be, for what I have done.

“I’ve had a reversal,” he said at last, avoiding her eyes. “A significant one.”

“Another?” The word escaped before she could stop it, and she bit her lip in instant remorse. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did, and you were right to.” He drained half the brandy in a single swallow. “Another reversal. The last one, as it happens.”

She sank onto the settee, her morning dress pooling around her like water. “How bad?”

“Eight thousand pounds.”

The colour drained from her face so completely that he feared she might faint. But Celine had never been the fainting sort. Instead, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin—that damnable Broker pride that had led him to the gaming tables in the first place.

“Eight thousand,” she repeated carefully, as though testing the weight of the words. “And we have…?”

“Nothing. Less than nothing, if such a thing can be.”

“I see.” She rose and paced to the window, her reflection wavering in the darkened glass. “So it’s debtor’s prison. We’ll send Mama and the girls to Aunt Prudence. She’ll object, naturally, but family is family. And I suppose I could seek a position as a governess, though without references it will be—”

“There is another option.”

Something in his tone made her turn. He saw the moment she understood—women always did grasp such things quicker than men gave them credit for. Her hand flew to the simple gold chain at her throat—her grandmother’s—one of the few family jewels he had not sold.

“No.”

“Celine—”

“No.” This time, the word rang with the quiet fury that had driven off three perfectly eligible suitors. “Whatever wretched bargain you’ve struck, whatever you’ve promised, the answer is no.”

“You haven’t heard the terms.”

“I don’t need to.” She gave a brittle, humourless laugh. “Let me guess: some ambitious merchant wants a lady-wife to improve his standing? Or one of your creditors hopes to add me to his collection of unpaid debts? Who is it, Papa? Who purchased your marker this time?”

“The Earl of Rothwest.”

The name fell between them like a blade. Celine’s already pale face blanched to parchment.

“The Beast,” she whispered.

“Don’t call him that,” Broker said automatically, though the protest was hollow even to his own ears.

“Everyone calls him that. They say he killed a man in a duel over a trifling slight. They say he’s not smiled once since inheriting. They say—” She pressed trembling fingers to her lips. “Good grief, Papa, what have you done?”

“I’ve saved us all from ruin,” he insisted, attempting authority and achieving only desperation. “Marriage to an earl, Celine. Think of it—you’d be a countess. Your sisters would have prospects again. Your mother could hold her head up in society.”

“And I would be married to a monster.”

“You don’t know that he’s—”

“Don’t I?” She turned on him, and for a moment, he saw not his daughter but his mother—magnificent in her righteous fury. “Have you ever seen him dance? No, because he does not. Have you ever heard him offer a compliment? Engage in polite conversation? Show even the faintest evidence of possessing human feeling?”

“He is wealthy—”

“So was Midas, and all his touch produced was gold—not warmth.”

“Celine, please—”

“How long?” Her question cut straight through his plea. “How long before this marriage must take place?”

“A fortnight.”

She laughed again—high, breathless, perilously close to hysteria. “A fortnight. How generous. How very sporting of him.”

She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. “I need time to think.”

“We don’t have time. He was very specific—”

“Then he will have to wait until morning for his answer.” She turned, and the look in her eyes made him retreat a step. “I assume even beasts observe conventional calling hours?”

Before he could respond, she was gone, leaving only the whisper of silk on carpet and the faint scent of lavender. Broker sank into the chair she’d abandoned and reached blindly for her discarded book. The Mysteries of Udolpho—a Gothic tale of a young woman trapped in a castle with a tyrant.

How frighteningly appropriate.

Chapter Two

Celine did not go to her room. Instead, she climbed the narrow stairs to the attic—the refuge she had claimed as a child whenever the world grew too heavy to bear. It was smaller than she remembered, cramped and dusty, but the window still looked out over the rooftops of London, and the ancient rocking chair still creaked in precisely the same way.

She drew her shawl close and tried to think past the roaring in her ears.

The Earl of Rothwest.

She had seen him, of course. One could not spend three Seasons in London without crossing his path at some ball or another, though “crossing” was far too generous a term. He attended social events the way a wolf might attend a gathering of sheep—present, yet fundamentally apart. Watching. Assessing. Those cold grey eyes missing nothing.

Perhaps a dozen times they had occupied the same room. He had never once looked at her. Or at least, she had never caught him doing so—though now and then she had felt the uncanny weight of being observed, like cold fingers trailing down her spine. He spoke rarely, danced never, and smiled only in a way that made people fervently wish he wouldn’t.

The stories about him were legion, each more elaborate than the last. That he’d killed three men in duels—or was it five? That he had driven a mistress mad with his peculiar tastes—though no one could agree on what those tastes might be. That he had rebuilt his ancestral estate into something resembling a fortress, with locks upon every door and rules governing everything from flower arrangements to the temperature of soup.

And now her father had sold her to him—for eight thousand pounds.

No, she corrected herself. Not sold. Wagered. Lost. I am the marker in a game of cards.

The thought should have brought tears, but they would not come. Instead, a strange, icy resolve settled over her, crisp and sharp as frost upon a windowpane.

She could run. Pack what little jewellery remained, gather whatever coins she could manage, and disappear into the night. But where would she go? She had no references, no employment prospects, no relatives willing—or able—to shield her from an earl’s pursuit. And what of her sisters? Lucy was seventeen, Anne barely fifteen. What would become of their futures if she fled?

She could refuse. Stand her ground and let the consequences fall where they might. But she had seen debtor’s prison. She had visited a friend’s father there once. The smell alone—unwashed bodies, despair, slow decay—had haunted her for weeks. Could she condemn her father to that? Could she watch her mother’s heart break, her sisters’ futures crumble?

Or she could submit. Sign whatever papers required signing. Speak the necessary vows. Become the Countess of Rothwest—wife to the Beast of Berkeley Square.

Wife.

The word lodged in her throat like glass. Wife suggested intimacy, partnership, affection—or at least cordial regard. What manner of wife would the Earl expect? A decorative one, perhaps, to host his dinners and warm his bed and produce the requisite heir and spare. The thought made her stomach turn, though she couldn’t quite say whether from fear or something more complex.

She’d had offers before, of course. 

Lord Ashworth had written sonnets about her eyes—mediocre ones, but earnest. Mr Faxtone had proposed twice, though his mother had been exceedingly clear in her disapproval. Sir Gerald had courted her for an entire Season, until she discovered his unfortunate penchant for gambling—much like Papa, which had ended that attachment immediately.

But none of them had been the Earl of Rothwest.
None of them had looked at the world as though it were a chessboard and everyone else merely pieces to be arranged according to his will.

A sound from below caught her attention—voices raised, sharp with distress. She crept to the stairs and listened.

“—cannot simply appear at this hour!” her mother cried, the pitch of her voice trembling on the edge of panic.

“I believe you’ll find I may do precisely as I please.”
A masculine voice—deep, controlled, with an undercurrent that made the hairs on Celine’s neck rise. “I’ve come to discuss terms with your husband. The hour is irrelevant.”

He had come. Now. At past midnight.

Before she could think better of it, Celine was descending the stairs, her stocking feet silent on the worn carpet. She paused at the landing and peered into the entrance hall.

He stood in their modest foyer like a dark prince in a nursery—too large, too vital, too everything for such humble surroundings. He hadn’t removed his greatcoat, as though courtesy were a courtesy he did not intend to indulge. Her mother, in her dressing gown and cap, looked small beside him, pale as a frightened wren.

“Lord Rothwest,” her father said, emerging from his study with the careful tread of a man approaching a temperamental beast. “This is most irregular—”

“As was your wager this evening,” the Earl replied without heat. “I have come to add a stipulation to our agreement.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything,” Celine said, stepping into view.

Three faces turned toward her, but she kept her gaze fixed on the Earl.
This was the closest she had ever been to him, and the effect was… unsettling. He was not handsome in the conventional sense—his features were too sharp, too angular, as if he’d been carved from winter itself. But there was something compelling about the way he inhabited his own skin, the absolute certainty of his presence.

“Miss Beckett.” He inclined his head exactly the correct degree for their ranks—no more, no less. “I apologise for the lateness of the hour.”

“Do you?” She descended the remaining stairs slowly, aware that her hair was unbound, that she wore only a morning dress and shawl, that this was all highly improper. “Or is this merely another demonstration of your… particular interpretation of social convention?”

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or possibly approval. “Both, I suspect. Your father has informed you of our arrangement?”

“He’s informed me of your ultimatum.” She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, keeping the newel post between them like a shield. “There is a difference.”

“Is there?” His head tilted slightly, assessing her with the kind of cool focus that explained why lesser men quailed beneath his gaze. “An ultimatum suggests no choice at all. I have offered your father a very clear choice. Granted, neither option is pleasant, but a choice nonetheless.”

“Between poverty and utter ruin, you mean?”

Her father made a strangled noise.
But the Earl… the Earl smiled. Only a slight lift of one corner of his mouth, but enough to transform his face from marble to something startlingly human.

“Poverty and marriage,” he corrected with a mildness more unnerving than anger. “Though I admit, your phrasing does possess a certain dramatic flourish. Do you read novels, Miss Beckett?”

“When I’m not being bartered for gaming debts, yes.”

“Celine!” her father hissed, purple with mortification. “Apologise at once!”

“For what? Speaking truth?” She did not look away from the Earl. “Isn’t that what this is? A transaction? My freedom for your eight thousand pounds?”

“Your family’s freedom,” Rothwest corrected. “Yours was forfeit the moment your father sat at that table. The only question was whether you would lose it to destitution—or to me.”

“And you are the better option?”

“Infinitely.”

No hesitation. No modesty. Just cool, incontrovertible certainty.

“I can provide comfort, stability, a position your family desperately requires. Debtor’s prison provides none of those things.”

“And in return?” she asked, her voice a near-perfect mask of composure.

His eyes narrowed, not in threat but in precision.

“In return, you become my wife. With all that entails.”

The words hung between them like a dare.
Celine felt heat rise to her cheeks but refused to look away.

“Which brings me to my additional stipulation,” he continued, drawing a folded document from his coat. “I require your written consent as well. Not merely your father’s. Your own—freely given, or as freely as circumstances allow.”

“…Why?” The question escaped in a whisper.

“Because, despite what the gossips say, I am not a monster.” He placed the document on the hall table. “I have no interest in an unwilling bride. Resentful, perhaps. Reluctant, certainly. But not unwilling. The distinction is important.”

She stared at him, attempting to reconcile the man before her with the legends whispered across ballrooms.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then your father’s debts remain—with all their consequences.” He pulled on his gloves, each motion precise, practised. “You have until tomorrow evening. I will call at a civilised hour—let us say eight o’clock. We may sign the papers then… or not, as you choose.”

He turned toward the door, then paused.

“One more thing. Should you accept, the wedding will proceed within the fortnight, as agreed. However, I am prepared to negotiate certain… aspects of the arrangement. Within reason.”

“Such as?”

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 Earl of Rothwest…

Her hands began to tremble. She’d wanted adventure, hadn’t she? Spent three Seasons dismissing perfectly respectable suitors because they bored her?

Well. Whatever else the Earl 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.”

Despite everything, Celine smiled. “And we shall live on what? Our staggering lack of theatrical ability?”

“We have other talents. You’re clever with figures; I can sew. Anne can… well, Anne can be pretty and marry rich.”

“Lucy—”

“I know.” Her sister’s voice sobered. “I know why you’ll do it. For us. For Mama. Even for Papa, though goodness knows he doesn’t deserve such devotion.” She took Celine’s hand gently. “But what about doing something for you?”

A fair question.

What did she want?

At three-and-twenty, she was already teetering on society’s shelf. Perhaps she had dismissed suitors not merely because they bored her, but because she sought… something more. Someone more. Someone who might match her wit, her will, her restless yearning for—what, precisely? She did not even know.

“Did you know,” she said quietly, “that he offered separate bedchambers for the first month?”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “He did?”

“To let me ‘acclimate,’ he said.”

“That’s… unexpectedly considerate.”

“That was my thought.” Celine stared at the roses, brittle and brown. “Everything about him tonight was unexpected. He might have forced the matter with Papa alone, but he came to ensure that I had a choice. A terrible one, yes—but a choice all the same.”

“You’re talking yourself into it.”

“Perhaps.” She squeezed Lucy’s hand. “Or perhaps I am acknowledging that, of all the cages available to women like us, this one might be the most… intriguing.”

“Intriguing,” Lucy echoed. “That is certainly one word for it.”

They fell silent, listening to the distant pulse of London—the rumble of wheels, the faint cry of vendors, the laughter of those whose lives were not collapsing.

“If you do it,” Lucy said at last, “if you marry him—promise me something.”

“What?”

“Don’t let him change you. Don’t fade into his shadow. Fight him if you must. Argue. Be yourself, even if—especially if—he dislikes it.”

Celine drew her sister close and kissed her temple. “I promise. And I suspect the Earl of Rothwest has no idea what he is bargaining for.”

“Good.” Lucy’s smile was fierce. “Let the Beast learn what happens when he cages a Broker woman.”

Chapter Three

“Absolutely not.”

Lady Broker’s voice cut through the morning room with the authority of a woman who had held a household together on increasingly creative economies for the better part of a decade. She stood rigidly at the window, hands clenched in the folds of her morning dress. Even the sunlight filtering through the glass did not soften her expression.

“Mama—” Celine began, but her mother whirled around, two high spots of colour burning in her cheeks.

“Do not ‘Mama’ me, young lady. Do you imagine I raised you to be bartered off like livestock? Do you think I spent twenty-three years teaching you French and watercolours and proper precedence only for you to be handed over to that—that—”

“Monster?” Celine suggested mildly, stirring her tea with unnecessary care.

“I was going to say ‘man,’” her mother snapped, though her expression suggested she’d been thinking something far less charitable. “Though I use the term loosely. The Earl of Rothwest possesses many qualities, I’m sure, but warmth is not among them.”

“Neither is bankruptcy,” Celine pointed out. “Which is precisely what awaits us without his intervention.”

“There must be another way.” Her mother began to pace—a habit developed during Papa’s first financial disaster and perfected through every one that followed. “Your Aunt Prudence has connections. Perhaps she might arrange something. A position as a companion, or—”

“A governess?” Celine set her teacup down with enough force to rattle the saucer. “Should I spend my days teaching some merchant’s daughters to paint mediocre landscapes while Lucy and Anne watch their prospects whither? While Papa rots in Marshalsea?”

“Your father’s predicament is of his own making.”

The words hung between them like a blade. It was the first time her mother had ever criticised Papa so plainly, and the shock of it silenced them both.

“Yes,” Celine said at last. “It is. But we will all pay the price regardless.”

Her mother sank into the opposite chair, suddenly looking every one of her forty-eight years. “When I married your father, I thought myself so clever. A baron’s title. A lovely estate in Hampshire. A man who quoted poetry and brought me roses.” She gave a brittle laugh. “I didn’t know about the gambling. Or perhaps I did and thought I might change him. Young women are such fools about what love can accomplish.”

“I’m not in love with Lord Rothwest.”

“No,” her mother agreed, studying her daughter with eyes too experienced to hold many illusions. “But you’re curious about him. I saw it last night—the way you looked at him. Like a natural philosopher examining a particularly fascinating specimen.”

Heat rose in Celine’s cheeks. “That is absurd.”

“Is it? You have always been drawn to puzzles, my dear. Problems to solve. Codes to break. And what is the Earl of Rothwest but the ultimate enigma? A man no one understands, whom everyone fears, who lives by rules no one else comprehends.”

“You make me sound calculating.”

“I make you sound like yourself.” Her mother reached across the table, taking her hands. “Which is precisely why I am terrified. You think you can manage him, do you not? Navigate his moods, interpret his silences, perhaps even tame the Beast of Berkeley Square. But what if you cannot? What if he is exactly what they say?”

“Then I’ll survive.” Celine squeezed her mother’s fingers. “I am stronger than I look.”

“Strength isn’t always enough. Your grandmother was strong. She endured forty years with a man who never once told her he loved her. She died without ever hearing the words.” Tears filled her mother’s eyes, though she did not allow them to fall. “I do not want that for you.”

“And I don’t want poverty for any of us.” Celine rose and crossed to the window. Below, London pressed on with its morning work—delivery carts, maids scrubbing steps, life continuing heedless of private calamities. “Besides, the Earl offered separate chambers for the first month. Time to adjust. That is more consideration than many wives receive.”

“A month.” Her mother’s voice was flat. “And after that?”

Celine did not answer—because she could not. The marriage bed was a subject discussed only in whispers and euphemisms, though she’d gleaned enough from married friends to understand the basic mechanics. But understanding the act and imagining it with the Earl of Rothwest were two vastly different things.

Would he be gentle? She doubted it. Everything about him suggested control, precision, a man who did nothing by halves.

Would he be cruel? The stories implied as much, yet the man who had stood in their foyer the night before had not seemed cruel—merely… intense.

“I have already decided,” she said finally, her gaze fixed on the street below. “I will sign the papers tonight.”

Behind her, her mother let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob.

“Then pity help you, my dear. Pity help us all.”

***

The day passed with the strange, crystalline stillness of time running out. Celine found herself memorising details she had never before noticed—the way the afternoon light gilded the faded wallpaper in the music room, the creak of the third stair from the top, the familiar blend of her mother’s lavender water and the beeswax used on the furniture.

Lucy and Anne knew, of course. News travelled quickly in a household with only four servants remaining, and by luncheon, both younger girls were treating Celine with the careful deference usually reserved for the dying.

“You could still refuse,” Anne said over their meal of cold ham and yesterday’s bread. At fifteen, she still believed in fairy tales and happy endings. “Perhaps someone else will offer for you. Someone kind.”

“In the next eight hours?” Lucy asked dryly. “Shall we post a notice in the Times? ‘Desperate family seeks immediate husband for eldest daughter. Must be wealthy, kind, and willing to pay eight thousand pounds in gambling debts. Beast-like temperament not preferred.’”

“Lucy!” their mother admonished, though without heat. They were all far beyond pretending.

“What’s he like?” Anne asked, pushing her food around her plate. “Truly like—not the stories, but the actual man.”

Celine considered. “Tall,” she said at last. “Not unusually so, but he seems taller because of the way he carries himself. Dark hair, grey eyes. There’s a scar near his left temple—very faint. You’d only notice if you looked closely.”

“And were you?” Lucy asked archly. “Looking closely?”

“It seemed prudent to observe the man I’m to marry.”

“And his manner?” Anne persisted. “Is he truly as cold as they all say?”

Celine remembered the heat she’d glimpsed beneath his control, quickly suppressed but unmistakable. “He’s… contained. Every word, every gesture seems deliberate. As if he’s playing chess and thinking twelve moves ahead.”

“That sounds exhausting,” Lucy observed.

“Or exhilarating,” Celine murmured before she caught herself. “I only mean it would be interesting to understand such a mind.”

Their mother set down her fork with a decisive click. “If you’re determined to do this, we must ensure you’re prepared. Lucy, Anne—go to your rooms. I need a word with your sister.”

The younger girls exchanged a glance but obeyed, Lucy giving Celine’s shoulder a squeeze as she passed.

When they were alone, her mother rose and went to the sideboard, pouring a small measure of sherry with hands that trembled slightly. “There are things you should know. About marriage. About what will be expected of you.”

“Mama, I’m not entirely ignorant—”

“Ignorance may be a blessing in this case.” She took a fortifying sip. “The marriage bed is… well, with the right man, it can be pleasant. Even enjoyable. But it requires trust, tenderness, a certain… consideration from the husband.”

Celine thought of the Earl’s precise movements, his controlled voice, the way he had looked at her as though she were a problem to be solved. Trust seemed unlikely. Tenderness even more so.

“And without those things?” she asked.

Her mother looked away. “You endure. You close your eyes and think of duty. Of the children who may come of it. Of anything except what’s happening.”

“You make it sound like torture.”

“For some women, it might as well be.” Her mother turned back, and Celine was startled to see tears on her cheeks. “I’ve failed you. A mother should arrange a good match for her daughter—ensure her happiness, her safety. Instead, I stood by while your father gambled away your future.”

“You couldn’t have stopped him.”

“Couldn’t I? I could have left him. Taken you girls to my sister’s. Sought counsel. Found… some other path.” She laughed bitterly. “But I was raised to be a good wife. To stand by my husband no matter what. And look where that’s led us.”

Celine crossed to her, drawing her into an embrace. “You did your best with an impossible situation.”

“My best wasn’t enough.” Her mother pulled back, gripping Celine’s shoulders. “Promise me something. If he hurts you—truly hurts you—you’ll leave. Come home. We’ll find another way, somehow.”

“And condemn you all to poverty?”

“Better poverty than watching my daughter destroyed by degrees.” Her mother’s fingers tightened. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” Celine said softly—lying, knowing she would never keep such a vow. She had made her choice, and she would see it through, whatever the cost.