A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 79 - Seventy Nine

The terrace of Hamilton House was a sanctuary of calm compared to the battlefield of the Pall Mall lawn. Here, the air smelled of steeping Darjeeling tea and lemon cakes, not competition and crushed grass.

Ines, the Duchess of Carleton, sat in a white wicker chair, looking every inch the picture of relaxed aristocracy. She poured tea from a silver pot, the amber liquid steaming in the cool afternoon air.

Opposite her sat Lady Celine Farrington.

Celine was still holding her pink mallet, though she had rested it against the table leg. Her cheeks were flushed from the game, and a few strands of golden hair had escaped her bonnet. She looked less like a Diamond of the First Water and more like a young woman who was simply enjoying the sun.

Ines handed her a cup.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Celine said, taking the saucer with steady hands.

Ines watched her. She had been observing Celine all morning. She had expected a doll—a beautiful, empty vessel filled with Lady Farrington’s opinions. But there was something else there. A spark. A kindness that didn’t feel rehearsed.

"You played well today," Ines commented, taking a sip of her own tea. "Though I believe Miss Kingsley has a ruthless streak we did not anticipate."

Celine giggled. It was a genuine sound, bubbling up from her chest.

"She was quite fierce," Celine agreed. "I think she frightened the gardener."

Ines smiled. She set her cup down. She wanted to know more. She wanted to know who this girl was, the girl her brother intended to marry.

"Tell me, Lady Celine," Ines said, leaning forward slightly. "Beyond hitting wooden balls into shrubbery, what do you do? What are your hobbies, my lady?"

Celine hesitated. She looked into her teacup as if the tea leaves held the correct answer. She had been trained for this question. Her mother had given her a list of acceptable answers: watercolor painting, flower arranging, and charitable works for orphans.

But looking at Ines—who had just encouraged a matchmaker to destroy a Duke at croquet—Celine felt a sudden urge to be honest.

"Thank you for asking, Your Grace," Celine replied. She looked up, her blue eyes clear. "I do enjoy playing the pianoforte. It soothes me. And I love acquiring knowledge. I like history, and geography."

She paused. She looked left, then right, as if checking for spies. Specifically, her mother.

She bent low, leaning across the small table. She lowered her voice in what sounded like a whisper.

"I despise embroidery," Celine confessed.

Ines raised an eyebrow.

"Truly?" Ines asked.

"Truly," Celine said with feeling. "I have tried, Your Grace. Mama hired the best instructors. But I have no patience for it. I prick my fingers constantly."

She held up her left hand. There were no visible marks, but the memory of the pain was clearly there.

"I’m always getting pricked," Celine murmured. "And the knots. I always make knots on the wrong side. My handkerchiefs look like battlefields."

Ines laughed. It was a warm, throaty laugh.

"I feel the same way," Ines replied. "My governess used to say my needlework looked like a spider had danced across the linen while wearing muddy boots. I haven’t touched a hoop since my brother came home from war."

Celine’s eyes widened. "You don’t embroider?"

"I am a Duchess," Ines said with a wink. "I pay people to embroider for me. It is much better for the economy, and for my temper."

Celine smiled, relaxing into her chair. The tension in her shoulders melted away.

"I love reading too," Celine continued, emboldened by Ines’s confession.

Ines’s interest piqued. "Is that so? Reading is a fine pastime. What book do you enjoy? Sermons? Poetry?"

Celine hesitated again. This was dangerous ground.

"I... I read novels," Celine said carefully.

"Novels," Ines repeated. "Gothic? Historical?"

Celine bit her lip. She didn’t know if she could trust Ines with such information. Her mother called novels "rot for the brain." She said they gave young girls unrealistic expectations about men and made them prone to fainting.

Ines sensed the hesitation. She saw the way Celine’s fingers tightened on the handle of her teacup.

Ines smiled. She reached out and put a hand on Celine’s gloved hand.

"Okay, I will go first," Ines said.

She looked around conspiratorially.

"I love reading too," Ines admitted. "In fact, I do not read sermons. I do not read poetry about clouds. I only read romance."

Celine gasped softly.

"Romance?" Celine whispered.

"Yes," Ines said firmly. "Books that talk about love. Love that goes beyond time and space. Books where social status does not matter, where background and past trauma does not matter. Books where two people find pieces of themselves in each other."

Ines’s eyes shone. She was thinking of Carcel. She was thinking of how she had found him, not in a book, but in a life that felt like one.

"I like stories with happy endings," Ines concluded. "Life is serious enough. Why should my reading be serious too?"

Celine looked at Ines with awe. A Duchess who read romance novels. It was a revelation.

"I do too," Celine replied, her voice rushing out now. "Mama always says they are not good for me. She says they fill my head with thoughts."

"Thoughts are good," Ines noted.

"She says they make me want things I cannot have," Celine said. "So I hide to read them. I hide them under my mattress. Or inside my music books."

She leaned in closer.

"Just like the time I bought a book from my governess," Celine whispered. "She was dismissed, and she was selling her things. I bought a book called ’The Duke’s Midnight Lessons.’"

Celine stopped.

She froze. Her hand flew to her mouth. She closed her mouth and looked at Ines, realizing she had said too much.

The Duke’s Midnight Lessons.

It was a notorious title. It was the kind of book that was whispered about in corners of ballrooms. It was the kind of book that had scenes... scenes.

Celine’s face turned a bright, violent shade of crimson.

"Forgive me," she stammered, pulling her hand away. "I didn’t... I shouldn’t have said that. It is improper. Please forget I spoke."

Ines didn’t look shocked. She didn’t look scandalized.

She looked delighted.

"Arthur Pendleton," Ines interrupted.

Celine blinked. "Pardon?"