“Then I shall write a dramatic letter to the scandal sheets and mourn you with dignity,” he replied, already opening the trunk’s lower compartment to reveal a pair of slippers trimmed in silver.
She picked up the dress, marveling at its weight and shimmer. “Did you choose the color?”
He gave her a look. “Of course.”
She laughed. “Because I am the Stone Cold spinster?”
“Because you are the Duchess of Wylds, and you look better in blue than any woman alive,” he declared, his gaze lingering with such open affection that she nearly dropped the dress.
She ducked behind the scenery to change, expecting him to linger, but he had the decency to step away and feign fascination with the painted wolves.
It took her twice as long as usual to fasten the dress—the hooks were minuscule, and the crystals threatened to snag on every thread. But when she stepped out, she felt transformed.
The skirt floated when she walked, the bodice hugged her without pinching her skin, and she suspected she looked less like a duchess and more like the heroine of a very expensive fairytale.
Rhys turned when he heard her steps. His eyes widened, then softened. “You’ll bring the house down.”
“Then you’ll have to pay for the damages,” she quipped.
But the banter didn’t come as easily as before. She was nervous, all of a sudden.
He saw it and came to her side. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” she insisted, surprising herself with the truth of it. “But not alone.”
Rhys sat at the pianoforte and grinned at her. “Ready, my love?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
He played while she danced on the stage, feeling her heart soar with the freedom she had only ever dreamed of.
Rhys had helped her cross not one but two items off her list:To dance in a theaterandto feel alive.
The latter had been fulfilled long before tonight. And with Rhys, she could scale those heights over and over again.
Four Months Later
“Whoever chose the color palette for this room should be tried for crimes against taste,” Rhys said, surveying the ballroom from behind a massive urn of hothouse lilies.
“Shall I fetch the bailiff, or will you make a citizen’s arrest?” Celine asked, gliding up to him.
She wore a deep blue dress and diamonds, the sort of ensemble that would have cowed a lesser man into submission.
“How about a bribe? I’ll let the matter rest if you agree to a dance,” he said, bowing as if the fate of his soul depended on her answer.
She rolled her eyes but gave him her arm. “You do realize that the entire city is watching us for evidence of discord, right?”
He grinned. “Then let’s disappoint them spectacularly.”
They swept onto the dance floor as the orchestra struck up a cotillion, the tempo brisk and the melody bright.
Rhys, who had never much cared for court dances, found himself almost enjoying it—the way Celine anticipated his steps, the occasional brush of her hand against his shoulder, the hush that followed them wherever they moved.
“You’re smiling,” she noted, her lips barely moving. “That alone will have the scandal sheets filled for a week.”
He shrugged. “I’m well on my way to villainy. Why stop now?”
He twirled her, and for a moment, she looked lighter, unburdened. Four months had turned her from a stormcloud duchess to something more formidable—a woman who could hold her own in any room, even one with Lady Harrington skulking in the wings.
