“Edmund seems well,” Rhys said, nodding toward the hearth, where Celine’s father was cornered by an ex-governor and a minor lordling.
The Earl looked robust, gesturing with his brandy, his laughter too loud for polite society.
“He’s insufferable,” Celine scoffed, but her eyes softened as she watched him. “I suppose the London air agrees with him.”
“Or maybe it’s the company,” Rhys suggested, keeping her close as the music changed. “He’s proud of you, you know.”
She flushed, then deflected. “He still hasn’t forgiven you for that prank with the garden frogs.”
Rhys barked a laugh. “He shouldn’t have bet against me.”
A swirl of debutantes swept them apart, and Rhys found himself at the edge of the dance floor with a glass pressed into his hand by a well-meaning servant. He took a sip and watched Celine glide through the set, her face animated, her laugh brighter than any chandelier in the room.
Surprisingly, he found himself content.
Movement near the door caught his attention. He turned to see Lady Helena weaving her way through the crowd, flanked by two of her sisters and trailed by a trio of hopeful bachelors.
At the same moment, the newly ennobled Duke of Bolton—formerly Lord Julian Ashford—sauntered into the ballroom. As soon as he spotted Rhys, he picked up a glass of sherry from a passing tray and started toward him, grinning like a clown.
“Wylds,” he called. “Am I to be permitted at your soiree, or is this a trap?”
Rhys smirked. “Depends. Are you armed?”
“Only with wit and an unhealthy sense of self-importance,” Julian replied, navigating the throng.
The orchestra switched tunes, and as the sets shifted, Helena found herself face-to-face with Julian. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, as if taking stock of a worthy opponent.
Then, as if on cue, a footman behind Helena lost control of a tray of champagne. Helena spun to avoid collision at the exact moment Julian stepped forward with his sherry. The two glasses met in a flurry of red and gold, and a perfect arc of wine splattered down the sleeve of Helena’s dress.
The silence that followed was so thick that Rhys could hear the wheels turning in Julian’s head as he calculated the best escape route.
Helena looked down at her dress, then up at Julian, her expression flat. “Is this your customary method of greeting a lady, Your Grace?”
Julian’s eyes went wide with horror, then narrowed with sudden inspiration. “Only when the lady is far too lovely for words. I resort to gestures.”
Helena gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Charming. I do hope you intend to pay the cleaner’s bill.”
“I’ll have it settled by morning,” Julian said, already fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it with an earnestness that was almost comical.
Helena accepted the handkerchief and dabbed at her sleeve, her face composed but her eyes blazing.
Rhys caught Celine’s eye across the room and saw she was watching the exchange with a knowing half-smile. He raised abrow at her, and she responded with a minute shake of her head, as if to say,Let them fight it out.
“The servants will gossip, you know,” Celine said, tugging the last of her pins free and letting her hair spill down her back. She regarded Rhys in the mirror, one brow lifted. “We left the ball precisely two minutes after Lady Harrington retired.”
“Let them gossip,” Rhys huffed, sinking into the armchair nearest the fireplace. He loosened his cravat with a sigh of almost indecent relief, then looked over at her. “The rumor mill needs grist, or else the city will collapse in on itself.”
Celine snorted, dropping her necklace into a lacquered tray. “You enjoy it, don’t you? Being the object of speculation.”
“I enjoyyou,” he said, honest enough to startle them both.
She paused, a flush spreading up from her collarbone. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”
He grinned. “I’m practically an invalid. Thirty-two, and already tamed.”
She finished divesting herself of her jewelry, then crossed the rug to where he sat. She stood behind him, her fingers working the knots from his shoulders.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the snap and hiss of the fire.
