Celine shot upright, her cheeks flaming a vivid red that clashed charmingly with her cool expression.
“I’ve found it, thank you,” she said, snatching the nearest reticule—a garish confection of pink ribbons, ruffles, and lace that screamed of debutante folly.
Her eyes widened, a hint of regret crossing her face as she held it up.
Rhys’s lips twitched, his grin widening. “That?” he asked, raising a brow. “A bold choice, Lady Celine. All those… ribbons. Planning to dazzle the ton with pink lace?”
Her blush deepened, her fingers tightening on the reticule as she tried to muster dignity. “It’s… perfectly suitable,” she said, her voice faltering as she glanced at the monstrosity, clearly unable to stomach her own lie. “I like it.”
“Like it?” He stepped closer, his boots soft on the polished floor, the space between them shrinking. “You’d sooner wear a bonnet made of feathers. Admit it, you grabbed the first thing you could to avoid me.”
Celine lifted her chin, her blue eyes flashing. “Avoid you? I’m simply shopping, Your Grace. Not every lady swoons in yourpresence.” But then her gaze flickered with hesitation. “This reticule is… is perfectly… reticular.”
She winced, realizing her blunder.
“Reticular?” Rhys chuckled, the sound sending a shiver through her. “A new word for the lexicon, perhaps? Or are you flustered, My Lady?”
He leaned in, just enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume, his gaze lingering on her reddened cheeks. An odd possessiveness rose inside him, unbidden, her blush igniting something he couldn’t name.
“I’m not flustered,” she snapped, her voice sharper now, though her hands betrayed her, fumbling with the reticule’s ribbons. “And I don’t need your… your commentary on my choices. Perhaps you should find a mirror to flirt with, since you’re so fond of your charm.”
He laughed, undeterred, his eyes dancing. “A mirror? No, I’d rather flirt with a lady who bites my hand and hides behind shelves. It’s far more entertaining.” His tone softened, teasing but edged with curiosity. “Why run from me, Celine? Afraid I’ll mention that list of yours?”
Her breath hitched, her eyes widening before narrowing. “I didn’t run,” she bit out, stepping back but finding the shelf at her heels. “And that list is none of your concern. You returned it, as you should have.”
“Returned it, yes,” he relented, closing the distance between them again, his boots inches from her slippers. “But I can’t forget it. A lady who undertakes such… adventures intrigues me. Tell me, what’s next? I’m well aware you crossed off some after the night we met, so I guess you’re going to ride a horse astride next?”
Celine’s cheeks burned hotter. “I… I don’t plan to… do anything of the sort, Your Grace. And I’d thank you to keep your… your speculations to yourself.”
She clutched the reticule like a shield, her poise crumbling under his gaze.
“Speculations?” Rhys tilted his head. “I’m merely curious. You rejected my offer, yet here you are, blushing like a debutante. Perhaps you’re not as immune to my charms as you claim to be.”
“Immune?” she scoffed, her voice regaining some fire, though her hands shook. “You’re insufferable, Your Grace. I’d rather marry that reticule than entertain your… your nonsense.”
But her eyes darted away, her blush betraying her, and Rhys felt that possessiveness again, a tug he tried to ignore.
“Marry the reticule?” he echoed seriously, picking up another from the display—a sedate navy silk. “This one’s more your style.”
“I don’t need your comments,” she said, her voice sharp but unsteady, her fingers twisting the pink ribbons. “Or your company. Good day, Your Grace.”
She moved to sidestep him, but her foot knocked into a display, sending a fan clattering to the floor.
Rhys bent to retrieve it, his fingers brushing hers as he handed it back, their eyes locking. “Careful, My Lady,” he murmured, “or you’ll give me ideas about rescuing you.”
Celine snatched the fan, her blush now a furnace, her words a jumble. “I don’t… don’t need rescuing.”
Celine’s heart pounded like a war drum, her cheeks still aflame from her mortifying stumble—reticular, of all things—in front of the Duke of Wylds.
The shop’s lavender-scented air felt suffocating. The pink-ribboned reticule in her hands seemed to mock her. She’d sounded like a blubbering idiot, tripping over words under his honeyed gaze, and she hated herself for it.
Her spinster’s armor—stone-cold, defiant—had shielded her for years, but Rhys’s charm, his audacious proposal, chipped at it, stirring a dangerous curiosity.
She wasn’t as resolute against marriage as before, not with her father’s debts looming and the ton’s scorn—not that she cared for it. But still, the realization terrified her. She was losing control, and she couldn’t let him unravel her further.
His teasing grin, his insufferable charm—it was too much. She couldn’t let him toy with her any longer.
“Just stop beating around the bush,” she blurted, her voice sharp as she thrust the reticule onto the counter. “Ask me and get this over with.”
