She swallowed, her heart pounding, his question cutting deep. “I don’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I thought I did—freedom, my way. But you… you make me wonder, and I hate it.”
Her admission was raw, and her gaze dropped, the reticule forgotten on the counter.
He chuckled. “Hate it? That’s honest, at least,” he said. “I’m fond of your wondering, Celine. It’s why I said you’d have to come to me. The offer’s there—whatever you choose. But I won’t chase what you’re too scared to take.”
Her breath caught, his use of her name—intimate, improper—sending a shiver through her, her uncertainty a tide she couldn’t stem.
“Scared?” she echoed, her eyes darting to his, then away, the lavender-scented air stifling. “Maybe I am. But that doesn’t mean I’ll… I’ll choose you.”
Her words lacked conviction, her hands twisting the glove, her heart torn between fear and the pull of his sincerity.
Rhys’s smile was gentle, his gaze unwavering. “Maybe not,” he relented, stepping back, his boots clicking on the floor. “But if you wonder enough, you’ll find me. To your freedom, Celine—or whatever you decide.”
He tipped his hat, then turned to the door, the bell jingling as he stepped out.
Celine stood frozen, her heart racing, her cheeks still warm, her reticule untouched.
Why do I care?
And yet his words lingered, threatening to unravel her.
“Hmm, no. Not this.”
Celine’s fingers hovered over a crystal vial, the amber liquid within catching the soft candlelight. The air of Monsieur Lafayette’s Perfumery was a symphony of scents—rose,bergamot, and musk swirling in a heady dance—but none matched the elusive blend she sought.
She enjoyed sampling perfumes, sometimes mixing a couple. It was something her mother indulged when she was a child. She was always tinkering with her perfume collections, but she never once got scolded.
Her black hair, pinned loosely under a straw bonnet, grazed her cheek as she leaned closer, her blue muslin dress brushing the counter.
“Too sweet,” she murmured, setting the vial down, her brow furrowed. “I need something… bolder.”
Another bottle—sandalwood and jasmine—beckoned, and she dabbed a drop on her wrist, inhaling deeply. The warm scent with a subtly sweet note was delightful on its own,notbecause it reminded her of a certain duke.
She could still remember their conversation yesterday. He was waiting for her to come to him.
Preposterous.
Her focus narrowed, the shop’s hum fading: the clink of glass, the rustle of silk, the perfumer’s murmured French. She reached for a third vial—vetiver and amber—oblivious to the bell’s jingling as two ladies entered, their pastel dresses and feathered bonnets marking them as ton darlings.
“Miss Langley, look,” whispered Lady Beatrice Vaughn, her voice a delicate lilt, her fan fluttering as she nudged her companion. “Lady Celine, fussing with perfumes again. Such dedication to… ornamentation.”
Miss Clara Langley’s giggle was soft, her eyes glinting behind her lace-trimmed bonnet. “Indeed, Lady Beatrice. One wonders why she bothers. Scent alone can’t draw attention, can it? Not when one’s dance card remains so… unadorned.”
Celine’s hand froze, the vial clinking against the counter, her cheeks warming as their words pierced her focus.
The jabs were subtle, cloaked in thin politeness, but their meaning was clear: a spinster’s efforts were futile, her presence invisible to suitors.
Her jaw tightened. The sting of their laughter hit home a little harder than she cared to admit. She felt close to her mother in the perfumery in a way that didn’t make her heart feel like it was being ripped apart. She’d be damned if she let some vultures desecrate her safe space.
She turned, her blue eyes flashing, her voice sharp but controlled. “Pardon, ladies, but I choose my perfumes for myself, not for others’ notice.”
Her fingers gripped the vial firmly as she forced a smile that looked more like a grimace.
Lady Beatrice’s fan paused, her smile saccharine-sweet. “Oh, Lady Celine, how admirable. Such… independence. But surely you hope for some notice? A lady’s charms are so fleeting, after all.”
Miss Langley’s lips curved, her tone dripping with false pity. “Quite. One hears so little of you at balls, Lady Celine. Perhaps a new scent might… change that? If only it could.”
“Poor girl. I’m certain if her mother were still alive, she’d have helped her?—”
