A ringing filled Celine’s head at those words. Rage and humiliation boiled her blood until all she could see was red. She had stopped listening.
Her mind flashed to Rhys’s proposal, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them.
“In fact,” she said, her voice loud enough to startle both ladies, “I’m engaged. So your concern for my… notice is quite misplaced.”
The shop fell silent, the perfumer’s cloth pausing mid-wipe, the ladies’ fans stilling. Lady Beatrice’s eyes widened, her smile faltering, while Miss Langley’s mouth opened and a choked laugh escaped.
“Engaged?” Lady Beatrice repeated, her fan snapping shut. “To whom, pray tell?”
Celine’s cheeks flushed, her impulsiveness dawning on her. Nevertheless, she lifted her chin, clutching the vial like a lifeline. “That’s… none of your business,” she said, her eyes darting to the counter.
Miss Langley’s laughter rang out, sharp and unladylike, making the perfumer frown. “Private? Oh, Lady Celine, you’re too droll! An engagement with no suitor named? How… imaginative.” She turned to Lady Beatrice, still giggling. “Come, Beatrice. Let’s leave Lady Celine to her fancies.”
Lady Beatrice’s smile returned, cruel and sharp. “Indeed, Clara. Such a pity, to dream so vividly.”
They swept toward the door, their skirts rustling, their laughter trailing like a slap across the face.
Celine was rooted to the spot, her breathing shallow, her fingers trembling as she set the vial down. Her fury surged at their mockery, hot and bitter.
“Insufferable vipers,” she snarled. “I’ll show them.”
Chapter Six
“There has to be another way,” Rhys murmured to himself from behind his mahogany desk, the weight of his dukedom pressing heavier than the ledgers before him.
Candlelight flickered across the room, casting shadows on the oak-paneled walls, the scent of wax mingling with old leather from the bookshelves. His amber eyes scanned a tenant’s report—crumbling cottages, failing crops, and debts piling like storm clouds.
The solutions that had kept Wylds afloat—shrewd investments, leased lands—were now faltering, his father’s will a noose. Even in death, the man still found ways to make him suffer.
All he needed to do was marry to access his inheritance.
A bride, any bride.
But Celine’s defiant face haunted him, her rejection a sting he couldn’t shake off.
A commotion broke his reverie—rapid footsteps, a breathless voice, and the study door bursting open.
Celine stormed in, her black hair loose under a straw bonnet, her blue muslin dress swirling, her blue eyes blazing with purpose. Behind her, old Jenkins, the butler, shuffled in, panting, his silver hair disheveled.
“She was too fast, Your Grace,” he wheezed, clutching the doorframe. “I tried to announce her?—”
“Never mind, Jenkins.” Rhys rose, his navy blue coat taut across his broad shoulders, a grin tugging at his lips. “Lady Celine clearly has urgent business. You may go.”
Jenkins bowed and retreated with a mutter, the door clicking shut behind him.
Celine lifted her chin, her cheeks flushed, her presence like a spark in the quiet room.
“I accept,” she declared, her voice firm, cutting through the silence. “But on one condition: ours will be the biggest, most enviable wedding the ton has ever seen.”
Rhys’s brows shot up, his heart jolting with surprise and something warmer—triumph, perhaps. He stepped around the desk, his boots soft on the Persian rug, his eyes locked onto hers.
“A wedding to rival the ton’s dreams?” he asked, his tone teasing but intrigued. “With the wealth we’ll unlock, I’m in the mood to celebrate. Name your terms, My Lady.”
She folded her arms, her posture defiant. “A spectacle, thousands of roses, silk dresses, a banquet to make all the mamas weep. I need the ton to choke on their envy.”
Rhys laughed—a low, rich sound.
He moved closer, the air between them crackling. “You drive a hard bargain, Celine. But I promise you a wedding to rival a king’s.”
