Helena stepped closer, her tulle swatch forgotten, her voice gentle but firm. “Better, or safer? Celine, you’re no peacock strutting for gossips. That ivory dress lit you up. Why choose something that dims you?”
Her logic cut through as her hand touched Celine’s arm, a sisterly anchor.
Celine’s eyes glistened, the golden dress sagging in her grip. “I… I don’t know,” she whispered, her vulnerability slipping through, her defiance cracking. “I want to be me, but the ton—they’vemocked my mother, called my engagement a jest. I need them to see that I’m not… nothing.”
Her voice broke, the cord of her reticule digging into her palm, her list’s spark buried under duty.
Dahlia’s eyes softened, her shawl slipping as she moved to Celine’s side. “Nothing? You’re our hellion, Celine! That ivory dress is your fire, not this… gold monstrosity. Even your rakish betrothed sees it—he promised you a king’s wedding, didn’t he? You don’t need to try so hard.”
Celine’s breath hitched, her gaze drifting back to the ivory dress, its jasmine embroidery glinting like a secret.
“Rhys,” she murmured. He was eager to fulfill her wishes, but she had to play her part as well. “That reminds me, I need to meet him for tea tomorrow.”
“Oh, really?” Helena drawled teasingly.
“How romantic,” Dahlia added.
Celine laughed, the tension leaving her shoulders. “You’re both impossible.” She set the golden dress down, her eyes lingering on the ivory silk. “I’ll… take the golden one.”
Her heart protested, yet she turned to Madame Dubois and ordered the gaudy dress, her friends’ concerned glances trailing her.
Was the wedding changing her?
Chapter Seven
Celine sat at a small round table at Gunter’s. Her gloved hands fidgeted with a silver teaspoon, her blue eyes darting to the door, her heart a tangle of nerves.
She’d invited Rhys to discuss wedding plans—flowers for the breakfast, perhaps—but a second, weightier purpose pressed on her: to define their “marriage of convenience” and protect herself from the intimacy she feared.
Rhys entered, his navy blue coat hugging his strong frame, his dark hair catching the light. His honeyed eyes scanned the room until they found her. A smile curved his lips, forming what almost looked like dimples on his cheeks, but it didn’t last long.
Celine’s breath hitched, her resolve wavering as his presence stirred a warmth she couldn’t name.
He wove through the tables, his boots clicking on the polished floor, and bowed, his charm effortless.
“Lady Celine,” he greeted, his voice warm, taking the seat opposite her. “A tea shop summons? I’m intrigued. What’s afoot?”
Celine forced a smile, her fingers smoothing the tablecloth, the scent of bergamot from the steaming teapot grounding her.
“I wanted your opinion,” she began, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “On the wedding. Flowers, to start. Lilies for St. George’s, perhaps? Or roses—hundreds, to dazzle the ton?”
Her words rushed out, and her eyes flicked to his, seeking approval. But her heart wasn’t in the grandeur; the doubts she had in the dress shop lingered.
Rhys’s brow arched, his fingers drumming lightly on the table, his gaze keen but unreadable. “Lilies? Roses by the hundred?” he said lightly, pouring tea with practiced ease. “Bold choices, My Lady. But they sound… expected. Is that what you want?”
His question was casual, but his eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. Did he believe that her choices echoed the ton’s demands, and not her fire?
Was he right?
Celine flushed, her teaspoon clinking against her cup, her uncertainty surfacing. “Expected is… necessary,” she said, her voice softer, her gaze dropping to the amber liquid. “I promised a spectacle, didn’t I? To make them envy us.”
Her words echoed her vow in his study, but they felt hollow. The golden dress she’d chosen over the ivory silk one weighed on her mind, her friends’ gentle doubts echoing.
Rhys leaned back, his smile teasing, though his suspicion lingered. “A spectacle, yes,” he agreed, sipping his tea, his eyes never leaving her. “The roses would be beautiful. They’re every debutante’s choice, but… they don’t feel like you. What about jasmine? Subtle, daring, like a certain lady I know.”
Celine found herself blushing hard at his playful tone.
“Jasmine?” She met his gaze briefly before looking away. “It’s… lovely but too quiet. The ton wants more.”
