Her excuse was weak, her vulnerability slipping through. Why did every decision feel like she was losing herself?
Rhys tilted his head, and his eyes narrowed, though he kept his tone light. “The ton wants, does it? And what does Celine want? We can’t plan a wedding based solely on what the ton wants. It’s your wedding. What do you want?”
His question was soft, but it cut. His ease disarmed her, his eyes searching hers for the truth he sensed she was hiding.
She swallowed, her hands twisting in her lap, the shop’s warmth stifling. “I… I’m not sure,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, her blue eyes glistening. “I thought I knew—freedom, my way. But this wedding is… it’s bigger than me.”
Her confession was raw, her uncertainty laid bare, her resolve fraying under his gaze and the ton’s expectations.
Rhys set his cup down, his face softening. “Bigger, maybe, but it’s yours, Celine. You’re not their puppet. Choose what sets you alight.”
His calm confidence—his refusal to push—made her heart flutter.
Was he aware of how he made her feel? She hoped not.
Celine nodded, her blush deepening, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “There’s… another thing,” she added, lifting her, her resolve hardening. “I asked you here to clarify something. Our marriage—it’s on paper, as you said. To me, that means… we won’t share a bed.”
Her words were firm, but her cheeks burned. She had hoped a marriage on paper would imply that they didn’t need to consummate their marriage, but she needed to hear it from him.
Rhys’s brows rose, his smile fading, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he regained his composure.
“No bed,” he affirmed, his voice low, his gaze assessing her. “Clear enough, My Lady. A contract, nothing more. Is there anything else you want?”
His tone was gentle but probing, almost like he could sense the fear beneath her resolve. There was no need to talk about her mother or her fear of childbirth.
Images of that night flashed through her mind without warning.
Her breath hitched, and her eyes darted to the window, beyond which a carriage rattled past. “It’s… what I need,” she said, her voice trembling, her hands clenching in her lap. “I can’t—I won’t risk more. You said freedom, and I’m holding you to it.”
Her words were a shield, but her uncertainty bled through, her attraction to him—a spark she couldn’t name—clashing with her fear.
Rhys leaned forward, his eyes warm. “Freedom, then,” he said, his tone sincere, though a hint of challenge lingered.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She didn’t know why, but it felt right in the moment.
“You’re welcome,” he answered.
His smile returned slowly; it made her squirm in her seat.
Celine sat frozen, her tea cooling, her heart a tumult of relief and doubt, his words—fire, not a shadow—lingering, threatening to unravel her carefully drawn lines.
Celine sat at the mahogany table in the morning room, her quill poised over a notebook, the sunlight filtering through the lace curtains casting dappled patterns on her blue muslin dress.
The scent of her jasmine perfume mingled with the faint aroma of beeswax polish, grounding her as she planned the wedding breakfast, a spectacle to fulfill her vow of having the most enviable wedding.
Mary, her lady’s maid, stood nearby. Her graying hair was tucked under a white cap, her hands smoothing a linen cloth, her brown eyes watchful.
“Turtle soup, perhaps,” Celine said flatly, noting down the dish. “And gilded pastries—gold leaf, to dazzle the ton. Maybe ortolan in aspic?”
Her blue eyes flicked to Mary, seeking approval, but her heart wasn’t in it. The extravagance clashed with her soul, although she told herself it was simply because she had never had to plan a wedding before.
Mary’s lips twitched, her maternal warmth softening her tone. “Turtle soup’s fine for lords, My Lady, but it’s a heavy choice. Your mother, God rest her soul, preferred simpler fare—roast lamb, fresh herbs. You’re not yourself with all this… show.”
Celine’s quill paused, her chest tightening at the mention of her mother. “It’s not about me, Mary,” she said, setting the quill down. “I promised a spectacle to silence the ton’s sneers. They mocked me—insulted my mother’s memory.”
Her fingers picked at the embroidery of her skirts as she remembered the interaction at the perfumery that had set all of this into motion.
