“Let me show you. Take my arm, come back inside, and prove them wrong—prove that you burn brighter than their sneers.”
He offered his arm, his gaze steady, a dare wrapped in kindness, his warmth a lifeline in the cold.
Celine’s heart raced, her instinct to push him away warring with a spark of curiosity—his belief in her, his refusal to flinch at her rawness. The debutantes’ laughter echoed, but his eyes held no pity, only challenge.
She straightened, her chin held high, her voice firm despite her trembling fingers.
“I agree, but onone condition,” she emphasized, her gaze locking onto his. “If this fails—if the ton still scorns me—you leave me alone. No more proposals, no more… whatever this is.”
Rhys’s smile widened, not a rakish grin but something deeper, his dimple a quiet promise. “Done,” he said warmly, extending his arm again. “But it won’t fail, Celine. Not with you.”
She hesitated, her breathing shallow. Her gloves brushed his sleeve as she took his arm, his warmth steadying her like an anchor.
The ballroom’s golden light spilled through the doors, the ton’s eyes waiting like a gauntlet, but Celine felt a flicker of fire spark within her, ready to face them—or burn trying.
Chapter Eight
“Can I have this dance?” Rhys asked.
He received only an arched brow in response.
His heart beat a touch faster as he led Celine onto the dance floor, her gloved hand light on his arm, her emerald-green dress shimmering under the golden light from the chandeliers. The ballroom buzzed with the ton’s murmurs, a sea of silks and satins parting before them, their eyes sharp with curiosity.
Celine’s chin was high, her black hair gleaming, but her blue eyes flickered with the wariness he’d seen on the balcony—her fear of their judgment, her “Stone Cold Spinster” mask barely holding.
She’s fire.
His jaw tightened with resolve, determined to prove her wrong, to make her shine.
He guided her to the center, the violins swelling into a waltz, his navy blue coat brushing her silk sleeve.
“Two sets,” he murmured.
His amber eyes twinkled, knowing the impropriety. Two dances signaled intent, a public claim. It was on her list, a reckless wish scribbled in secret, and he would wield it to anchor her.
“Ready to scandalize them, My Lady?”
Celine’s lips twitched, a spark of defiance breaking the tension. “Scandalize? You’re the rake here, Your Grace,” she said, her tone teasing despite her nerves. “I’m merely… enduring.”
He grinned as he took her hand and put his other on her waist, his warmth seeping through her dress.
“Enduring? I’ll have you enjoying yourself in no time,” he said, leading her into the waltz, his steps confident.
The ton watched, their fans fluttering, but Rhys’s focus was on Celine—her stiffness, her glances at the crowd, the worry etched on her brow.
He spun her gently, making her skirts flare, and leaned in. “You’re fretting over their stares, aren’t you?”
Her eyes darted to the sidelines, her cheeks flushing. “They’re waiting for me to trip,” she muttered, catching a matron’s sneer. “Or for you to flee a spinster’s clutches.
Rhys’s grin widened, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then let’s give them something else to gape at. Did I tell you that I once raced a camel in Cairo?”
The wild claim drew her gaze to him, and her lips parted in disbelief.
“A camel?” she said, a laugh bubbling up despite herself. Her steps faltered, but he quickly steadied her. “You’re inventing nonsense to distract me.”
“Nonsense?” he huffed, mock-offended.
He twirled her with ease, his pearly white teeth peeking as he flashed her a smile that would have sent any other lady in the ballroom swooning. Celine only rolled her eyes, though a soft smile tugged at her lips.
