“You smiled,” he noted, his voice low. They paused at the church doors, the May air cool against their skin. “It helped ease my nerves.”
Her brows rose. “Don’t get used to it,” she said dryly, but her lips twitched. “The ton’s still watching.”
“Let them,” he said with a grin, guiding her to the carriage. “In fact, how about we give them something to talk about and cross something scandalous off your list?”
“I don’t believe I have anything scandalous left,” she answered after a moment’s consideration.
“Pity. Give me a little while, and I’ll come up with something.”
Chapter Nine
“Damn.” Rhys winced as the bitter tang of black coffee stung his tongue, the dark liquid scalding in the chipped porcelain cup.
They had stopped at a quint inn—the Dancing Duck—on their journey back to his estate.
Early morning light filtered through leaded windows, casting a soft glow on his navy blue coat, the fabric pristine despite the dust of their journey. He set the cup down, his broad shoulders tensing, his eyes narrowing on the offending brew.
Nothing else jolted him awake like coffee, a necessity since his father’s death left him grappling with his new duties, but he loathed its acrid bite. A sweeter start—tea, perhaps—tempted him, but discipline won out, as always. A rustle of skirts drew his gaze to the doorway.
Celine Huntington—no, she’s Celine Harken now. We’re married.
He had never thought that one day he would utter those words.
His wife entered, her blue muslin dress simple yet elegant, her black hair pinned loosely under a straw bonnet, its ribbons fluttering.
Her blue eyes, usually sharp with wit, held a flicker of uncertainty, her steps hesitant as she approached the table. The sight stirred something within him—pride, curiosity, a spark of the fire that had drawn him to her defiant spirit.
Their marriage was a contract to secure his inheritance and clear her father’s debts. It was meant to be solely on paper, yet her presence, softer now, tugged at him, stirring an emotion he couldn’t name.
“You’re grimacing, Your Grace,” Celine remarked, her voice gentle, almost tentative, as she settled into the chair opposite and folded her hands in her lap, her gloved fingers twisting a ribbon. “Why drink that coffee if it pains you so?”
Her eyes searched his, almost as if she was unsure of her words.
Did I say something to upset her?
Rhys’s lips twitched, a smile threatening to break through.
“It’s a necessary evil,” he replied, his voice measured, masking the warmth her concern sparked. He leaned back in his seat. “Wakes me up like nothing else, bitter or not. I manage.”
He lifted his cup and took another sip, his wince subtler this time. He held her gaze, intrigued by her soft demeanor.
What is going on in your head, Celine?
He swallowed the question, deciding to observe her for a few more minutes.
She tilted her head, a lock of hair slipping free, her flush faint but noticeable. “Manage?” she said, her voice softer, her hesitation clear. “Surely a bit of sugar would help? Or… milk?”
Wait. Is she trying to be… wifely? That can’t be it. Can it?
Her suggestion was earnest, almost shy, her fingers brushing the tablecloth as if testing the boundaries of their new roles—wife, not spinster; partner, not adversary.
Rhys chuckled as he set the cup down, his gaze steady. “Sugar’s for weaker men,” he said, his tone polite.
His statement carried a hint of something deeper. A resolve to face discomfort, perhaps. A habit formed after years of duty.
“I prefer it unadorned. Keeps me sharp.” He paused, his smile softening. “But I appreciate the thought, Celine.”
Her name, intimate on his lips, felt natural now, though it stirred a flicker of tension in her eyes.
