The low candlelight threw shadows over towering bookshelves, their leather spines exuding a musty scent. Beyond the door, music thrummed, but here, the silence was broken only by the deliberate tread of boots descending the spiral staircase.
The Duke of Wylds moved with an ethereal grace, his black velvet mask accentuating the arrogant curve of his lips and the glint in his eyes.
“No one that concerns you,” Celine replied, her voice clipped.
“A mysterious lady hiding in my refuge? I have every right to be concerned.” His voice was sultry.
She had never stood so close to him while he spoke, never been this close to him.
Such flawless skin. No wonder every lady is losing her mind over him.
“Let me guess, a debutante who escaped her chaperone, craving a night of danger?”
Celine’s scoff cut through the dim room, as sharp as her masked gaze. “Wrong, Your Grace. And your reputation precedes you, sospare me the theatrics. I expected more wit from the infamous Wild Duke.”
He paused on the bottom step, his broad shoulders filling the space, his dark brown hair catching the candlelight. “So youhaveheard of me.”
His smile was a blade, charming and dangerous. She hated how it made her stomach flutter.
Why did it have to be him?
“Don’t flatter yourself. Everything I’ve heard about you has been strictly against my will.”
“Not a debutante, then. They’re never this cold toward me. A widow, perhaps, tasting the freedom of anonymity?”
“Wrong, again,” she snapped, her blue eyes flashing behind her lace mask. “And you’re less dazzling than gossip claims. A rake should at least be clever.”
Her words were cold, but her heart betrayed her, quickening as he stepped closer.
“Your words are sharp, but your eyes tell a different story.” He laughed.
Curse him for noticing.
Her cheeks flushed beneath her mask.
Rhys chuckled, the sound rich and warm, bouncing off the bookshelves. “But still not clever? You wound me, My Lady. Yet I’ve struck a nerve, haven’t I? You’re here for freedom—escaping the ton’s chains, chasing a thrill.” His voice dipped, teasing. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Celine’s jaw tightened, his words hitting too close.
That wretched list brought this chaos upon her, and now its weight felt like a rock in her reticule. She had meant to cross some things off her list after the ball, but now everything was spiraling into chaos.
“You’re insufferable,” she said, her tone glacial despite the heat in her chest. “I’m not chasing thrills. I’m here because I choose to be, not to entertain rogues like you.”
“Rogues like me?”
He took a step closer to her and tilted his head, like a predator surveying his next meal. The simple act somehow made heat pool in her belly.
How could he make something so mundane effortlessly attractive?
“Harsh words for a man you’ve just met. That dress though…” His gaze swept over her emerald silk dress, its low necklinea scandalous nod to the continental fashion she had admired among the tourists last summer. “… and that perfume screams rebellion. You’re no ordinary wallflower, are you?”
“You know nothing about me,” she snapped, stepping forward to reclaim the space, her skirts brushing against the rug. “And I’d wager you’re no stranger to rebellion, given the tales of your… adventures.” Her voice dripped with disdain, but her heart raced at his proximity even though she kept a straight face.
His sandalwood cologne, mingled with her own scent, made her feel almost lightheaded.
He laughed again, softer now, closing the distance until only a breath separated them.
Don’t stare at his lips. Don’t stare at his lips.
