She nodded, her flush deepening, her hands stilling. “As you wish,” she said quietly, her gaze dropping to her lap.
The silence hung, punctuated by the clatter of plates and the innkeeper’s distant shouts, until she lifted her eyes, her resolve seeming to harden.
“Are you ready to depart for Wylds?” she asked cautiously, as if navigating a new dance. “Or… might I visit the town first? There’s a shop—a stationer’s, for paper and ink.”
Rhys’s brow arched, his interest piqued, his coffee forgotten.
“The town?” he said lightly. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Of course, you may. I’ll escort you.”
His chair scraped softly across the floor as he stood up, his tall frame casting a shadow over the table. His smile grew curious, sensing the shift in her tone.
Celine’s eyes widened, her hands rising in a gentle protest, her bonnet ribbons swaying. “Oh, there’s no need,” she said too quickly, too earnestly, her flush spreading. “I can manage alone, truly. It’s just a quick errand.”
Her gaze darted to the window, where a cart rumbled past, her reluctance to have him join her clear.
His smile widened, his dimple deepening, her resistance only fueling his intrigue.
Just how much did his presence unnerve her? It was adorable to watch her; it made his heart flutter in his chest. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.
“Manage alone?” he asked playfully as he stepped around the table, his boots clicking on the worn planks. “And miss the chance to see what mischief you’re plotting with paper and ink? I think not.”
He offered his arm, his eyes dancing, sensing her errand hid something—perhaps a secret related to her list, that dare he’d glimpsed.
Celine’s lips parted, her fingers twisting the ribbon tighter. “Mischief?” she echoed, a faint laugh breaking through. “It’s only paper, Your Grace. Nothing… scandalous.”
Her eyes met his, but her flush betrayed her, her unease as a new wife evident in her faltering gaze.
“Only paper?” he prodded, his tone mock-serious, his arm still extended. “I’ve learned to expect the unexpected from you, Celine. Come, let’s see this stationer’s. I’ll behave.”
His charm was disarming, but his curiosity burned. Why the town, and why alone? Her insistence on independence, so like the hellion who had stormed into his study, intrigued him more than ever.
She rose slowly, her eyes searching his as if weighing her new role against her old defiance.
“Very well,” she relented quietly. She took his arm, her gloved hand light on his sleeve, the wool rough under her touch. “But don’t expect me to enjoy your company.”
Her teasing was soft, almost playful.
Rhys chuckled and led her toward the door, the inn’s smoky warmth giving way to the crisp spring air outside.
“Enjoyment is optional,” he said, his gaze flicking to her, noting her flushed cheeks. “But I wager you’ll find me tolerable by the day’s end.”
His words were a challenge, his intrigue growing as they stepped into the bustling town, her reluctance a puzzle he was eager to solve.
Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she wasn’t so hesitant about their new partnership. Perhaps there was something else going on. But he knew he wouldn’t have his answers if they went their separate ways.
It felt almost strange to admit, but he missed her fire, the sharp wit that had cut him too often.
The cobbled street hummed with life—vendors calling, horses cantering, the scent of fresh bread mingling with damp earth. Celine’s hand tightened briefly on his arm, her bonnet shielding her face, her uncertainty palpable. Rhys’s heart stirred, his resolve to draw out her spark strengthening.
The cobblestone path to the town crunched beneath his boots, the morning air sharp with the scent of damp earth and budding hawthorn. His coat brushed against Celine’s arm as they walked, her blue muslin dress swishing, her straw bonnet casting a shadow over her flushed cheeks.
Her silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the fiery hellion who’d once stormed into his study, and it gnawed at him. He’d navigated ballrooms and bedrooms with ease, but his new wife unsettled him. Her quiet unease sent numerous theories spinning in his head.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
“Celine,” he said, his voice light, his honeyed eyes glinting as he glanced at her. “You’re quieter than a cloister. Did the inn’s porridge steal your tongue?”
He flashed her a teasing grin, hoping to coax a smile, a barb, anything to break her reserve.
