Her gloved fingers tightened on his arm. She had truly not intended to voice the question, for she would never make such a request of him. But in that split moment, his amber eyes, usually teasing, had darkened with something intense, unguarded, and it left her reeling.
He’d looked different, raw, as if her question had peeled back his rakish charm, revealing a man she didn’t yet know, a man who stared at her almost like he was parched and she was the only cup of water on earth.
Could it be that he truly wants something more?
No, that isn’t possible. He’s Rhys, after all.
“You’re quiet again, Celine,” Rhys noted, his voice warm, teasing, as they neared the bookshop’s green door, its brass bell glinting. “Plotting to outwit me in there? Or still blushing over our chat?”
His smile flashed, but his gaze was sharp, probing her silence.
She forced a smile, her blush deepening, her blue eyes darting to the cobblestones. “I’m… contemplating books,” she stammered, her awkwardness evident. “No outwitting required.”
Her lie was flimsy, her heart racing at the memory of his words—I don’t break promises—and the weight of his vow to her. But did he want to?
The thought was almost unnerving.
Why does he unsettle me so?
Her fingers twisted the cord of her reticule, any defiance she had left in her body fraying in his presence.
He chuckled, his arm steady under hers, his warmth grounding yet disarming. “Books, is it? I’ll believe that when I see it,” he said playfully, pushing open the door. The bell jingled. “Lead the way, Duchess. Let’s see what tomes capture your fancy.”
The Quill and Ink Bookshop enveloped them in the musty scent of leather and paper, its shelves towering with volumes, sunlight streaming through dusty windows to dance on oak floors.
Celine’s pulse quickened. She had done some research, heard that this shop held rare books—perhaps even Penelope Lovelace’s latest,The Veiled Heart, a novel so scandalous that the ton buzzed with its impropriety.
She wanted it—not just to read, but to know, to see if its whispered tales of passion matched the rumors she’d heard. It would cross another item off her list, but she couldn’t tell Rhys that, so he wouldn’t get any silly idea and offer to help her cross more items off her list.
He had offered to kiss her publicly after their wedding, to cross off the silly thought that Dahlia had planted in her head that night, but she shut him down.
His knowledge of her list was annoying, to say the least. His presence, his teasing grin, threatened her plan. She needed to lose him.
“Knitting manuals,” she said abruptly, veering toward a shelf of innocuous guides, their covers adorned with prim patterns. “I’m here for knitting manuals. I… thought I might take up a new skill.”
Her eyes avoided his, her fingers brushing a volume titledThe Art of the Needle.
Please, let him believe it.
Her heart was pounding in her chest, her awkwardness a weight she couldn’t shake off.
Rhys’s brow arched, scepticism glinting in his eyes. “Knitting?” he said dryly. He leaned against a shelf, his coat brushing a stack of almanacs. “You, wielding needles instead of wit? I’m not convinced, Celine.”
His gaze lingered on her, as if sensing her ruse.
She flushed, her fingers tightening on the manual, her mind scrambling. “It’s… practical,” she stammered, her bonnet’s ribbons swaying as she turned away. “A duchess should have… accomplishments.”
Her excuse was weak, her uncertainty spilling through. Her role as his wife was still foreign, her list’s daring spirit buried beneath her nerves.
He laughed, soft and warm, and stepped closer, his boots scuffing the floor. “Practical? You’re about as practical as a thunderstorm,” he teased, but his eyes held a hint of intrigue. “Fine, I’ll leave you to your… needles. I’ll fetch us breakfast from the bakery across the square. Don’t run off.”
He winked and then turned toward the door, the bell jingling as he stepped out.
Celine exhaled, her shoulders sagging, relief mingling with guilt as she darted to the romance section, its shelves tucked in a shadowy corner. Her fingers trailed over titles, each more suggestive than the last:Whispers at Midnight, The Rogue’s Embrace, A Lady’s Secret Vow.
Her cheeks burned hotter, the heat spreading to her ears. The words, ardent and forbidden, leapt from the spines, hinting at scandals that made her heart race.
The Veiled Heartwas nowhere to be seen, and she wasn’t surprised. According to gossip, it sold out from London to York, its tales of illicit passion too much for polite society.
