“Ican’t wait to get started on these books,” Rhys said, biting his lip lightly to stop the chuckle that threatened to escape them.
The carriage rattled along Hertfordshire Road, the gravel crunching beneath the wheels, the steady gallop of horses punctuating the quiet. He leaned back against the worn velvet seat, his coat wrinkled from travel, his amber eyes fixed on Celine.
The stack of brown-paper-wrapped romance novels sat between them, a silent challenge she studiously ignored. Her blue muslin dress caught the sunlight filtering through the carriage window.
Her black hair, loose beneath her straw bonnet, framed her face in delicate curls, and her plump lips pressed into a thin line, betraying her effort to seem unaffected.
Rhys found it endlessly amusing, her pretense a spark that fueled his curiosity.
“Celine,” he said, his voice low and teasing, breaking the silence. “Come on, we can at least agree that the books are fascinating. I’m surprised you’re not even looking at them. Care to explain why you’re so… opposed to a bit of romance?”
His smile flashed, but his gaze was sharp, noting the way her fingers fidgeted with her reticule, her cheeks flushed a light pink.
She didn’t respond, her blue eyes fixed on the passing fields, where lambs roamed under a spring sky. The silence stretched, settling over them like a blanket. Yet Rhys continued watching her, his amusement somehow giving way to fascination.
Her hair curled softly against her cheek, catching the light, and her lips, full and pink, parted slightly as if on the verge of speech.
The sight stirred something within him—a warmth, a pull—that threatened to shatter his carefully guarded control.
Her voice, when it came, snapped him out of his reverie, his eyes still tracing her lips.
“Love is a fairytale,” she declared, her tone soft but edged with conviction. Her gaze met his, raw and unguarded. “It gives hope when it’s there, but when it’s taken away—and it always is—it breaks people. Leaves them worse than before.”
Her words were heavy, and her eyes glistened. Her vulnerability spilled out, a glimpse of a wound she carried.
Rhys’s breath caught, her words striking an old ache he’d buried deeper than his father’s cold commands, his vow to never let love ruin him.
He stared at her, his amusement gone, replaced by a quiet worry. What had hurt her so badly to form such a dark view? Her mother’s loss, perhaps, or the ton’s cruelty?
“That’s… rare,” he said, his voice low. His gaze was steady on her, masking the torrent of emotion her words stirred. “A lady who sees marriage as I do. Most don’t.”
Celine’s lips twitched, a faint, teasing smile breaking through, though her eyes held a flicker of pain. “Rakes don’t have beliefs about marriage,” she quipped, her voice softer.
Her blush deepened as she looked away, her bonnet’s ribbons swaying with the carriage’s motion.
Rhys fell silent, grappling with the storm in his chest—memories of his father; his refusal to marry; his vow to protect the duchy and his heart.
“Love and marriage,” he said finally, his voice low, almost hollow, “are destined to cause pain.”
His words were meant to echo hers, to affirm their shared cynicism, but they lacked the conviction they had once held.
The realization stirred panic within him.
Why?
His heart raced, the familiar control he’d mastered slipping, her presence unraveling truths he’d long believed.
Celine’s breath hitched, her eyes meeting his. For a fleeting moment, Rhys could have sworn he saw hurt flash across her face, a shadow of disappointment that pierced him.
“Oh,” she said, her voice barely audible. Her gaze dropped to her lap, her fingers twisting the cord of her reticule. “I guess we finally have something in common.”
The silence returned, heavy with unspoken questions.
The carriage rolled on, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the grinding of wheels the only sounds, the novels untouched between them.
Rhys’s panic lingered, a quiet churn in his chest, her hurt expression haunting him.
Why did his words falter? Why did her pain matter so much?
