He pushed those thoughts aside, his charm a mask he clung to. But her silence gnawed at him, different from the morning’s hesitation. It was deeper, sadder, as if his words had wounded her.
The carriage slowed as they reached The Rose and Crown Inn, its ivy-clad walls a welcome respite. They disembarked, the cool evening air sharp with wood smoke and damp grass, the inn’s lanterns casting a warm glow.
Celine’s steps were quiet, her bonnet shielding her face, her silence no longer awkward but heavy, reflective. Rhys watched her, his heart stirring, wanting to bridge the gap between them but unsure how, his vow to keep their marriage on paper clashing with the pull he felt.
They parted in the inn’s narrow hall, her muslin skirt vanishing up the stairs to her room. Rhys lingered, his boots scuffing the worn planks, his mind replaying her words—love breaks people. He retired to his chamber, the ache in his chest unresolved, her hurt expression a mystery he couldn’t shake.
Minutes later, a soft knock drew him to the door. Celine stood there, her bonnet gone, her black hair loose, her blue eyes searching his, her reticule clutched tightly.
“Rhys,” she said, her voice soft, hesitant.
The sound of his name on her lips stirred warmth in his chest.
“Yes?” he answered.
She paused, several emotions flashing in her eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to decipher any of them, but it was clear that whatever she wanted to share was important.
“Are we… doing anything else in town before we leave for Wylds tomorrow?”
Oh.
Perhaps he miscalculated.
He leaned against the doorframe, his warm smile masking his inner turmoil. “No,” he said, his voice low, his eyes holding hers. “Just the journey ahead.”
“All right, thank you.” She paused, her eyes lingering on him a little longer.
“Talk to me,”he wanted to say, but that would be conceding to the feelings bubbling up inside him.
“Is there anything else? The rumors are simply rumors. I don’t bite.”
His tease was meant to be humorous, but all he received was a faint smile.
Her lips parted slightly as if to speak, but then she shook her head. “Good night, Your Grace.”
“Duke, if you want to insist on honorifics.”
“Very well, Duke.”
He caught the briefest glimpse of a smile before she turned around, her footsteps soft on the stairs, leaving him with a racing heart and unanswered questions.
The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive as Rhys and his new wife approached the sprawling, weathered facade of Wylds Estate.
The morning sun cast a pale glow over the ivy-choked stone walls, their cracks a testament to years of neglect, the lawns overgrown, the fountains dry. The air was crisp with dew and the faint scent of budding roses, but inside the carriage, silence reigned, heavy and unyielding.
Rhys’s coat was creased from travel, his amber eyes fixed on the window, avoiding Celine’s gaze. She sat opposite, her blue muslin dress catching the light. Her straw bonnet lay on the seat next to her, her black hair pinned loosely. Her blue eyes were downcast, tracing the edges of a wrapped romance novel she refused to acknowledge.
Their conversation at the inn—her stark words about love’s ruin, his own echoing pain—had built a wall neither dared to breach, their marriage a fragile truce.
As the carriage halted, Rhys alighted first and extended a gloved hand with a formality that belied the warmth of his touch.
“Welcome to Wylds, Duchess,” he murmured, his voice steady yet laced with an emotion he fought to suppress.
Celine inclined her head, her lips a thin line, her steps tentative as she descended.
The grand hall greeted them with a cavernous echo, its faded tapestries and chipped marble floors a muted echo of past grandeur.
Before they could venture further, the staff, summoned by the carriage’s arrival, emerged with practiced grace. Mrs. Hargrove, the stern yet dignified housekeeper, led the procession, her black bombazine dress rustling as she curtsied deeply. Beside her stood Mr. Grayson, the butler, his silver hair gleaming.
