“Your Graces,” Mrs. Hargrove intoned, her voice carrying the weight of authority, as she bobbed another curtsy. “Welcome to Wylds Estate. On behalf of the staff, we are honored to serve you.”
Mr. Grayson bowed.
Rhys turned to Celine, his posture stiffening slightly. “Allow me to present Mrs. Hargrove, the housekeeper, and Mr. Grayson, the butler. They will ensure your comfort.”
His tone was measured, though his gaze lingered on her, a flicker of something—regret, perhaps—softening his features. He longed to speak, to offer words of reassurance or bridge the chasm between them, but the moment slipped away as the servants stepped forward.
Mrs. Hargrove inclined her head to Celine. “Your Grace, if it pleases you, we shall draw you a warm bath and show you to your chambers.”
With gentle efficiency, she gestured toward the grand staircase, while Mr. Grayson signaled a footman, who hastened to gather her belongings.
Celine cast a fleeting glance at Rhys, her expression unreadable, before allowing herself to be ushered deeper into the manor, the rustle of her skirts fading as she ascended.
Rhys watched her go, the words he’d meant to say—something tender—lodging in his throat. Before he could follow, a young footman, breathless from the stables, approached.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing hastily. “Forgive the interruption. There’s trouble with the tenants at Lowerfield. The eastern barn’s roof has collapsed, and several families are without shelter. Mr. Treadwell requests your presence at once.”
Rhys’s jaw tightened, the weight of responsibility settling over him like a mantle.
“Very well,” he replied, his mind already drifting to the ledgers and plans awaiting in his study.
He spared a final glance at the staircase where Celine had disappeared, before he turned to attend to his duties.
For two days, he buried himself in estate matters, poring over tenant leases, repair estimates, and debt records. The duchy’s needs—his tenants’ leaking roofs, their swamped fields—had always come first. The estate’s decay was a sacrifice he’d borne to fulfill his duties when his lack of a wife had withheld the inheritance he needed to help his subjects.
But that had changed now. He was married.
Celine moved through the manor like a ghost, her silence louder than her usual fire. Rhys let her be; the distance between them was safer than the pull he felt when she was near.
On the third day, the clatter of hooves announced a visitor. Rhys looked up from his desk, which was buried in parchment, as Lord Julian Ashford strode into the study, his wiry frame clad in a green coat, his grin as sharp as it had been at Eton.
“Wylds,” Julian greeted, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ve brought your mare—Starlight, the one with the tricky foal. Mymen kept her stable, but she’s here now. Stabled her in your barn.”
Rhys rose, his relief genuine, though his heart was heavy.
“Good man,” he said, his tone warm. He gestured to a chair. “How’s she faring? Her pregnancy’s been rough.”
He poured two glasses of brandy from a decanter, the amber liquid catching the light filtering through the dusty windows, the shelves sagging under the weight of neglected books.
Julian sank into the chair, his eyes scanning the room’s disrepair—peeling wallpaper, a cracked hearth.
“She’s holding, but needs watching. Your veterinarian’s on it. Speaking of wrecks,” he added dryly, sipping his brandy, “this place is falling apart, Rhys. You’ve been spending money on your tenants, haven’t you? Neglecting your own estate?”
Rhys’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping his glass. “Tenants first,” he said, his voice low. “They’ve got families, fields to work. The manor can wait. Now that I’ve received my inheritance, I’m planning repairs, expansions. The duchy comes before my pride.”
His gaze drifted to the window, beyond which Celine appeared, walking toward the garden, her head buried in a book.
Her muslin skirt swayed, the breeze ruffling her hair, the book’s brown-paper wrapping unmistakable—one of his romance novels.A Stolen Glance, he suspected.
A chambermaid had whispered that morning that the Duchess was devouring them, and the news sent a wave of happiness through him, a satisfaction he couldn’t shake.
The urge to ask her about them surged, to see her blush, her fire spark, but he pushed it down, his vow to keep their marriage on paper a cold anchor.
It’s better this way.
Julian followed his gaze, his grin sly. “There’s your Duchess, her nose buried in a book, ignoring the world. Didn’t hear me call her name just now.” He leaned forward, his tone teasing. “How’s married life treating you, Wylds? Fine, I wager, with a firebrand like her.”
Rhys’s smile was tight, his eyes flicking back to his glass. “Fine,” he said, his voice clipped, hoping to dodge the topic.
