“It’s silly, really. They could be happy if they’d stop running.”
Rhys nodded, his gaze warm, his exhaustion softening his edges. “Fear’s a powerful thing,” he said, his voice low, his eyes holding hers for a moment too long. “Happens to the best of us.”
His words were gentle, a bridge she wasn’t ready to cross.
He stepped back, gesturing to the plate. “Scones instead of dinner? You’ll waste away, Celine.”
She laughed, a shaky sound, her flush returning. “I… forgot to eat,” she admitted, brushing crumbs from her dress, her embarrassment ebbing under his warmth. “The book’s… distracting. But don’t you dare tease me about it.” Her tone was light, almost playful, her attempt at friendship a tentative step, her heart still wary.
He chuckled, his teeth flashing a little, but he honored her request, his eyes glinting with restrained mischief.
“No teasing,” he relented, raising his hands. “But I’m glad you’re reading them. They suit you more than you think.”
His words were soft, his gaze lingering, stirring that dangerous spark she fought to ignore.
They stood in silence for a moment, the library’s quiet broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl outside. Celine’s thoughts churned—his warmth, his exhaustion, the way he looked at her, warm yet intense.
She wanted to ask why he worked so tirelessly, why he shared her view of love, but the words stuck in her throat, her fear of blurring the boundaries holding her back.
He’s a friend.
Yes, he was a friend, nothing more. But her heart fluttered, her attraction a quiet rebellion against her resolve.
Rhys straightened, his movements slow, his eyes still on her. “I should let you get back to your lord and lady,” he said, his voice gentle, before turning toward the door. “Don’t skip breakfast tomorrow. I’ll have Mrs. Hargrove send up a tray.”
His care was simple, unassuming, but it warmed her. A reminder of the man beneath the title.
“Rhys,” she called tentatively. “What are you doing up so late?”
Her question was simple, but her pulse quickened, her attempt to treat him as a friend—a safe boundary—feeling fragile under his gaze.
He paused and turned back, his smile faint but genuine, his eyes glinting in the candlelight.
“Work,” he sighed. “Years of it, piling up. The estate’s been starved for funds—my father’s doing, mostly. Now, I’m swamped, trying to set it right.”
His admission was raw, his exhaustion evident in the hunch of his shoulders, the weight of his duchy a burden he carried alone.
Celine’s breath caught, her heart racing, a silly flutter in her chest as she met his eyes.
“Would you… like some company?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks flushing.
She regretted the words instantly, her fear of crossing the boundaries surging. But the quiet library, his warmth, made her crave connection, however small.
Rhys’s brow arched, and his smile widened, his dimple flashing. “Company?” he teased. But his eyes held hers, warm and inviting. “You’re welcome to join me, Celine. But I warn you, my study is less… romantic than your book.”
His gesture towardA Stolen Glancewas playful, his exhaustion subsiding at her offer. He then motioned for her to follow him, his boots clicking down the hall.
Celine hesitated, her heart pounding, then grabbed her book and plate, trailing him to his study.
The room was a chaos of ledgers and papers, the air heavy with ink and wax, a single lamp casting a golden glow over a cluttered desk. A chipped globe sat in one corner, a brass telescope stood by the window, and shelves held odd trinkets—a carved jade elephant, a tarnished sextant.
Rhys sat at his desk, his sleeves rolled up, his focus immediately returning to a ledger. Celine sank into a worn velvet chair, her book open. But her eyes wandered, drawn to the knick-knacks, her curiosity outweighing the novel’s pull.
She set the book down, her fingers brushing a small wooden box etched with swirling patterns.
“What’s this?” she asked softly.
She lifted the box, and her eyes flicked to Rhys, who glanced up, his quill pausing.
