A music box, from Vienna,” he explained, his tone warm. “Picked it up on a whim during a trip. Turn the key.” His eyes glinted, inviting her to explore.
She did, and the box chimed a delicate waltz, its notes filling the room.
“Vienna?” she said, her eyes round with curiosity. “The ton said that you ran off to gamble and… worse.” Her tone was playful, testing, her fear of intimacy momentarily forgotten in the cozy study.
Rhys laughed and leaned back in his chair, his eyes dancing. “Gambling? Hardly,” he said, his voice light. “I was negotiating trade routes—boring stuff. The ‘worse’ was probably me dodging marriage proposals. The Viennese mamas are relentless.”
His grin was roguish, but his eyes held hers, sharing a truth behind the rumors, his charm disarming her.
Celine’s lips twitched, a smile breaking through. Her fingers moved to a feathered quill, its plume vibrant green.
“And this?” she asked, twirling it, her voice brighter. “Some exotic bird from your adventures?”
He chuckled and set his quill down, his gaze warm. “A parrot, from a market in Cairo,” he replied, leaning forward. “The merchant swore it was sacred, but I think he just wanted my money. Kept it for luck.”
His tone was playful, his stories peeling back the rake’s facade, revealing a man who’d wandered the world, not for debauchery, but for duty and curiosity.
She laughed, soft and genuine, her heart lighter. Her fingers then grazed a small clay figurine, a dancer frozen mid-twirl.
“And this one?” she asked, her eyes meeting his, her fear easing amid the warmth of their banter.
Rhys rose from his desk and crossed to her, his boots scuffing the rug. “That’s from the Americas,” he said, his voice low. He picked up the figurine, his fingers brushing hers, sparking warmth. “A dance they do in the colonies—lively, nothing like our staid minuets.” His eyes glinted, a sudden idea lighting them. “Want to learn it?”
Celine’s breath caught, and her heart rate quickened. “Learn it?” she squeaked, a laugh escaping. “I’m no dancer, Rhys.”
But his grin was infectious, his warmth pulling her in. She stood up, her muslin skirt swishing, her book forgotten.
Rhys cleared a space, pushing papers aside, his movements quick and boyish.
“It’s simple,” he began, taking her hand. His touch was warm through her glove, guiding her to the center of the room. “Step like this—light, quick.” He demonstrated, his boots tapping a lively rhythm. His smile was wide, his exhaustion gone. “Your turn.”
She hesitated, then followed, her steps clumsy at first. Her laughter bubbled up as she stumbled, his hand steadying her.
“This is absurd,” she snorted, her eyes meeting his, sparkling with mirth. “I look like a duck.”
“A very charming duck,” he teased, spinning her gently with his hand on her waist. The contact was brief but electric.
The room filled with their laughter, the dance a whirl of steps and missteps, the music box’s waltz a faint backdrop.
For a moment, their fears—her dread of love, his vow against it—faded, their shared joy a bridge between them.
They collapsed onto the couch, breathless, laughing, their shoulders brushing. The lamp cast a warm glow on them.
“You’re a terrible teacher,” Celine said, her voice light.
She was flushed from dancing, her heart racing with a happiness she hadn’t expected.
“And you’re a quick study,” Rhys shot back, his grin wide, his warm eyes holding hers a moment too long.
The air crackled, their laughter fading, a shared moment hanging between them, fragile and bright.
Celine’s smile softened, her heart fluttering. But then she pulled back and reached for the book, her fear creeping in.
“Back to work, Your Grace,” she said, her tone playful but firm.
She settled into the couch, her eyes fixed on the page, save for occasional pointed glances.
Rhys returned to his desk, his quill scratching, but his gaze flicked to her now and then, his warmth lingering. Hours passed, the candle burning low, and Celine’s eyes grew heavy, the novel slipping from her hands. She drifted off, curled up on the couch, her breathing soft and her face peaceful.
