Rhys noticed, his quill stilling, his heart stirring. He stood up quietly and crossed to her, his movements gentle. He lifted her, her slight weight warm in his arms.
She stirred, her eyes half-opening, vaguely aware as he carried her down the hall to her room, the manor’s silence enveloping them. He laid her on her bed and pulled a quilt over her, his fingers brushing her hair.
Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. His lips lingered, a gesture of care he couldn’t voice.
“Good night, Celine,” he whispered, before turning to leave, his heart a tumult of warmth and restraint.
Hold her closer, a voice in his head whispered.
Should he?
Chapter Thirteen
Rhys groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, hoping to massage away the pounding in his temples. He’d hardly slept the night before, and it was taking a toll on him.
After carrying Celine to her bed, he’d fought the urge to hold her and forced himself out of her chambers. Now, he had work to do, and thoughts of her would not leave him!
A sharp rap at the door shattered his moment of self-pity, and he gritted his teeth. “Yes? If this is about the Lowerfield tenant again, Grayson, I’ve already told you?—”
“It is not Grayson.”
He sat up so abruptly that his chair scraped across the worn rug.
Celine.
His heart kicked against his chest in a way that made him want to slap himself. For a moment, he considered denying her entry—he could claim a fever, a sudden attack of gout, anything to keep her out. But he knew her well enough to know that she’d simply break down the door. Or worse, stand outside it until he relented.
“Come in,” he called, striving for bored indifference.
The door opened, and she walked in. Her pale blue frock reflected the blue of her eyes, and her dark hair was styled elegantly, with delicate wisps framing her face. Rhys swallowed and gripped the arms of his chair.
She paused in the threshold, taking in the strewn ledgers, the melted wax beneath the candlesticks, the lack of anything resembling pleasure or distraction.
She smiled, and it both brightened and softened her features. “I heard that you keep yourself chained to your desk.”
He gripped the armrests tighter.
Stay in the chair. If you stand up, you’ll cross the room and—don’t finish the thought, you absolute moron.
“Much to do,” he said. “The estate doesn’t run itself, Celine. I thought you were otherwise occupied—manor management, wasn’t it?”
“Well, I thought you would like to join me for a stroll. The air is fine, the wisteria is finally in bloom, and you have not left this room in a while.”
He allowed himself another look at her.
The color did suit her. She was a storm made woman, but he could see the softness in both her features and manner, and that drove him further toward the edge.
“I will walk with you later,” he replied. “There are pressing matters—some of them legal, some simply idiotic.” He gestured to the ledger.
Celine approached his desk and stopped just close enough that he could detect the faint scent of jasmine. “If you’re not careful, you’ll become stooped before forty. Then what will the tonsay about you? The once-famed Wild Duke, crumpled over his ledgers, his Duchess a widow by boredom alone.”
He laughed despite himself. “I suppose I’ll have to hope that you rescue me from such a fate, Duchess.”
Celine’s smile widened, almost gentle. “Even I am not so ambitious. You’ll have to beg for divine intervention, I think.”
The ensuing silence was somewhat unsettling as their eyes held.
Celine swallowed, looking away. “You… you carried me to my chambers last night, did you not?”
