“Yes, I did.”
She looked as though she was going to say more, but instead, she turned to leave. Rhys nearly toppled his chair in his effort to stop himself from following her out.
Her footsteps faded down the hall, and the study seemed twice as empty for it. He dug his nails into the armrests, glaring at the ledgers as if they had personally insulted him.
Damn her for making me feel this way. Damn her for making me… ache.
He forced himself back to his work, writing numbers he had already memorized. The self-denial, he told himself, was discipline. He would not become one of those fools who lost themselves for want of a pretty face, or a clever tongue, or a scent like jasmine.
After three columns and a total of seven minutes, a crash rang out, the sound striking him like a blade.
Rhys knew it was her.
Of course, it’s her.
He was out the door and down the hallway before he realized he had moved. He caught the barest hint of blue as he entered the drawing room.
Celine was on her knees, gathering glass shards with the bare fingers of both hands. The scent, an overwhelming and heady bouquet of every perfume ever brewed, hit him.
“Careful!” he barked, crossing the carpet in two strides. “You’ll?—”
She turned, and as she did, a jagged piece of glass caught her palm. Blood welled, and his gut twisted.
Celine winced but didn’t cry out. “It’s fine. I?—”
“Don’t move,” he said as he reached for her hand, already dreading what he would find.
Of all the idiotic, reckless things, it had to be this!
Celine stared at the blood on her palm. For a moment, she was mesmerized by how quick and easy it was to cut flesh. The next instant, Rhys’s hands closed over hers, pressing a kerchief to the cut with ruthless efficiency.
She tried to pull away, embarrassed, but he would not release her.
“You stubborn, reckless—” He was half-crouched, his jaw working, his eyes darting from the wound to her face and back, as if gauging the extent of the damage by how much color had drained from her cheeks.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered.
He pulled her to her feet, with no concern for decorum or dignity, and steered her out of the room and down the hallway, ignoring the trail of scarlet drops on the pale wood floor.
“Rhys, I’m fine. I?—”
“Don’t,” he barked, his grip tightening just enough that she couldn’t slip free. “You’re not fine, and you won’t argue.”
They burst into the kitchen, startling the staff from their late-morning lull. The cook was elbow-deep in dough, and the kitchen maids were shelling peas at the long table. All froze in horror at the sight of Celine’s palm, streaked red.
“Boiling water,” Rhys snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. “Clean rags, vinegar, and honey. Move!”
The kitchen exploded into action. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hargrove, suddenly entered the space barking orders to tame the commotion; a scullery maid tripped over her skirts in her scramble for the rag bin, and a footman dropped a stack of tin plates with a cacophonous clatter.
Celine found herself deposited in a high-back chair and subjected to the collective scrutiny of at least six people, all of whom seemed to believe she was minutes away from death.
Rhys dropped to one knee, tore off her glove, and examined the gash.
“It’s deep,” he muttered, his jaw clenched. “You might need stitches.”
The words sent a ripple of panic through the staff, but Celine only rolled her eyes.
“It’s a scratch,” she protested.
