But Rhys was not listening. He ripped a strip of linen and pressed it to the wound, then spun to face the housekeeper. “Why is there no doctor here?”
Mrs. Hargrove blanched. “You… did not say, Your Grace. Should I?—?”
“No,” Celine cut in, irritated by the sudden infantilization. “I do not require a doctor. It’s a cut, nothing more.”
Rhys rounded on her, his eyes blazing. “Next time you feel compelled to shatter a shelf full of glass, let someone else clean it up. God’s teeth, Celine, you might have—” He stopped, seeming to choke on his words.
The servants went still, their eyes wide.
Celine realized then that he was not angry, but frantic. His hands trembled as he unwound the makeshift bandage. He was sweating, though the kitchen was cool.
“Everyone out,” he ordered, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “Now.”
The kitchen emptied in seconds. When the last apron had vanished, Rhys exhaled—almost a gasp—and slumped against the edge of the table.
“Let me see,” he said, gentler now.
He reached for her hand and turned it over. The blood had mostly clotted, but the gash was ragged, and glass dust glimmered in the wound. He fetched a rag and dipped it in the steaming kettle.
“You’re not going to faint, are you?” he asked with a dry, half-hysterical laugh.
“I’ve seen worse,” Celine replied. Which was true, though not since she was twelve.
He pressed the hot, wet rag to her palm, and the sting made her bolt upright in the chair.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at her. “It’s not clean yet. I’ll have to—there may be glass in it. This will hurt.”
He wiped the wound, gentle as a summer breeze, his earlier anger gone. He worked with quiet concentration, and when the trickle of blood had finally slowed, he poured vinegar on her palm. The sting was so sharp that she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.
“Almost done,” Rhys murmured.
He smeared honey on the gash, then wrapped her hand in clean linen, winding the strip with a surgeon’s precision.
While he worked, Celine watched his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper than she remembered. He was tense all over, as if restraining himself from some violent outburst.
For the first time, she saw how frightened he was.
“While you have leave to do as you wish in this manor,” Rhys said, tying off the bandage, “you must never put yourself in danger. Is that understood?”
She bristled, a spark of her old defiance returning. “I was not in danger. It was a silly accident, and you are being absurd.”
He ignored her protest, instead resting her wrapped hand on the table and covering it with both of his. He didn’t meet her eyes.
“My mother used to say that accidents were the devil’s way of testing us,” he said, his voice low. “She broke her wrist falling offa stepstool once, and I—” He stopped, drawing a deep breath. “I don’t like seeing people hurt, Celine.”
She was so surprised by his candor that she nearly forgot the throbbing in her palm.
“Your mother,” she said, searching his face. “You never mention her.”
He shrugged awkwardly. “She died when I was sixteen. She was… softer than the rest of us. Liked flowers, and poems, and the color yellow, of all things. I suppose it’s a mercy that she didn’t live to see what became of Wylds.”
He gently brushed her knuckles, before turning away to fetch another rag.
Celine watched him, her heart unsettled. The Wild Duke, so famed for his composure, looked utterly at sea, busying himself with rags so he wouldn’t have to look at her.
“I’m sorry about the vials,” she said, hoping to break the tension. “They were old, half-dried. I was trying to make something new, but I suppose I am not cut out for perfumery.”
He managed a smile. “That’s what you were doing? Inventing a scent?”
