She nodded. “It’s a hobby. My mother used to say that the right perfume could summon a memory, or even a feeling. I thought perhaps, if I got it right, I could remember…” she trailed off.
What? What did I want to remember?
The answer was too tangled to voice.
Rhys leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. “You never do anything halfway, do you?”
“Neither do you,” she said, risking a smile.
They were quiet for a moment. Then, Rhys said, “Promise me you’ll be more careful next time. If not for your sake, then for mine.”
Celine wanted to laugh, to tell him that he was a fool, but the look in his eyes stopped her. The rage and pain were still there, but so was something else—something far more scared and vulnerable.
She nodded. “I promise.”
He nodded in return but didn’t move, didn’t speak. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the drip of cooling water from the kettle.
She looked down at her wrapped hand, then up at him. “Thank you, Rhys. For… this.” She waved her bandaged palm.
His expression was unreadable. “You’re welcome.”
As she stood up, Celine felt a peculiar sort of giddiness. She’d caught a glimpse of the man behind the title, behind the arrogance, and she was sure she would never be able to look at him the same way again.
Chapter Fourteen
“Iwill not be bested by five digits and a length of ribbon,” Celine hissed, yanking hard on her satin glove.
She let out a string of unladylike curses as the satin glove refused to fit over her bandaged hand. She was meant to receive guests, and here she was, in the drawing room, wrestling her bandaged fingers through the mangled silk as if it might change the laws of nature.
A chuckle had her head snapping up. Of course, she found Rhys standing in the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, watching as if debating whether to step in or leave her to her suffering.
“Come to admire the spectacle?”
He stepped into the room, his hands folded behind his back in the mockery of a schoolboy’s apology. “I was hoping you’d letme win the morning’s wager, but I see you’ve chosen violence instead.”
She snorted. “Not even you could win a bet against this glove.”
The admission was meant to be a barb, but her heart wasn’t in it. She glanced away, her pulse quickening as she realized how near he had drawn, and how little space there was between them.
Rhys’s eyes didn’t leave her as his hands closed over hers. “You’re nervous,” he noted.
She let out a chuckle, but her fingers fidgeted, betraying her. “I am not nervous. I simply find the prospect of visiting children more… alarming than I anticipated. Are you here to gloat or to help?”
Rhys smiled—his first genuine smile in days—and gently turned her bound hand over. “They’re not little monsters, Celine. They’re just children. Lydia’s three are as tame as kittens, except when hungry. Even then, only one will bite.” He looked at her bandage with a smirk. “And you’re not expected to raise them, only to serve cake.”
“I have never so much as spoken to a child,” she blurted, regretting it instantly.
Rhys blinked. “None? Not even in passing? Not a cousin or?—”
“I have no cousins,” she said. “And my father never entertained children in the house after… Well…”
Rhys’s face softened.
Celine straightened, smoothing her skirts with her good hand. “Besides, your friend Captain Harrow will be here, and that always means destruction. If your plan is to see me humiliated in front of your acquaintances, you could simply ask.”
Rhys’s smile was smaller now, but warmer. “If you’re humiliated, I promise to make a greater spectacle of myself. For balance.”
She doubted that. “I will hold you to it.”
