“She did,” Rhys confirmed. “Nearly bled out on the carpet, too. Very dramatic.”
“I did not,” Celine retorted, but the twins only laughed harder.
Mrs. Wentworth leaned over and squinted at Celine’s bound hand. “Rhys, did you bandage her hand yourself?”
Rhys looked at Celine. “Would you rather I didn’t?”
She felt her cheeks heat. “No. It was… fine.”
She realized she was staring at his hand, and quickly looked away.
Julian looked from Rhys to Celine. “You know, she could teach them chemistry and distillation.”
“I suppose I could,” Celine said.
She was surprised to realize she wanted to.
Rhys grinned. “And she has the spirit.” He leaned closer, so only she could hear. “You’re doing marvelously well. If you wish to retreat, you need only say it.”
She met his eyes. “I’m not beaten yet.”
He smiled—real, full, and dazzling. “That’s my Celine.”
The twins called for her, demanding that she join their game of “statue chase.”
Celine rose and smiled. “Show me how it’s done, then,” she said.
Mrs. Wentworth’s words echoed in her mind—I wonder what your children will be like—and her heart clenched.
Could she ever let herself believe in that future?
Did she dare?
Chapter Fifteen
“Why is there never a pink one?” Leah moaned, her arms folded as she glared at the rack of mallets laid out like soldiers on the grass. “They’re all so… boring. Except the green one. Green is for faeries.”
Marcus, his cheeks already streaked with dirt, seized the green mallet at once. “Green’s for jungle explorers. I’m Livingston, and this is my machete.”
“That’s absurd. You’re supposed to be Will Scarlet!” Robert, older and unamused, yanked the red mallet from its spot, almost braining Marcus in the process. “You agreed. Yesterday. It’s written on the list.”
Marcus brandished his green mallet overhead. “I’ve defected.”
Robert considered, then shook his head. “You can’t defect from your own team, idiot. That’s not how war works.”
Celine watched their exchange with something between horror and amusement. She had been pressed into service as referee, largely because neither Mrs. Wentworth nor Captain Harrow wanted to risk their dignity on the front lines of juvenile politics.
Even now, the two of them sat at the garden’s edge with Julian Ashford, sipping tea and watching with the wary fascination of naturalists observing jackals.
The late-morning sun was already warm, and the dew on the grass soaked the hem of Celine’s muslin dress. She’d learned that if she stood still for more than a minute, Marcus would try to tangle her in some game or riddle. This time, he was circling her, sizing her up for allegiances.
“Which is better, Your Grace?” he demanded, his eyes narrowed. “Explorers or bandits?”
She blinked, caught off guard by his directness. “I’m afraid I have no expertise in either, Marcus. But I suppose a true explorer would fashion a mallet out of whatever was at hand. Jungle vines, perhaps.”
He looked at her as if she’d just recited the Magna Carta. “Right! Explorers win.” He jabbed a thumb at his brother.
Robert snorted and turned to Rhys for support, but he only shrugged, cradling his own blue mallet and clearly enjoying the spectacle. “The Duchess has spoken. Perhaps you’d better go scout a suitable wicket before Livingston invades Prussia.”
