Rhys smiled reluctantly. “Duty calls. Shall we return to the battlefield?”
She nodded, and they walked back in companionable silence. When they reached the garden, the children were in full revolt, balls and mallets abandoned in favor of a mock chase.
Mrs. Wentworth waved from her chair. “You’ve survived! We feared you’d been eaten by moles.”
“We came to an accord,” Rhys called back, seating himself on the steps and watching the chaos unfold.
Leah tugged at Celine’s sleeve, beaming. “Did you rescue your ball?”
“We did,” Celine said, smiling down at her. “It required a truce with the jungle explorers, but the mission was successful.”
Leah nodded sagely. “That’s the only way.”
Celine stood beside Rhys, the sun warm on her face. She felt changed subtly, as if the morning’s absurdity had loosened some knot she’d carried for years.
She glanced at Rhys, who caught her eye and grinned.
“You know,” he said, “for someone who’s never spoken to children, you’re surprisingly good with them.”
She rolled her eyes, but the compliment pleased her.
“We’ll see about that,” she replied. “Next time, I’m arming myself with a proper mallet.”
The children howled in delight as the mock war resumed, and Celine let herself enjoy it, the laughter, the sunlight, the simple peace of being there with these people.
Maybe, just maybe, she could imagine a future, after all.
Rhys was halfway down the main hallway, intent on intercepting a long-overdue letter from his steward, when he heard the gentle thump of pestle on marble. It drew him to the drawing room, where he paused in the threshold and studied the scene within.
Celine was hunched over a side table, a bowl of flower heads and a mortar before her. The bandage on her right hand glared white against the deep blue of her sleeve, but she was determinedly pounding violet petals to pulp regardless, her teeth bared in concentration. The scent was jasmine, hyacinth, and a note of something sharper. Rosemary, perhaps.
He waited until she let out an unladylike curse at the uncooperative pestle before announcing himself. “Dueling with the forces of nature, are we, Duchess?”
She started, her lips parting as she spun to face him. The flush in her cheeks, still vivid from the morning’s croquet campaign, deepened.
“You startled me,” she accused, but her voice lacked heat.
“I thought you preferred your enemies visible,” he said, moving into the room. “Or has the reign of terror moved on from croquet to floristry?”
Celine straightened, smoothing her skirt with her good hand. “I would not require such violence if the distillery were better equipped. There’s not a sieve finer than a hairnet in the whole place.”
“Shocking,” he intoned, picking up the pastle and weighing it in his hands. “Allow me.” He nudged her aside with the easy entitlement of a man who had spent years unseating relatives from drawing room chairs. “My wrist is uninjured, and I fancy myself rather adept with a pestle.”
She relinquished the tool with a sigh, flexing her bandaged hand. “Careful. The crocus stains. Mrs. Hargrove will have your head if you ruin the tablecloth.”
Rhys grinned. “It’s a family heirloom. She’ll never notice a blot.” He pressed the pestle to the petals, grinding them with slow, circular pressure. “What’s the goal here? Perfume? Poison? An aromatic distraction for the next time the twins attempt an insurrection?”
She gave him a sidelong look, but a smile tugged at her lips. “A simple cordial. I thought perhaps I could remind the guests of spring even when the world is mud and drizzle. But Mrs. Hargrove said the recipe is foreign, and will not be tolerated by a respectable English stomach.”
He laughed. “Mrs. Hargrove once threatened to quit when I tried to serve onions at breakfast. She’ll survive.”
Celine moved to the other side of the table, arranging the glass vials for bottling. “You make it look easy,” she said. “I nearly lost a finger to the pestle.”
He glanced at her hand. “Does it still hurt?”
She flexed it. “Not as much as it did. The worst of it is knowing that the servants think I am a danger to the silverware.”
“Silverware is easily replaced,” Rhys said, catching her eye. “You are not.”
