In his study, Rhys poured them each a glass.
Celine did not sit down. She stood by the fire, her arms crossed over her ruined dress, staring into the flames as if they might consume the memory still haunting her.
Rhys watched her for a long moment, then gestured to the armchair. “Sit down, Duchess. You look like you’re expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”
She snorted, the sound unladylike. “You have a low opinion of your hospitality.”
He grinned, then set his glass down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “It isn’t every day that a man gets to see his wife wrestle a horse and win. I thought you hated animals.”
She shook her head, staring at her hands. They were no longer trembling, but her nailbeds were still stained with blood. “I was certain she’d die. Even when you got the leg round, I kept waiting for her to—” She broke off, pressing her lips together.
“She lived,” Rhys said, matter-of-fact. “And her foal. You were the difference.”
Celine felt the words, but not as praise. They made her stomach lurch.
Rhys said nothing, just waited. His amber eyes were fixed on her, for once full of patience.
She sipped her whiskey. The taste was sharp, but it grounded her, forced her to feel the heat and the burn.
“I lied to you,” she said quietly. “Not outright, but… by omission.”
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
She stared at her hands. “You asked, once, about my mother. Why I never spoke of her.”
Rhys nodded. “I remember.”
“I was twelve,” she breathed. “My father was away at Parliament. Mother went into confinement earlier than expected. The physician came, along with a midwife. I wasn’t allowed into her rooms, but I heard… everything.” Her voice was steady, but the air in the study grew thin. “They screamed. All of them. The doctor, the midwife, and her. And when they opened the door, it was—” She broke off, the image too gruesome for words.
“Both died,” she said finally, her eyes fixed on her glass. “Mother and baby. My brother, he—” She stopped, unable to finish.
Rhys was silent for a long while. She wished he would say something—make a joke, mock her, anything. Instead, he just watched.
She realized she wanted the silence—neededit.
“That’s why… That’s why I…” She swallowed. “I can’t bear the idea of… of that happening. Of being the reason someone else… loses.” She raised her eyes to his, defiant, daring him to be angry. “That’s why I wanted a marriage on paper. I could never?—”
Rhys held up a hand, cutting her off gently. “That works perfectly for me,” he said.
The words landed so softly that she almost missed them.
He poured himself another glass, the whiskey golden in the morning light. “I have no desire for children, Celine. Years ago, I made a vow never to become a father. Never to sire an heir.”
Her own fear, reflected by him, should have brought relief. Instead, her chest tightened.
“Why?”
He shrugged, then smiled. But it was not his rakish smile, more a shield than anything. “Another story for another time.”
She let out a breath, the tension draining from her shoulders, replaced by confusion.
“You mean it?” she asked, unsure if she had heard him correctly. “No heirs. No children.”
He nodded. “None. Ever.”
The air between them shifted. Something unsaid pressed down on her, a longing she hadn’t thought herself capable of. Now that the future was devoid of that possibility—now that it was safe—she found herself staring into the fire and wondering what it might be like, had she been someone else.
She did not speak again, and neither did he. They finished their drinks in silence, the sort that held everything they would not say.
