When Rhys finally stood up and set his empty glass down with finality, he touched her shoulder—just briefly, but with a gentleness she felt all the way to her bones.
He left her there, in the half-light and quiet, and for the first time in years, she let herself wonder what it would be like to want the thing she had always feared.
Chapter Seventeen
“What is wrong with me?” Celine whispered, her voice cracking ever so slightly.
She sat in the morning room, the early April light spilling through the tall, cracked windows, painting her lavender muslin dress with soft gold.
The air carried the faint scent of damp plaster and the roses she’d plucked from the garden, their petals wilting in a chipped porcelain vase on the table.
Boredom slowly slithered around her mind like a living phantom, wrapping itself around her thoughts and leaving her unable to concentrate on anything…
Or perhaps she didn’t want to concentrate on anything.
“Focus, Celine. You’re not some naive debutante,” she muttered to herself.
Black curls, loosely pinned beneath a simple cap, grazed her neck as her restless blue eyes flickered over the half-finished embroidery, the needle forgotten in the fabric’s folds. A strange, unfathomable loss had settled in her chest since last night’s conversation in the study.
No, that didn’t mean anything to me.
She tried to convince herself of that, but she knew the truth deep down.
Rhys’s vow never to sire an heir, his firm assurance that their marriage would remain as it was, had stirred an ache she couldn’t explain. It made no sense that she should care this much, yet a stance she had never wavered on since her mother’s death suddenly felt less… terrifying.
Maybe it was the foal’s wobbly survival or perhaps Rhys’s gentle care—she couldn’t put a finger on it—but it stirred a whisper of something new, a crack in her resolve that left her restless.
The morning room, with its faded wallpaper and creaking chairs, felt stifling. Her usual distractions—perfume-making, novels, sketching—failed to soothe her. The manor’s quiet was oppressive, its walls mirrored her unease, and the ticking of the mantel clock was the only sound she heard.
As much as she hated to admit it, she’d spent the previous night pacing the garden, her mind replaying Rhys’s words:We’re safe, you and I.
It was what she wanted, or at least it should be. Yet the ache in her chest, sharp and unbidden, had grown, transforming into a restless hunger for something more.
Footsteps echoed in the hall, firm and quick, and her head snapped up, her heart leaping as Rhys entered. He was carrying a bundle of letters with creased edges, his fingers stained with ink. The softness in his amber eyes from the previous day had dimmed, replaced with an emotion that looked foreign.
“Celine,” he said, his baritone reverberating in her bones, sending a shiver up her spine. His boots scuffed the worn rug as he paused, almost like he was contemplating his next words. “You’re up early.”
He looked slightly disheveled. His dark hair didn’t have its usual sheen, there was no dimple in his cheek as he gave her a strained smile, and his amber eyes were shadowed with a distracted urgency.
“I… couldn’t sleep,” she admitted softly as she stood to face him, her muslin skirt rustling. “Rhys, I’ve been bored out of my mind. Nothing helps—not the perfumes, not the books. I feel… trapped.”
Her words spilled out, raw and honest. She couldn’t sit still, not any longer. The ache in her chest was consuming her from the inside out.
“I was thinking, could I send invitations to my friends? To come here, to the manor? I need… company.” The tremor in her voice matched her deepening flush.
She needed a sense of familiarity, now that her world felt like it was unraveling.
Rhys furrowed his brow, and his eyes flicked to the letters in his hand, his jaw tightening as he shifted his weight from one foot to another.
“Invitations?” he asked, his gaze darting to the window, beyond which the stables’ roof peeked through budding oaks. “Yes, fine. Tell the footman to send them. I trust your judgment.”
He moved deliberately to the door as he spoke, offering her another smile that didn’t reach his eyes, his boots clicking sharply.
“I have matters to attend to—tenants, the estate. You know how it is.” His tone was brisk.
He put his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave regardless of what she said next.
Celine’s heart sank, her blush fading, her fingers tightening on her reticule.
