She steadied herself, mustering a smile that he couldn’t see. “I wasn’t running. I was—” She glanced at the rose in her hand. “Well, I suppose my shawl is too fine to be ruined.”
Now, he turned around slowly. He looked tired, with a dark shadow along his jaw. And yet the lines around his eyes softened when he saw her, as if the garden had conjured him from a gentler world.
They stared at each other, caught in that strange, endless moment. Celine’s pulse thundered, and she gripped the rose, then promptly stabbed herself with another thorn.
Rhys moved first, his eyes darting to the flower in her hand. “Planning to start your own war with the roses, Celine? Ignoring advice I gave you?”
She lifted her chin, refusing to be embarrassed. “I was hoping to steal a bit of the garden’s magic. I want to make a scent for Dahlia and Helena. Your roses are… untamed, but they’re the best I’ve ever come across.”
He quirked a brow, as if the idea of anyone seeing beauty in the estate’s neglect amused him. “You’re the first person in five years to compliment the gardens. Most say that it’s a disgrace. My father’s legacy.”
She almost said,You’re nothing like your father,but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she shrugged. “If I wanted perfect, I’d have stayed in London.”
His gaze flickered, and for a moment, he seemed on the verge of saying something. But it passed, and he fell silent again, his eyes wandering to the thicket of rosebushes.
“My mother planted these,” he said, his voice low. “Every year, she’d plant a new variety. She always dreamed of having a girl. Planned to name her Rose. Instead, she got me.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Celine’s chest tightened. She thought of her own mother, gone before she could ask the important questions, and suddenly shesaw Rhys not as a duke or a rake, but as a boy who’d grown up in a mausoleum of old regrets.
“Rose is a beautiful name,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He looked at her sharply, as if she’d said something profound. But then he rolled his shoulders back, the movement breaking the spell.
“You should probably return to your friends,” he said too lightly. “They’ll wonder what happened to you. Or worse, suspect you’ve run off with the gardener.”
She scoffed, affecting nonchalance. “You’re trying to send me away, Duke. That’s a first. I thought you enjoyed tormenting me.”
“On the contrary.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, and for a heartbeat, the air between them crackled.
She grinned, emboldened by his slip. “Dahlia and Helena are sleeping. I doubt I could wake them with a cannon. Unless you plan to set the east wing on fire, I’m safe from their scrutiny.” She tried to keep her tone light, but couldn’t help adding, “It’s odd, actually. The only time I ever see you anymore is by accident. Do you haunt the rosebushes often, or am I just unlucky?”
Rhys tensed, his smile dropping. “The estate keeps me busy. Tenants, repairs, creditors.” He looked away, his jaw tight. “You’re free to enjoy the gardens. I won’t disturb you again.”
The finality in his words stung more than she cared to admit. She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it, unwilling to plead for his attention.
Why is it easier to fight than to ask him what’s wrong?
He’d already turned back to the roses, his hands tucked behind his back, his shoulders rigid.
She watched him, searching for any sign that he wanted her to stay. When none came, she picked her way along the overgrown path, her heart pounding, unsure if she was angry at him or herself.
Only when she’d reached the edge of the gardens did she risk one last look over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved.
It was then that she realized Rhys wasn’t busy. He washiding.
“Your Grace, are you really going to walk by without so much as a nod to your wife?” Dahlia’s voice carried across the lawn, bright as the daffodils.
Celine, perched on a bench between Helena and Dahlia, flushed. She had been watching Rhys for ten minutes as he inspecteda broken balustrade along the east terrace, all the while pretending she hadn’t noticed him at all.
Now, with a suddenness that made her jump, he strode over, his boots silent on the damp grass, his navy blue coat immaculate, his hair barely tamed. For all the world, he looked like the perfect gentleman. Except that his jaw was tense, and his smile, when it finally came, was thin as paper.
“I was under the impression that the Duchess required no supervision,” he said, sketching a shallow bow. “But I see that she’s fallen into the clutches of Society’s two most notorious troublemakers.”
Helena arched a brow. “Notorious? I protest. I am a model of decorum, Your Grace. Unlike some, I haven’t been ejected from three card rooms in a single week.”
“Only three?” Dahlia leaned forward, her green eyes glinting. “What a disgrace. I expected more from the Wild Duke.”
