Helena shook her head, though she hid her smile behind her hand. “The card scandal was in last year’sChronicle, Dahlia. Do try to keep up.”
They ganged up on him with an ease that made Celine’s heart twist.
In the sun, Rhys’s amber eyes sparkled with a warmth she hadn’t seen in days, and he was quick with his retorts, letting the two ladies probe and tease him as if he’d known them since birth.
“If you think to restore my reputation by trouncing me at cards, I warn you that my luck has turned,” he said, seating himself on the low wall beside them, his hands relaxed in his lap. “But I will play, if only to spare my wife the humiliation of further defeat.”
“I’ve never been humiliated at whist,” Celine sniffed indignantly. “You’ve never even played against me.”
He smiled at her—really smiled, dimples and all—and for a split second, she forgot the ache in her chest.
“Is that a challenge, Duchess?”
She returned his smile, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach. “If you’re brave enough to face a lady’s luck, then yes.”
Cards appeared out of nowhere—Dahlia’s doing, of course—and soon the four of them sat around a cast-iron table, the breeze blowing loose strands of hair into Celine’s face, which she ignored, unwilling to miss a moment.
The game began with Dahlia’s usual flair for drama, tossing her cards with a theatrical flourish. Helena played quietly, her eyes never missing a trick, her lips twitching at Rhys’s attempts to bluff.
But it was Rhys who surprised Celine. He was charming, witty, and an endless well of funny stories and gentle mockery. He told a tale about losing a fortune at faro in Vienna, only to win it back by impersonating an Italian count at a masked ball—she suspected it was only half a joke—and the way he told it had even Helena laughing out loud.
Celine found herself studying him when she was sure he wouldn’t notice, searching his face for the cracks in his mask. He never looked at her longer than was polite, but she caught him twice glancing at her while she studied her hand, and once when she was reaching for a biscuit, her fingers brushing the plate a half-second before his. The contact was brief, accidental, but she felt it in every inch of her being.
Is this who he really is? Or is it all for show?
By the third round, Celine was winning, and Dahlia was scandalized.
“This is highway robbery,” Dahlia protested, slapping her cards down. “She’s fleeced us both, Helena. I demand justice. Rhys, say something!”
Rhys lifted his glass—he’d brought a decanter of sherry for the ladies, though Celine noticed he barely touched his own—and said, “I would, but I’m busy being humiliated, as promised. I’d have better odds wrestling the cook’s mastiff.”
Helena tilted her head at Celine. “See what you’ve done? The Duchess will become insufferable now.”
“She’s always been insufferable,” Dahlia said fondly, “but now she’s also rich.”
Celine, flushed and giddy from victory and the sun, hardly noticed the time passing. She felt lighter than she had in weeks, almost herself again. Until, with no warning, Rhys set his cards aside and stood up.
“I’m afraid duty calls,” he said, gathering his coat. “Cranston’s threatening to burn down the western orchard if I don’t meet him by noon. Do save me a biscuit, won’t you, Celine?”
She nodded, but by the time she found her voice, he’d already crossed the lawn. She watched him go with a sinking feeling in her gut.
“Go after him,” Dahlia whispered, her voice too low for Helena to hear. “If you don’t, I will. And you know how I am with dukes.”
Celine rolled her eyes, but her heart was beating out a rhythm that begged her to listen. She rose, mumbling an excuse, and hurried after her husband. But by the time she reached the end of the path, he was nearly at the gate, his stride unhurried but determined.
She knew she should let him go, but the words tumbled out anyway, clear and bright in the morning air.
“Rhys!”
He didn’t turn around, but his shoulders tensed slightly, as if bracing for impact.
Celine wanted to say a hundred things all at once. She wanted to tell him that she missed him, that the mask he wore for the world was too convincing, that she wasn’t sure she would ever get used to being shut out of his heart.
Instead, she watched him disappear, sure he had heard her call out his name.
Chapter Nineteen
Celine poked a limp piece of fish with her fork, watching it flake into smaller and smaller fragments. If she concentrated, she could almost convince herself that the act of slicing it was satisfying.
