“I didn’t come here for love, Rhys,” she said, her voice almost a growl. “I didn’t come here expecting to be cherished. But I won’t be invisible. I refuse!”
Rhys opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a raised hand.
“And don’t you dare tell me I’m exaggerating or being dramatic. If you try, I swear I will walk out of here and never return, and you will have to explain to the whole of Hertfordshire why your Duchess spends her evenings at the Rose and Crown.”
She yanked the lid off the brandy bottle and poured herself a glass, the liquor sloshing perilously close to the rim.
“I would at least be among people there,” she finished, and drained half the glass in one go.
Silence reigned for a moment, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock and the steady, shallow breaths she was forcing herself to take.
When she looked up, Rhys was staring at her, his face more open than she’d ever seen it. He looked almost… frightened.
He stood up, which surprised her, and rounded the desk to stand beside her. He looked at the tray, then at the novel, then at her. He tried to speak twice, but the words died in his throat.
Finally, he said, “I thought—I thought you wanted solitude. That you needed it.”
She stared at him, disbelief warring with exhaustion. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you never asked for company. Because you vanished when your friends left, and I assumed—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “I assumed that what happened at the stables, and after, had made things worse.”
She scoffed. “You cannot possibly be that dense.”
He smiled, or tried to. “Apparently, I can.”
For a second, the tension ebbed, and she felt the air thicken with something softer, more dangerous. Then, she remembered her anger, and the ache returned tenfold.
“Rhys,” she said, this time in a whisper, “you could spend the rest of your life hiding in this study, and it won’t change the fact that you have a wife. I know you think you’re protecting me, or yourself, or the world at large, but all you’re doing is recreatingthe misery you grew up in.” She looked at him, unflinching. “I won’t let you do that to me. Or to yourself.”
He met her gaze, and for a moment, she thought he might say something meaningful, something raw.
Instead, he said, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
She could have laughed. “Do, or don’t. But don’t apologize. I can’t bear another man who apologizes and then does nothing to change.”
He flinched at that, a tiny movement, but she saw it.
She turned to leave, the unfinished glass in her hand. At the door, she paused, her anger ebbing just enough for a sliver of regret to sneak in.
“You should finish your dinner,” she said, not looking back. “The cook made a lemon tart. It’s not terrible.”
She walked out, not caring if she slammed the door. If she did, it was only because it helped drown out the silence.
She’s right. I’m exactly like him.
The realization burned through every part of him.
Rhys found himself at the bottom of the staircase, staring up at the hallway that led to Celine’s rooms. He debated, for a second, whether he should wait until morning, give her time to calm down.
He tried, half-heartedly, to resume work. There were ledgers to balance, rents to adjust, and a letter from the solicitor waiting for his signature. But the numbers blurred, and the words on the page made less and less sense, until finally, with a muttered curse, he shoved the ledger aside and stood up.
He needed air. No, he neededher.
The realization rattled him so thoroughly that for a long moment, he just stood there, his hands braced on the edge of his desk, trying to summon the will to move.
He’d meant what he said—he’d thought she wanted solitude. Everything about her since the foal’s birth, since the conversation about children, had pointed to a woman retreating into herself. He’d tried to give her the space he’d always wished for, convinced it was what she needed.
But he had been wrong. Again.
