He climbed up the stairs, each step a deliberate act of will. At her door, he paused, his fist raised, but the thought of her ignoring his knock—of her shattering whatever fragile truce remained between them—was intolerable. He turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Celine stood by the window, backlit by a single lamp, her figure outlined against the darkening sky. Her hair was down, wild around her shoulders, making her look younger, softer. But there was nothing soft in the way she paced the carpet, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist.
She stopped at the creak of the door. Her head whipped around, her eyes wide, startled. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Rhys’s heart hammered. The sight of her—untamed, fuming, so alive—shook him harder than he cared to admit.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, realizing at once how stupid it sounded. No one could have slept with that storm inside.
Celine drew herself up to her full height, her jaw rigid. “I wasn’t asleep.”
He took a step inside, leaving the door open behind him. “Celine, what you said?—”
“You don’t have to explain,” she said, her voice flat, her gaze fixed over his left shoulder. “I understand. I do.”
She went to her writing desk and began straightening already-ordered papers, her movements mechanical, desperate.
“You’re busy. You have the estate, and tenants, and… solitude. It’s what you wanted from the start.”
He advanced another step, unwilling to let her escape behind formality. “No, that’s not true. I thought it was what you wanted.”
She laughed, the sound brittle and hollow. “That’s convenient, isn’t it?”
Rhys flinched. “I never meant for you to feel abandoned.” He swallowed, searching for words that might reach her. “I am not my father, Celine. Or yours.”
She froze, her hands white-knuckled around the edge of the desk. “Aren’t you?” she said, her voice trembling. “You make yourself a ghost in your own house. You shut everyone out. You don’t even try?—”
“Itryevery day!” He caught himself and lowered his voice. “You have no idea how hard I try.”
She whirled around, her eyes blazing. “Then why bother with any of this? Why pretend? You’re not obligated to do anything beyond providing a roof over my head. You made it perfectly clear that there would be no heirs, no future, so what is the point of—” She cut herself off, her breath sharp, her cheeks flushed with the effort to hold herself together.
He closed the gap between them. “You’re wrong,” he said softly. “There is a point.”
She scoffed. “Enlighten me, Duke.”
He reached for her, but she shrank back, retreating until her shoulders hit the wall.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t be like her. I can’t spend my life loving a man who refuses to let me in.”
Her words gutted him.
He put his hand on the wall, trapping her there, not touching but close,so close.
“You are nothing like her,” he declared. “You’re braver. You fight back.”
She glared at him, but her eyes shone with tears. “And what does it get me? A study door slammed in my face. Dinners alone. Even now, you’re only here because I forced your hand.”
He smiled bleakly. “I’m here because I can’t stay away. I’ve tried. God knows, I’ve tried harder than I ever thought possible.” He rested his other hand on the wall, boxing her in. “Every day it gets harder. Every day it hurts more. That’s what I was trying to avoid.”
She blinked, thrown by his confession. “Hurts?”
He nodded, his jaw tight. “Being near you is—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “It’s like being set on fire. It’s terrifying. I don’t know how to want something without destroying it.”
They stood there, their breaths mingling, the silence between them charged.
“You said you wanted a marriage of convenience,” he continued, his voice rough. “You said you didn’t want love.”
She looked down, then back up, her eyes shining, defiant. “I lied.”
