It was nothing like the gentle, careful touches from before. It was wild, desperate, all the things he’d warned her about—his control obliterated, his longing unmasked.
He kissed her as if it was the only way to breathe, as if she was the only thing anchoring him to the world. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him closer, and let herself melt into the heat of him.
He broke away only to rest his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged, his hands framing her face.
“Thank God,” he muttered, his voice almost a growl.
She laughed breathlessly. She was surprised to find herself smiling,trulysmiling, for the first time in ages.
He kissed her again, softer this time, reverent, as if trying to apologize for all the weeks of keeping his distance. She gripped his waistcoat, her fingers digging into the fabric, unwilling to let him slip away.
When he finally let her go, he stepped back only as far as he had to, his hands lingering on her arms.
“Are we quite mad?” she asked, her voice shaky, searching his face for regret and finding none.
He shook his head, a crooked smile breaking through. “Utterly. And I intend to be much worse tomorrow.”
She wanted to laugh again, to tease him, to say something clever, but she could only stare, overwhelmed by the rush of emotion—need, relief, hope.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she managed.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then, just barely, the corner of her mouth. “Good night, Celine.”
He pulled away reluctantly, but left the door open behind him.
She pressed a hand to her lips, as if to trap the kiss there forever.
Her heart finally slowed, and she wondered how she would ever sleep tonight.
Where is she?
Rhys’s boot tapped against the morning room’s parquet floor. He’d never been one for patience, but today his nerves vibrated with the memory of last night—Celine in his arms, her lipspressed against his, the paper walls of their marriage burning to the ground in a single, glorious instant.
Now, he couldn’t even sit still for breakfast. He checked the door again. Where in God’s name was she?
He stabbed at a currant bun, splitting it with unnecessary violence. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed half past nine. He’d ordered breakfast late on purpose, to give her time to rest, but the longer the door stayed closed, the more convinced he grew that she’d woken, remembered herself, and built their old rules back up, brick by brick.
Stop it,you have work to do.
He lasted another minute before calling the butler.
“Grayson,” he said, trying for a tone of ducal command and missing by a mile. “Is the Duchess well?”
The butler kept his gaze fixed somewhere over Rhys’s left shoulder. “I believe Her Grace is enjoying a rare morning of leisure, Your Grace. Shall I have her tray sent up?”
“No,” Rhys said, then realized how that sounded. “I mean, yes, but—” He rubbed a hand down his face. “Never mind. I’ll take it myself.”
The butler blinked, as if Rhys had just announced he was eloping with the cook. “Very well, Your Grace.”
Five minutes later, armed with a silver tray and the last shreds of his dignity, Rhys knocked on the door to the Duchess’s suite. Only to be met with silence.
He balanced the tray on one palm and let himself in. Her bedchamber was flooded with morning light, pale and cool, a stark contrast to the shadows of last night.
Celine lay in the middle of the enormous bed, utterly motionless except for a few curls escaping her cap, fanning across the pillow like dark ribbons.
For a moment, he thought she was still asleep. He watched her for a long beat—she looked years younger, peaceful, her hands tucked under her cheek, her lashes dark against her skin.
Something in his chest tightened. Was this the same woman who had once threatened to set fire to his boots if he ruined her best hat?
