Rhys clamped a hand over her mouth, his amber eyes locking onto hers. “Stop talking,” he mouthed, his lips barely moving, his face inches from hers in the dim moonlight filtering through the window beside them.
Her warmth seeped through his shirt, her curves pressed against his chest, and his pulse quickened despite himself. The spark burned a little brighter, his heart flipping every time he caught her stern glare.
No scandal, not now.
He could almost hear his father laughing at him, mocking him from his grave. The former Duke had always believed his son could do nothing right.
I need a wife, not ruin.
“She ran this way, I swear,” one man slurred from the library’s center, his boots scuffing the rug. “I can smell her perfume. She must have been here. That green dress—God’s teeth, what a vision.”
The woman glared harder, her eyes blazing from behind her mask, as if she was psychically trying to set him on fire.
Ouch!
Her teeth sank into his hand. Rhys stifled a grunt, his jaw tightening as he pulled his hand back and shook it slightly.
“Feisty little thing, aren’t you?” he whispered, his tone a mix of irritation and amusement. He leaned closer to keep them hidden. “Fine, but know this: if we’re found, we both go down.”
“Actually,” she whispered back, “no one, not even you, knows who I am. I can’t say the same for you, Your Grace.” Her tone dripped with defiance.
Her breath warmed his cheek and somehow sent a chill down his spine at the same time.
Rhys’s lips twitched, his rakish charm battling his need for control. “Bold words for a lady hiding behind a mask. You think I’m the only one at risk? A scandal would clip your wings, whoever you are.”
“Wings? Let them be clipped,” she scoffed, her voice low but fierce, her body still pressed against his, the velvet curtain brushing their shoulders. “I’d rather run free than be a bird with wings caged by the ton’s rules—or by a rake like you, notorious for his… exploits.” She whispered the last word like it left a bitter taste in her mouth.
He bristled, her jab hitting a sore spot. His adventures across Europe, flaunted to spite his cold, controlling father, now haunted him, whispered about in every ballroom.
“My exploits?” he echoed, his tone mock-offended. “Careful, My Lady. You sound jealous.”
“Jealous?” Her laugh was a soft, incredulous huff. “Of what? The parade of women foolish enough to fall for your charm? I’d wager no respectable lady would marry you after your… prodigious indiscretions.”
Rhys’s eyes narrowed, her words stinging more than he cared to admit.
“You wound me,” he murmured, his voice teasing but edged with sincerity. “I’m looking for a wife. You know, my inheritance remains inaccessible to me till I get married. Duty calls, even for a rake. But you—what’s your game? Not hunting for a husband, are you?”
Her silence was telling, her body tensing against his.
The men’s voices drifted closer, their boots clomping toward the upper gallery.
“Found nothing down here,” one grumbled. “Let’s check the shelves up there.”
Celine’s gaze flicked to the stairs, then back to Rhys, her whisper fierce. “I have no interest in marriage, if that’s what you’re fishing for. Unlike you, I don’t bow to duty or desperation.”
“No?” Rhys’s brow arched, his voice a soft challenge. “Then why the dress and perfume? You’re no mere debutante playing at rebellion. You’re… something else.”
Intrigued by her defiance, he searched her gaze. That sharp wit cut through his usual careless charm.
Not a simpering miss.
His interest deepened. She was a puzzle, one he wanted to solve.
“Something you’ll never understand,” she shot back, her voice trembling with suppressed fire. “Now, let me go before I scream and ruin us both.”
“Scream?” He chuckled. He lowered his face slightly, his breath warm against her ear. “You won’t. No matter how much you want to spite the ton, you’re as keen to avoid scandal as I am.”
His hand hovered near her arm, not touching but close.
