He stood up, pulling her to her feet. “You’ll see.”
She groaned. “If you are about to introduce me to a dead animal or a tenant with some sort of rash, I will murder you.”
He led her down the hall to the small sitting room that connected their bedrooms, barely used since their arrival. Sunlight pouredin, warming the battered settee and the low table he’d insisted be set there the night before.
He motioned for her to sit, and she did, looking confused.
He fetched the tray and set it between them, then poured more coffee for them both. “I thought you’d prefer something less… formal than the morning room.”
She eyed him warily. “You’ve been up all night planning this, haven’t you?”
He shrugged. “Not all night.”Only most of it.
They sat, their knees nearly touching, and Rhys found himself unable to look away from her. He didn’t want to.
Last night, he had been half-certain she would vanish. He had almost decided he had misread the whole thing. But now, in the morning light, Celine seemed even more herself—wry, impossible, andhis.
He watched her spread butter on a scone, then stop, frowning at her handiwork.
She caught his stare. “You know, most men would ask their wives about their embroidery or their day or some such. Not just sit there and gawk.”
“I could watch you butter scones for hours,” he said.
She flushed and looked away, but he saw the smile she tried to hide.
They ate in companionable silence for a while. He watched her, noting the way she arranged her jam before applying it, the way she dipped her spoon twice before tasting her coffee. He found it oddly endearing.
He foundallof her endearing, which was the real problem.
He finished his plate and leaned back. “Tell me something. Are you planning on spending every morning in bed, or was that just to avoid me?”
She eyed him over the rim of her cup. “If you keep bringing breakfast, I see no reason to ever leave.”
“Then I’ll just have to join you,” he murmured, and was rewarded by a bright blush that colored her entire face.
She finished eating.
He was stacking the empty plates when she said, “Rhys?”
He glanced up. “Yes?”
She fidgeted with her napkin, the look in her eyes uncertain. “Is it true what you said? That you’ve never… let anyone in before?”
He stiffened, surprised by her question. Then, he nodded, unable to lie to her. “It’s true.”
She looked down, tracing a pattern on the tablecloth. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I used to think I’d never want this—never want someone so much that it would hurt.” She hesitated. “But I think I do. With you.”
He stared at her, the words taking a moment to sink in.
She wanted him. Not just the arrangement or the security, but him.
He was seized by a ridiculous urge to scoop her up into his arms, to promise her the world, to do everything his father had warned him never to do.
Instead, he reached across the table and took her hand, threading their fingers together.
They sat there, saying nothing, the world quiet but for the ticking of the hall clock.
Celine let him hold her hand, and that felt like a victory.
