After a long silence, she asked, “Did you ever want children, Rhys?”
He considered. “No. Not after… everything. But if you did—if you do?—”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe someday.”
“That’s enough,” he said.
They lingered, neither willing to break the moment.
She finally pulled away, collected the dishes, and carried them to the sideboard. He watched her move, admiring the graceful lines of her shoulders, the way she hummed under her breath, just loud enough for him to catch a phrase or two.
He stood up, went to her, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She jumped, surprised, then leaned back against him, her hands resting on his.
“Is this normal?” she asked.
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Not in the least.”
She laughed, warm and real. “Good. I hate normal.”
He spun her around and kissed her again, knowing he would never get enough of her, not if he lived to be a hundred.
When a knock sounded at the door, he didn’t move, and neither did she.
It was the butler, hovering with his usual impeccable timing. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. You’re wanted in the study. A matter that requires your attention.”
Rhys released Celine but kept her hand in his. “Tell them I’ll be down shortly, Grayson.”
The butler bobbed his head and retreated.
Rhys turned to his wife, his smile lazy. “Duty calls. Again.”
She pulled her hand free and adjusted her cap, the color high in her cheeks. “Go be a duke, Rhys. I’ll be here.”
He went, but not before stealing one last kiss.
In the hallway, he found himself grinning like a schoolboy, the taste of her lingering on his lips.
As he strode toward the study, he wondered whether this was what hope felt like. If the answers he was seeking were within his reach.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Look at you. God above, you’re a disgrace!” His father’s voice thundered over him, filling the marbled hallway.
Rhys stared at the floor, clutching his slate and books to his chest. He knew better than to answer. He was only eight years old, but he had ruined everything.
“I asked you a question, boy. Are you deaf as well as useless?”
Rhys shook his head, then realized that was wrong too and whispered, “No, Sir.”
His father’s hand shot out, twisting his ear so fiercely that he tasted metal at the back of his throat.
“What do you call this?” he demanded, dragging him down the hall by that single burning bit of cartilage.
They passed a footman, who flinched and pressed himself against the wall.
Rhys said nothing. He knew what “this” was: a smear of blue-black ink spreading like a bruise across his starched white cuff. He’d blotted the quill wrong, panicked, and then tried to rub it clean with spit. The mess only grew.
His father shoved him into the study, and the door slammed shut with a bang that made Rhys jump. His ear burned, his eyes burned, and his whole body felt smaller than it had five seconds ago.
