He sat back on his heels, breathing hard, feeling the damp soak through his dressing gown. The words tasted like bloodandfreedom.
“You said I’d never be fit to bear your title, and you were right. I don’t want it.”
He rose, pressed a hand to the stone, and let the chill of it numb him to the core.
“Goodbye,” he said and then turned away, leaving the old man to rot in silence.
The sky was brighter now, the edge of sunrise creeping up the far hedgerow. Rhys squared his shoulders, wiped his palms on his dressing gown, and made his way back to the house, each step lighter than the last.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or should I expect to be thrown into the moat?”
Celine’s voice trailed down the narrow hallway, half-muffled by the silk scarf tied across her eyes. Rhys led her by the hand.
“You’re safe enough,” he said. “There’s a dry patch of land I’ve reserved for wayward duchesses.”
“Is it near the dungeons, or will I have to pass through the kitchens first?” Her tone was a mixture of curiosity and challenge.
She had never learned to be properly cowed, not by him, not by anyone. He found it endlessly infuriating, and perhaps the only reason he had managed to keep her this long.
They wound past the scullery, then through the creaking door that opened into the old conservatory, its glass roof sparkling in the early sun. He steered her gently to the right, guiding her along the edge of a large, cloth-draped object.
“Just a bit further,” he urged.
She huffed. “If you’re walking me into a wall for your own amusement, I’ll have the cook serve you boiled tripe for a week.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Your sense of direction, on the other hand…”
She jabbed him in the ribs with her free hand, and he grinned despite himself.
“All right, Duchess. Now, don’t move.”
He let go, stepped behind her, and made a show of fussing with the knot on her blindfold.
“You’re making a mess of my hair,” she protested, but then she went still, her lips pressed into a thin line.
He untied the scarf and let it fall, but kept his hands over her eyes for a moment longer, just so he could feel the rapid flutter of her lashes against his palms.
“If you’ve led me all the way here to propose a duel at dawn, I—” She stopped as he lowered his hands.
Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if her mind couldn’t quite make sense of what she was seeing.
The small sunroom—abandoned since before his birth—had been emptied of furniture, save for a single long table set against the far wall. Atop it gleamed rows of bottles, some clear, some shaded blue and green. There were glass rods and tiny silver spoons, a set of ceramic mortars, flasks of cut crystal, and three hand-bound ledgers arranged just so. At the center, on a velvet pad, sat a brass still—delicate, precise, and unmistakably expensive.
“You bought me a laboratory,” she breathed, incredulity tipping every syllable. “A proper one.”
“Don’t be absurd. I’d never call it that,” he said, folding his arms. “It’s merely a place for you to make a proper mess of the items in this house without ruining the main hall.”
She stepped forward, running her fingers over the gleaming still, then the ledger, then the neat arrangement of vials.
He cleared his throat. “The shopkeeper said that the alembic is French, but he’s a notorious liar. The crystal is from Bohemia. The ledgers are for your notes. Or your poetry, I suppose, if you fancy yourself tragic.”
She spun around, and he saw her expression—vulnerable, her eyes wet, her mouth a soft curve.
“You remembered,” she croaked. “Everything I told you in London—about the scents, the stories, the way I wanted?—”
“—to drown your enemies in jasmine, yes. I listened.” He tried to keep his voice light, but it came out strange, rougher than he meant.
She blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek. She swiped at it, annoyed. “It’s just… I never thought you actually heard me.”
