“Only if my new perfume recipe fails,” Celine quipped.
Dahlia cackled, and the sound drew eyes to their table.
Celine felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I think I’ve had enough for today,” she said, standing up so abruptly that she nearly upset the teapot.
Dahlia and Helena followed immediately, as if they had planned a synchronized exit. Outside, the air was sharp with the promise of rain.
Dahlia looped her arm through Celine’s. “Walk with us. I’ll tell you the real story about Lady Armitage and the so-called chastity pledge.”
“I’m certain it’s fiction,” Helena said.
Dahlia grinned. “Isn’t everything in this city?”
They strolled the short distance to the townhouse, Dahlia and Helena keeping up a running commentary on the passersby.
Celine nodded, interjecting when required, but her mind raced with the thought of next week’s wedding, the endless parade of eyes, the impossibility of ever being truly comfortable in her own skin.
At the steps, Dahlia squeezed her hand. “Don’t let them get to you, Celine. They’re just jealous.”
Helena added, “I’d say they’re jealous of your Duke, but honestly, I think it’s your eyebrows.”
Celine barked a laugh. “If only I could weaponize them.”
“You already do,” Helena said. “Go. Rest. We’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Celine said, then watched her friends walk away, their arms linked—a pair of conspirators against the world.
The front door barely closed before Rhys accosted her in the hallway, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smudge of ink on his thumb.
“Back already?” He scanned her face. “You’re flushed. Did Dahlia challenge you to a duel?”
“Not today.” Celine unwound her scarf and dropped it on the side table. “How was your meeting?”
“Excruciating,” he said. “Lord Fenton cannot speak without using at least three metaphors per sentence. I nearly smothered him with the blotter.”
She smiled, just barely. “Resist the urge. I don’t want to be the first duchess widowed by office supplies.”
He watched her for a long moment, then stepped closer. “Something happened.”
“Nothing happened,” she lied. “Unless you count Lady Beeston’s tonic fast.”
“I don’t.” He moved into her space, the scent of ink and leather and him more intoxicating than any perfume she could ever invent. “Was it the ton? Did they say something?”
She shrugged. “They stared. That’s what they do.”
Rhys frowned, and a muscle in his jaw flexed. “Next time, I’ll come along and stare back. I can outstare all of Mayfair.”
“I doubt that would help,” she said, but the thought amused her. “You’d be mobbed before the tea cooled.”
He grinned, but it faded fast. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Not everything is a crisis, Rhys,” she said, trying for lightness. “It’s just… odd, being back. I’ve grown accustomed to Wylds. There are fewer people, and most of them ignore me. It’s peaceful.”
Rhys furrowed his brow, but then he took her hands, warm and solid around her wrists. “If you prefer Wylds, we can return after the ceremony. Or never leave again, if that’s what you want.”
She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
He tilted her chin up. “Tell me, Celine.”
