She faltered, the urge to confess everything almost overwhelming. Instead, she clung to the half-truth. “I just feel like a different person here. I can’t tell if it’s better or worse.”
He considered, then nodded. “I know the feeling. I hate London.”
She laughed, surprised. “You do not.”
“I do,” he insisted. “Full of ghosts, and everyone wants a piece of you.”
That struck her deeply. “Yes.”
He pulled her closer until she could feel the steady rhythm of his heart. “We’ll face them together. Or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to the country.”
She snorted. “Don’t you dare.”
“Tempting,” he said. “You’re light as a feather.”
She smacked his arm, the familiar banter loosening the knot in her chest. “Now you’re just trying to flatter me.”
He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “You’re not alone, Celine. Not ever.”
She believed him. Or wanted to.
He kissed her, gentle at first, then with a hunger that left her breathless. She melted into him, the weight of the city and its watchers forgotten for one glorious moment.
When he pulled away, his smile was pure mischief. “Feel better?”
Celine nodded, dizzy. “Marginally.”
“We can try again, if you’re not convinced.”
She shook her head, laughter bubbling up and carrying the last of her fear away. “No need. You’ve made your point.”
He brushed a thumb across her cheek. “Then we’ll be all right.”
She wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe that she could outrun her doubts, her need for approval, the sinking suspicion that she would never be enough.
But for now, she was enough for him.
And that, for the moment, was everything.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Celine stared at the massive mahogany door as she stood rooted to the faded blue carpet, as if she were no more than a ghost, doomed to haunt this exact spot for eternity. The hallway behind her was empty, echoing, but she knew somehow that every room off this hallway held a secret that belonged only to her.
She reached for the doorknob, but her hand would not obey.
“You have to open it,” said a voice, as warm as late summer.
She turned, startled, and saw Rhys standing behind her, dressed not as a duke but in the linen shirt he wore only when reading in bed. He looked at her with a half-smile—no mockery this time, just a calm confidence that she envied.
“I don’t want to,” she said, but her voice came out smaller, the words strange in her mouth.
“Isn’t that the point?” He stepped closer, careful not to touch her. “If you wait forever, you’ll never know what’s inside.”
Celine wanted to argue, to tell him that she knew, that she’d always known, but his eyes—dark, impossible—were so steady that she could only nod.
He gestured, as if granting her permission, and the old anxiety unfurled in her chest, slow and slick. She took a single step, then another. The doorknob was cold, but when she turned it, the door yielded with surprising ease.
From inside, she heard the music again. Louder now. Her mother’s voice was unmistakable, humming a tune she’d sung to Celine every night until the day she died. It was as if time had looped back and resurrected her for a single, perfect moment.
