He smiled, the expression half hidden by the dark. “It would take a great deal more than a nightmare to get rid of me. I’m annoyingly persistent, you know.”
She choked out a laugh, then a sob, then another laugh. “You’re infuriating.”
“So you’ve told me.” His hand rubbed small circles on her back, as if smoothing out the fear with each stroke.
She pressed her face into his chest and breathed him in—leather, ink, a hint of tobacco. “Thank you for staying,” she whispered.
He shrugged, though she could feel the movement as much as see it. “You called my name. I came.”
There was something unguarded in his voice, a roughness that suggested he, too, knew this kind of darkness.
“Do you have them?” she asked. “Nightmares?”
He was quiet for a beat, then answered, “Sometimes.”
She waited, but he said nothing more.
She wanted to ask what haunted him, what left him hollow in the mornings, but she understood the rules of old pain: you never pressed.
She wrapped her arm around his waist, suddenly desperate not to lose the warmth.
“Would you—” She cut herself off, uncertain if it was too much. “Would you stay the rest of the night? I don’t want to be alone.”
He drew back enough to look at her, the faintest grin stretching his lips. “I have an appointment at dawn with the ledgers and a particularly vengeful auditor, but if you command me to abandon my duties, I suppose I’ll be forced to obey.”
She rolled her eyes, then sobered. “I’m not commanding you. I’m asking you.”
He leaned forward and kissed her, soft and sure. “Then I’m here, Duchess. For as long as you want me.”
She closed her eyes and let herself fall into the quiet, the safety of his arms. For the first time since childhood, she dreamed of nothing.
The next afternoon, Celine opened the door to Rhys’s study and poked her head inside, taking in the evidence of his early industry: a half-empty pot of coffee, an open ledger, and Rhys himself, hunched over a letter, his dark brows furrowed in a scowl so severe that it was almost comical.
She cleared her throat and entered with a flourish, her hands tucked behind her back. “If you frown any harder, your face will stick that way,” she observed, coming to stand just opposite his desk.
He looked up, surprised, and the severity in his expression melted away.
“Lord,” he said, tossing the letter aside. “I was rather hoping the scowl would frighten the creditors into forgiving the debts and returning what I had already repaid.”
“Did it work?”
“Not in the least.” He rose and rounded the desk. “But perhaps it will frighten you into pitying me. What brings you to my den of despair?”
She tried for insouciance, but her heart was doing a reckless tarantella in her chest. “I am here to collect on a promise, actually.”
“Oh?” He drew closer, his eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Which one? I seem to recall making several last night, some of them in a state of undress.”
She nearly choked, then narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re incorrigible.”
“You married me.”
Celine produced, with great ceremony, a single sheet of paper from behind her back and unfolded it in front of his nose. “You said you’d help me fulfill every item on my list. I am here to hold you accountable.”
He plucked the page from her hands, ignoring her attempt to snatch it back.
“I am a man of my word,” he announced, reading with exaggerated care. “Let’s see: attend a masquerade ball, no one knowing it’s you. Wear that dashing green dress and a French perfume. Kiss a gentleman.” He frowned. “Have we not already done that?”
She blushed. “You’re not supposed to pay attention to that.”
