“Whose fault is that?” She clung to him, her lips nearly blue. “Next time you want to cross something off my list, perhaps try ‘drink too much sherry at the opera’ or ‘steal a diamond at Lady Sommersby’s rout.’”
“We can still do both tonight, if you like.” His hand slid up her back, his fingers splayed over the soaked fabric. He wanted to rub warmth into her, or at least prove there was still blood in his veins. “But for now, perhaps we ought to get out before you go into convulsions.”
Celine snorted, but her teeth were chattering.
They sloshed back to the shallows, arm in arm, and climbed the bank together. He wrapped her in his discarded coat, bundled her up before she could protest.
She watched him as he wrung out his shirt. “You didn’t have to join me, you know.”
He shrugged. “I’d hate for you to drown alone. The scandal would ruin my morning coffee.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile was unmistakable. She pulled her sodden curls into a knot and wrung them out with both hands. “Now what?”
He looked up at the city, taking in the strange hush that came when the ton retreated to their card tables and the servants took over the streets. The world was theirs, just for this evening.
“Now,” he said, “you tell me which dream is next.”
She went still, her arms crossed beneath the coat. “You don’t have to indulge every madness I invent.”
He crouched beside her, resting his elbows on his knees. “Indulgeis a strong word. I’m merely fulfilling my obligations as a husband.”
She studied him, the sharp line of his jaw, the smudge of dirt on his cheek. “You don’t have to, Rhys.”
He didn’t answer. He let the silence envelop them both, the only sound the dripping of water from their clothes, the distant song of some bird that refused to sleep.
At last, she spoke, softer than before. “I wrote the list to prove that I could want things.”
He nodded. “And?”
“And it turns out I still want things,” she admitted, her voice trembling on the edge of a laugh or a sob—he couldn’t tell. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s a mistake.”
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s the only proof that we’re alive.”
She didn’t answer. She stared out at the water, the glow of the lamps, the world she’d spent her entire life fighting and loving in equal measure.
He found himself saying, “You’re allowed to want things, Celine.”
She shot him a look so sharp that it almost drew blood. “And what do you want?”
He opened his mouth, but the answer caught in his throat. For a second, he considered some clever dodge—a joke, a barbed retort, anything but the truth. But then she leaned closer, her eyes locked on his, and he knew she would see through anything but honesty.
“Right now?” he said, his voice rough. “I want you not to regret any of this.”
She let the words sink in. Then, she laughed, low and lovely. “I never regret a thing. Except, perhaps, not wearing my thicker chemise.”
He grinned, the tension easing. “Shall we head home?”
She shook her head, surprising him. “Let’s stay for a bit. I want to see the lamps come on.”
So they sat, shoulder to shoulder, their coats wrapped around them, steam rising from their skin in the deepening cold. The lamps glowed one by one, stretching like a golden necklace across the water.
Celine sighed, a real, contented sound. “I could get used to this.”
Rhys leaned in and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “It’s yours, if you want it.”
She looked at him, her expression caught somewhere between affection and annoyance. “You’re too good at this.”
“At what?”
