“Making me feel alive,” she said.
He swallowed. The words hit him with a force he hadn’t expected.
He wondered, as he always did, if this was how it started for his mother—if it was this kind of happiness, this delicate hope, that made the fall so terrible. He remembered his father’s words, the echo of old rage and disappointment, the warning never to get too close.
He shoved it down. He would be damned if he became that man.
“Wasn’t that the next item on your list?” he asked, his voice lighter than he felt. “Feel alive?”
She smiled. “You remembered.”
He nodded. “I remember everything you say.”
She fell quiet again, and he could see the thought bouncing around in her mind, tight and fast. He reached for her hand, found it cold and delicate, and held it between both of his.
“Do you ever wish it was different?” she asked, not looking at him. “That we’d met as ordinary people, instead of all this?”
He considered. “Maybe. But ordinary people don’t get to swim in the Serpentine at twilight. Or cause scandal in every ballroom from here to Vienna.”
She laughed, bright and sudden. “Is that how you see us?”
He looked at her,reallylooked, and wondered how he had ever thought she was ordinary.
“I see you,” he said, the words escaping before he could stop them. “And it terrifies me.”
She blinked, startled. “Why?”
He squeezed her hand. “Because if I ruin it, there’s nothing left.”
They sat with that for a while, letting the evening close around them like a shroud.
Eventually, she said, “You couldn’t ruin it if you tried.”
He considered telling her otherwise, but the sight of her in the moonlight, fierce and fragile and alive, undid him.
“Let’s go home,” he murmured, standing up and offering his arm. “Before you freeze.”
She accepted it, and together they retraced their steps to the horse. He boosted her into the saddle, relishing the indignant sound she made, and climbed up behind her.
The ride back through the empty streets was quiet. She leaned against him, and he rested his chin atop her head, breathing in the scent of river and rain and something uniquely hers.
She didn’t speak, but he felt her relax, her body fitting against his like a memory he had always carried.
At the townhouse, he dismounted first, helped her down, and then wrapped his arms around her, coat and all.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.
“For what?”
Celine considered, then shook her head. “Just thank you.”
He held her there, unwilling to let go, even when the chill began to seep into his bones. He thought of her list, the promise he’d made to help her live every line.
Rhys wondered what else he could give her. Then, like a spark in the darkness, an idea formed. He smiled into her hair.
He would do it. For her, he would do anything.
Chapter Twenty-Five
