“Celine. I—” He broke off, furrowing his brow. “You’re leaving.”
“Isn’t it customary to depart after a soiree?” Her voice was ironed perfectly flat, just loud enough to reach his ears.
He stepped forward, and the footman shrank against the wall, clutching the valise as if it contained state secrets.
Rhys raked a hand through his hair. “I was delayed.” His gaze, always uncomfortably direct, searched her face for clues. “I meant to meet you at the ball.”
“You missed a rather splendid ball,” she said, her voice glacial. “I managed to avoid a scandal.”
His mouth twisted into a grimace
Celine ignored that. “Is it true?”
He blinked. “Is what true?”
“That you married me to spite your dead father.”
Rhys’s entire body seemed to contract around the words. For a moment, he was utterly silent. Then, he said, “I see the rumor mill is as efficient as ever.”
She held his gaze, her chin jutted. “Rumors usually begin with a seed of truth, Rhys. Did you choose me because you knew I would be an embarrassment to the title? Or because your father despised my family so much that you thought this union would ensure he turned in his grave?”
He stepped closer, his voice low and tight. “That isn’t?—”
“Because it was rather illuminating to hear three members of Parliament agree that the only reason you married at all was to ensure the line ended with you. And that by choosing me, you could guarantee your father would be as wretched in death as he was in life.”
She let each word fall with the clarity of a cut crystal glass shattering on stone.
Rhys opened his mouth, then closed it. For the first time since she’d met him, he looked utterly unmoored.
“Celine. I—” He reached for her, but she took a step back, just enough to make the distance explicit.
She smoothed the front of her cloak. “Is it true?”
He squared his shoulders. “It may have started that way, but it isn’t what you think.” He seemed to struggle with his words. “You are not an embarrassment. You are—” He paused, his eyes imploring. “You are remarkable.”
She arched a brow. “Is that why you encouraged my every eccentricity? My reading, my perfume, my ridiculous lists? Was it all to ensure I would be the worst Duchess Wylds has ever seen?”
His jaw tightened. “No, I wanted you to be yourself.”
She nodded, as if confirming a theory. “So you could prove to him, to the world, that you were not your father’s son.”
Rhys reached for her again, more desperate this time. “You are nothing like what they say. You are?—”
She raised a gloved hand, cutting him off. “I don’t want your flattery, Rhys. Not now.”
He stopped, his hand hanging awkwardly between them.
She studied him, taking in the lines of his face, the rawness around his mouth, the tell-tale white at his knuckles. There was no pleasure in seeing him hurt, but there was relief—a cold, perfect relief—that she’d finally made him show it.
She inhaled, long and steady. “I am leaving for my father’s house. I will send word if and when I plan to return.”
Rhys moved, as if to block the door. “You can’t just leave.”
“I believe I just did.”
He looked away, his shoulders rigid. “What do you want from me, Celine?”
She considered, then shook her head. “Nothing. I only wanted the truth.”
