“Good morning,” he echoed—steady, purposeful.
He gestured for her to sit. She did. He resumed his place across from her, though he didn’t reach for the coffee the footman had poured.
Instead, he nudged the morning paper toward her with two fingers.
“Have you seen it?” he asked, perfectly mild.
“Yes. Sally brought it in.”
“Good.” He folded his hands. “I simply wanted this tended to before we speak of… other matters. Did you read the others?”
“I assume they’re all calling me a shameless creature and you a besotted fool.”
“More or less,” he said calmly. “Some variation oftamed beast,quarrelsome bride,impropriety,rapturous devotion,andinexplicable marital enthusiasm.”
She laughed. “We did dance four times.”
“We did,” he agreed.
Celine met his eyes directly. “The gossip doesn’t trouble me.”
“Nor me,” he said. No hesitation, no bravado—just truth. “Scandal is the least interesting part of last night.”
“Agreed.”
A quiet moment stretched between them—comfortable, intimate, charged.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Celine… the papers are merely stating the obvious.”
“And the obvious is?”
“That we are no longer pretending restraint.”
Her breath hitched—but she didn’t look away. “We haven’t been restrained for weeks.”
“No,” he said. “But until last night, I didn’t realise how…inevitablewe’ve become. Not because of attraction. That was always there.” He paused. “But because somewhere along the way, you stopped being part of the performance.”
“And you,” she said quietly, “stopped being untouchable.”
His eyes softened—a rare, unguarded expression. “Did I?”
“Yes.”
Elias inhaled slowly, deeply, as though steadying something too precious to mishandle.
When he spoke again, his voice held an intimacy that seemed to warm the air itself.
“I asked you here because I wanted to know… if you regret anything about last night.”
Celine’s lips curved. “Not one moment.”
He shut his eyes briefly, the relief subtle but undeniable.
When he opened them again, he looked at her the way he had looked on the terrace—reverent, consuming, almost disbelieving.
“And the paper’s… enthusiasm?” he asked wryly.
She waved a hand. “Let them write what they please. They merely saw what we allowed them to see.”
