“Ten days,” he said roughly.
“Nine days, eighteen hours.”
“Your selective precision is going to kill us both.”
“Or save us.”
He advanced until the desk pressed into her hips. “How could counting possibly save anything?”
“It reminds us this—” she gestured lightly between them “—has an end. That we’re surviving a temporary torment.”
“Is it temporary?” he asked quietly. “What happens after the days pass? Do you imagine this feeling simply… evaporates?”
“No.” Her throat tightened. “I think it gets worse.”
“Or better.”
“In our case, that may be the same thing.”
He braced his hands on either side of her on the desk, caging her without touching her. “You’re probably right.”
“I usually am.”
“Modest, too.”
“I learned from you.”
“You drive me slowly insane.”
“That’s a skill in itself,” she said lightly.
He leaned in until she could feel his breath stir a tendril of hair. “Nine days, eighteen hours.”
“And counting.”
“Always counting.”
A knock shattered the moment. Morrison’s voice followed: “The modiste has arrived with Lady Rothwest’s ball gown, Your Grace.”
The Duke stepped back instantly, composure sliding back into place like a mask.
“Send her up,” he said.
Celine moved toward the door, pausing beside him. “Will you come approve it?”
“That would be inappropriate.”
“Since when has that stopped you?”
He made that sound again—half groan, half laugh, wholly undone. “Go. Before I forget every good reason for waiting.”
***
The ball gown was breathtaking. Deep burgundy silk that shimmered like wine in candlelight, gold embroidery catching the eye without ostentation. Daring, but impeccable. The modiste fussed with the hem.
“His Grace has impeccable taste,” she said.
“He chose this?”
