Sally glanced at Celine over the edge of the paper, eyes wide.
“Dripping, my lady.”
“Thank you, Sally. Continue.”
“Their prolonged absence upon the terrace did little to quell speculation. It is now universally accepted that the Beast of Berkeley Square has at last been soothed—if not tamed—by his new Countess.”
“Stolen moments were witnessed. A heated embrace reported. Society awaits confirmation of an impending heir with considerable anticipation.”
Celine buried her face in her hands. “Ohwonderful. They have us producing heirs on the terrace.”
Sally cleared her throat delicately. “If I may say so, my lady… you do seem rather pleased.”
Celine lowered her hands. “I am not pleased. I am horrified.”
But she wasn’t horrified.
Not truly.
Something inside her fluttered—embarrassment, yes, but also something warm, and shy, and dangerously close to… joy.
Joy that the world had seen him choose her.
Joy that the world had seen her choose him.
Joy that their intimacy—though yet uncosummanted—had been undeniable.
A discreet knock interrupted her thoughts.
Sally opened the door to reveal Morrison, impeccable as ever, though his composure seemed strained, as if he had been swimming through a sea of gossip since dawn.
“My lady,” Morrison said with a perfectly correct bow, “His Grace requests the pleasure of your company for breakfast.”
Celine blinked. “Breakfast? Of course.”
“It would appear, my lady,” Morrison said carefully, “that His Grace is rather… lost this morning.”
Celine sighed, smoothing her dressing gown. “Thank you, Morrison. I’ll be down shortly.”
“His Grace is in the small breakfast room,” Morrison added. “He chose it for… increased privacy.”
Of course he had.
Celine felt her pulse quicken—not with fear, but with everything unsaid between them.
***
Elias stood when she entered.
He never stood for breakfast.
He didn’t look angry, or anxious, or embarrassed.
He looked…certain.
As if he had made a decision in the night, and only she needed to hear it.
“Good morning,” she said softly.
