Ignoring Overton, she sat up. They were no longer in the ballroom, surrounded by guests. Her family had whisked her into the drawing room, for which she was grateful, although they’d done it only to minimize the scandal.
But none of that concerned her as much as Rhys’s miraculous appearance.
The three men on the other end of the room hadn’t yet realized that she’d awakened. They were busy bandying forth phrases about “rights” and “betrayal” and “honor,” which gave her a chance to study the husband she hadn’t seen in six years.
Such a long time. Had Rhys really been so tall? Or so handsome? To be sure, his finely tailored clothing made him look more imposing and sophisticated than before, but there was something else, too. Years ago he’d emanated an enticing blend of flame and raw energy, but she could tell by how he parried her brother’s verbal thrusts that the flame and energy had been banked into a furnace that burned even hotter. His obvious control frightened her as his unstudied fervor never had.
And he seemed determined to pick up their lives as if nothing had happened. Her temper flared. Six years without a single letter; no message of any kind to tell her he’d survived the navy. The investigator Darcy had helped her hire had turned up nothing until a year ago, when he’d found a mention of Rhys’s death in a ship’s log.
Yet Rhys had obviously not died. In fact, while she’d struggled to bring Llynwydd into its glory, waiting for him, fearing for him, and finally mourning him, he’d been off somewhere prospering, judging from his fine clothing. And he was obviously here to stay.
I’ve come to reclaim my lands . . . my inheritance . . . and you. I’ve come to take you home.
He meant to continue as if the years of silence were nothing. He wanted to take ownership of the estate she’d nurtured, to benefit from the work she’d performed, when he’d apparently not cared enough even to let her know he was alive.
If he thought she’d simply acquiesce to his plans, he could rot in hell. Six years was a long time to be silent, blast him.
Six years is an eternity, Rhys thought as his attention was caught by a movement on the other end of the room. He turned to see Juliana rise from the settee, her face set stubbornly.
“I’d like to participate in this discussion,” she said in a surprisingly steely voice.
Lord Devon and her brother, the new Earl of Northcliffe, pivoted toward her, breaking off their argument. With everyone’s attention on her, she marched forward.
Despite his attempt to quell it, the vise about Rhys’s chest that had been tightening ever since he’d first seen Juliana this evening became painful. Dressed in a golden satin gown that showed her assets to their best advantage, she’d come down the stairs to that English lord with her face alight, and he’d wanted to roar his protest. That had been a surprise.
He’d expected to feel elation as he’d stood before them and made his announcement, watching Juliana’s face spread o’er with alarm. But he hadn’t expected the hard clutch of memory about his chest.
No matter what he told himself about her character, he couldn’t forget that she was his wife, that those soft, red lips had once parted beneath his kisses.
At twenty-one she’d been pretty, her green eyes bright with the promise of youth and her full figure a lusty young man’s dream. But now . . .
Now she was beautiful. She was damned exquisite, with a lush form and a lovely face. In the years he’d spent wishing he could make her feel a tenth of his tortures, he’d forgotten about the pleasures of her, the way her hair flashed copper in the candlelight, the quick turn of her hand when she spoke.
Tonight he’d had ample time to watch and remember.
Cursing himself for falling once more under her spell, he rubbed the scars on his wrist to remind him of his purpose. “I see my wife has finally chosen to join us.”
“You keep referring to her as your ‘wife,’ ” Northcliffe cut in. “You have no proof of any wedding.”
Under other circumstances, Rhys would have been amused by Northcliffe’s petty attempt to put a good face on things in front of Lord Devon. But he was not amused now. “I suppose a marriage certificate won’t suffice?”
Everyone gave a collective gasp. Except Juliana.
Northcliffe turned on her. “A marriage certificate? Does he have a marriage certificate?”
She nodded stiffly.
Rhys drew it from his pocket and waved it at her. “This should serve to jog your memory about our marriage—the one you conveniently forgot.”
“If I’d wanted to forget our marriage,” she said, her voice full of dignity, “I’d have had it annulled.”
“Not having the marriage certificate might have made that difficult.” Rhys slid the certificate back in his pocket. “And I’m sure my godfather, the bishop, wouldn’t have agreed to such a scheme. So you just waited until he and his wife died. Then there were no more witnesses and no need for an annulment. No need for a public scandal.”
“But there will be an annulment now,” Northcliffe put in.
“Now that you’re acknowledging the marriage?” Rhys quipped, with a knowing glance in Lord Devon’s direction. The man had gone pale.
“Yes,” Northcliffe bit out.
“No. There will be no annulment,” Rhys said savagely.
“Why not?” Juliana asked.
Rhys leveled a withering glance on her. To her credit, although she colored, she didn’t flinch from his gaze.
“Have you forgotten,” he said in a silky voice, “that our marriage was consummated? Or will you pretend it wasn’t?”
“Consummated?” Lord Devon broke in bitterly. “Is that true, Juliana?”
Rhys watched with pleasure as her mouth trembled and her confidence faltered. His puny taunts scarcely repaid her for the loss of his illusions, but they did give him a certain hollow satisfaction.
“You don’t have to answer,” Northcliffe warned.
“But if you don’t,” Rhys told her, “I’ll be forced to give your betrothed a detailed account of our joyous wedding night . . . how you cried out my name as I—”
“That’s enough, Rhys.” Juliana’s face was deathly pale, emphasizing the fragility of her slender throat. Her lovely, silken throat. He cursed inwardly. Why did he notice such things now, knowing what she was?
She turned to her betrothed. “I’m so sorry, Stephen. I never thought this would happen. I thought—”
“Is he telling the truth?” Lord Devon demanded.
“Yes, he is.”
“Oh dear, now you’ve gone and done it! ” exclaimed her mother as she collapsed onto the settee.
Lord Devon looked shattered, the very picture of a cuckolded husband.
Poor sot, Rhys thought. A cuckold and not even married yet. Still, a few weeks more and the marquess would have been full owner of Llynwydd. Rhys’s tone hardened as he faced his wife. “Now that we all agree, there will be no more talk of an annulment.”
“If you’ll both claim that the consummation didn’t take place, we can still have the marriage annulled.” Northcliffe shot an imploring glance at Lord Devon. “Then Juliana could marry his lordship, as planned.”
Lord Devon stiffened. “But I could not marry her.” He turned to Juliana with pity in his eyes. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I have family obligations to consider. And my reputation. You understand, don’t you?”
Juliana nodded, but Rhys could tell she didn’t understand at all. A welter of emotions assailed him: anger at Lord Devon for his callousness, anger at her for caring about the damned marquess, and anger at himself for noticing her reactions at all. This was what he’d wanted—to separate her from her wealthy nobleman, to make her face the consequences of her unthinking actions years ago. He should be delighted that she was hurt!
But when Lord Devon took her hand and she stared up at him with regret, Rhys felt his insides twist.
“If you’d only told me the truth in the first place,” Lord Devon said, “if you hadn’t lied to
me—”
“Lying to you was a necessary part of getting you to marry her, you fool.” Rhys couldn’t keep silent in the face of their obvious feelings for each other.
“Stay out of this, Rhys,” Juliana said. “ ’Tis none of your concern.”
“I hadn’t realized the betrothed takes precedence over the husband,” Rhys snapped.
She flinched, but otherwise ignored him to take Lord Devon’s hands in hers. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Stephen. I believed him dead, or I’d never have allowed you to propose.”
Rhys gritted his teeth. What rot! She’d wanted Rhys out of her life precisely so she could gain a better husband. The little liar.
“And I do understand why you feel you must withdraw your offer.” She gazed up into the marquess’s face with the look that had once entranced Rhys.
It entranced the marquess still, for he said fervently, “Let me know if there’s an annulment, and I’ll speak to my solicitor. Perhaps . . .” He trailed off with a sigh. “I hope you’ll understand if I go now. I can’t bear—” He shot Rhys a hard look. “You must work things out with your husband.”
Releasing her hands, he left the room.
Juliana’s mother, who’d been watching in horrified disbelief, shrieked, “The scandal! The dishonor! Oh, mercy on my life, what shall become of us?”
“Call Elizabeth in here,” Northcliffe urged his brother.
St. Albans went to summon Northcliffe’s wife, who was attempting to get rid of the guests in as subtle a manner as possible. She hurried in to cast her husband a quizzical look.
“Have the guests all gone?” Northcliffe asked her.
“Only the local ones. I couldn’t very well throw out our houseguests. You’ll have to take care of that.”
Northcliffe shot Rhys an angry glance. “I will. Later. For now, take Mother upstairs and stay with her. She can’t handle discussions of this nature.”
With a nod, Lady Northcliffe helped the dowager countess from the room.
Then Northcliffe whirled on Rhys. “You must agree to an annulment. You can’t do this to Juliana.”
Rhys raised an eyebrow. “After what she’s done to me, I’m letting her off easy.”
Juliana whirled to face him. “And what have I done to you that’s so dreadful that you purposely reappear on the eve of my engagement to torment me? To snatch my betrothed from me?”
The surprise in her voice came as a shock. “How dare you act as if you don’t know? How dare you pretend you didn’t collude with your brothers to have me impressed?”
She stared at him, aghast.
That only stoked his anger. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for having second thoughts about our marriage. ’Twas an ill-fated union from the beginning.” His throat tightened. “But then to behave like a coward, instead of telling me . . . to summon your brothers behind my back and bid them to rid you of me—I can’t forgive that. You may have thought you were doing me a favor by saving me from death and letting me be impressed instead, but I nearly died from it anyway.”
Her face had grown bloodless, but he went on relentlessly. “Unfortunately for you, I didn’t. My ship was captured by the Americans after I’d served three miserable years, and they gave me the choice of imprisonment or fighting for freedom with them. I chose to fight. And they rewarded me well. Very well.”
“Which means you were either a privateer or a spy,” Northcliffe interjected, “for ’tis the only way a man gains wealth during a war.”
Rhys’s dark chuckle seemed to disconcert his enemy. “If you think to use any of that against me, think again. Being taken captive by the Americans doesn’t constitute desertion, so you can’t have me hanged. What’s more, the war with the colonies is over, and I took part in negotiating the peace. As a consequence, I’ve made some powerful friends—like the Dukes of Grafton and Rockingham. They’ve assured me that my debt to the nation has been paid.”
He reveled in Northcliffe’s shock. The current leaders in Parliament, Grafton and Rockingham, firmly supported the colonists. Of course, they wouldn’t have countenanced Rhys’s privateering, but Northcliffe needn’t know that. And in truth, they’d listened to Benjamin Franklin when he’d presented Rhys as a model representative of both British and American concerns.
He smiled. The irony of that statement still amused him.
“I don’t understand,” Juliana broke in. “Why on earth would you think I’d summoned my brothers to the inn? Or had you impressed?” Her eyes widened. “Did your years in the navy make you mad?”
How dared she act innocent? “No, the madness was in trusting you. God, I was so enamored of you that it took several floggings for me to accept what you’d done.”
He caught her arm, and she flinched from his touch. Good. Let her fear him. She seemed to understand that better than love. “But after I sent letter after letter and all remained unanswered, I had to accept it was true.”
“What letters?” she demanded.
He ignored her. “I considered never coming back—making a life in America and abandoning any dream of Wales. But once the Duke of Grafton made it possible for me to return without repercussions, I realized I had to, if only to make you face the marriage you ran from by having me impressed.”
“I did not have you impressed. You’ve lost your mind! ”
“Then why are you preparing to marry another, as if our wedding never existed? And not just any man, but a wealthy English marquess—exactly the kind of man your brother said you would find.” His voice turned menacing. “So don’t pretend you had no part in it. The innkeeper at the White Oak confirms what your brother told me six years ago—that you had him send me aboard that ship because you wanted to end our marriage! ”
His voice had risen to a shout, but he didn’t care. He’d waited an eternity to confront her with her act, to watch her tremble as she realized he’d returned to exact vengeance.
And she did tremble, but not with fear. With anger. “My brother! ” Wrenching her arm free, she turned to her brothers. “Which of you told him these lies? Which?”
“Darcy,” St. Albans responded, stepping away as if to give his sister fighting room.
And she looked as if she were spoiling for a fight as she turned on the earl. “Why would you lie to him like that, Darcy?” Her voice seemed to catch, and a look of betrayal spread over her face. “Why?”
Northcliffe shot a quelling glance at his brother. “Now, Juliana, you know you wanted him gone. And when I brought him to the ship, I told him the truth: that you had cold feet about the marriage. I’d have killed him if you hadn’t suggested the impressment, so you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“You had him impressed?” she hissed. “And then you acted as if . . . Oh God, how could you have done that to me? To both of us?”
“Come, love,” he said in a gentle voice. “This pretense is foolish. I know you didn’t want me to tell him the truth back then, but I was so angry about his marrying you for your dowry that I said more than I should have.”
“You told him that I’d sent my own husband off to a terrible fate. How could you speak such lies! ”
“There’s no point in pretending to innocence now, Juliana,” Northcliffe said soothingly. “He knows everything, so we’d best deal with the bastard and see if we can negotiate some arrangement mutually acceptable to us all.”
She looked stunned into silence. Then her eyes narrowed. “What about the letters he speaks of? They came here for me, didn’t they? And you never sent them. And that man who told me Rhys was dead . . . It was all your doing, wasn’t it?”
Northcliffe shrugged. “If that’s the way you want it.” He turned to Rhys and said blandly, “I lied. It was all my doing.”
She trembled, and Rhys tensed against the sympathy that spiraled in his gut. She was merely angry that her brother had told her secrets.
With a wild look in her eyes, she marched over to grasp her brother’s coat. “Tell Rhys the truth.” She shook
him. “How can you lie about me like this?”
Northcliffe pushed her away, no doubt disgusted at his sister’s pretense of innocence.
It ate at Rhys, too, no matter how much he told himself it was an act. “Stop accusing him, Juliana. Yes, Northcliffe handed me over to the press gang, but you were the only one who could have summoned him to the inn that night. No one else knew we were there. And you and Lettice were the only ones who knew that Morgan and I printed those seditious pamphlets, which gave Northcliffe the excuse to have me impressed. Are you going to explain that away, too, in this foolish attempt to save yourself from me?”
She rounded on him, her eyes confused. “I don’t know how they found us. Perhaps from the note—”
“What note?” he said, pouncing on her slip.
Guilt suffused her face. “I left a note that said we’d eloped. But that’s all it said, I swear. I didn’t tell them where we’d gone.”
“As I recall, we’d agreed not to leave any note.”
“I know, but I couldn’t let them worry.”
“So you’re saying that your ‘note’ is how they knew to come to the inn only an hour after we got there?”
“An hour? What are you talking about? They came the next morning and told me—” Suddenly she whirled on her brothers. “You must have come while I was asleep. Is that when you caught him, and told him these terrible lies?”
“Stop it! ” Rhys hissed. “Do you think I’ll believe this invented tale? You might as well give up all hope of that, for the innkeeper says you sent him to get your brothers while you were alone with him, before you and I even made love.”
“Then he lies! ” Desperation was in her voice now.
“The innkeeper lies. Your own brother lies. Even your betrothed has abandoned you, now that he’s seen your true character. So why is everyone lying about you, if you’re so innocent?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice dropped to a pained whisper. “But no matter what they say, I loved you then. I wanted to be your wife. I would never have summoned my brothers.”
He fought the despair that her use of the word “love” in the past tense dredged up. Even knowing her to be a fickle, foolish woman, she could affect him, and that was dangerous. “Someone brought them there at four in the morning, long before anyone would have found your note. And what about the pamphlets? No one knew who printed them but you and Lettice.”
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