“As I said, mayhap he’ll not arrive today as scheduled.”
And then her friend reminded her that it could be worse—a good deal so.
For there could be only one certainty on this bloody terrible day in an otherwise only terrible year.
Mr. Henry Pratt would arrive with his blissful bride in tow.
And when he did, the last place she intended to be was hiding in these rooms.
Bent over the billiards table, with the blessed crack of the cue balls and silence his only company, Rhys positioned his stick for his next shot. He brought his arm back—
The door burst open. “I’ve killed my friend,” his sister Lettice blurted.
The tip of his stick scraped the felt table, and he winced at the effrontery to that fine velvet.
And his solitude, she’d also killed that.
Readjusting his stick, he appraised the table, and slid the cue forward. “Did she deserve killing?”
At her protracted silence, he shot a glance over his arched shoulder.
Lettice tipped her head at a familiarly confused angle. She opened and closed her mouth like a trout in desperate want of water. “Deserve killing? What…? I don’t…? No… She certainly did not… does not—”
He winked once.
Letting out a beleaguered sigh, she shoved the door closed hard behind her, rattling the doorframe. “Blast it, Rhys, this isn’t a time for your droll humor or… or silly games…” She gestured to the billiards table, which he was, he supposed, to take to mean was one of the gentleman’s pursuits his bookish sister took umbrage with.
He smoothed his features. “My apologies,” he said with forced solemnity. He sketched a bow and then returned his attentions to his billiards game of one.
“Regardless of whether or not the lady deserved it, Mother will certainly take umbrage to a murder at her house party.”
“Oh, you,” she muttered, stalking forward. Just as he brought his arm back for his next shot, Lettice gripped the back of his cue and wrestled it from him.
Or attempted to.
He tightened his grip.
She wiggled again.
Rhys held all the tighter.
Lettice withered him with a glare, and Rhys, at last, abandoned his hold.
His youngest sibling stumbled back under the unexpectedness of that surrender. “This is certainly not a teasing matter, Rhys,” she hissed, setting the stick down with a hard thwack. The cue rolled slowly to the edge, paused, and then clattered to the floor. Her voice fell in that exaggerated manner she’d used since she was a girl of four. “I very well might have unintentionally killed my friend.”
Giving the billiards table a longing look, he also surrendered all hopes of a mindless game. With a sigh, he grabbed his half-empty snifter of brandy from the edge of the table. “What is it, Lettie?” he urged, using the nickname he’d called her since she’d entered the world a squalling baby, saddled with an unfortunate name that had never been good enough for her.
“My friend, Alice.”
She lifted her chin.
He shook his head. If he were a better brother, he’d know precisely who the friend whose death his sister might or might not be responsible for, in fact, was.
And yet, he didn’t.
Lettice hurled her hands up. “You are hopeless, Rhys. Hopeless.”
Nay, he was far worse than that. He was a bastard of a brother who, since his parents had neatly and effectively broken his betrothal, had made it a point to take a wide-berth about his late father and still living mother. As such, his relationship with his siblings had been the true victim of his youthful folly. Regret tugged at him. “I am sorry, Lettie,” he said quietly.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not looking for feigned brotherly regret.”
He frowned. It really hadn’t been feigned. It—
“I’m looking for help.”
And given that he’d been a rotter, it was the very least he could do to—
“I need you to go retrieve her.”
He blinked slowly. “What?” he blurted.
“My friend,” she went on in exaggerated tones as though imparting a common fact to a lackwit. “Alice,” she added for good measure.
“Whom you might or might not have killed,” he pointed out.
She skewered him with her gaze. “Hush, Rhys Brookfield. This isn’t a matter to make light of.”
He well knew that. She’d uttered it as much as three times since she’d stormed his sanctuary, stealing his peace. “I was not making light,” he said anyway. “I was—”
“She indicated she wished to leave.”
Clever lady, then. If his sister were truly a friend, she’d let her go and gladly rather than subject the chit to their nasty mama. “And you think she simply up and left without the benefit of a carriage, servant, or company?” he asked dryly.
Lettie gave a grave nod. “I believe that is precisely what she’s done.”
Given her earlier annoyance when he’d been speaking with seriousness about his remorse, it wouldn’t do to point out that this had been one of the times he’d been making light. “I’m sure she did not leave.”
A strong wind howled, as if in concurrence. With the storm quickening and the sun fading from the shorter day sky, the woman would have to be mad to embark into it. Even he wasn’t so despairing of his mother’s miserable company that he’d risk death by freezing.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
His sister clasped her hands to her heart. “You are the very best brother, Rhys,” she gushed. Rising up on her tiptoes, she planted a kiss on his cheek.
He wrinkled his nose. “Hardly.”
“Yes, at best you are a close second behind Miles.” A twinkle lit her eyes, blunting the seriousness of that jibe.
Grabbing his black wool jacket, he shrugged into it. “Tell me about your friend.”
“Alice, Rhys,” she corrected in tried tones that indicated he very well should know the lady. “Her name is Alice,” she repeated, exasperation rich in her voice. And deservedly so. The young woman was his sister’s best friend and Rhys didn’t know her name nor could he identify her from a crowd. Shame reared itself. He’d been a self-absorbed bastard these years. Well, at the very least, he could retrieve the daft girl and bring her back.
Falling into step beside him, they took their leave of the billiards room and started through the halls. Maids and footmen bustled about; their arms laden with everyday décor that was being switched out in favor of vases with ivy and holly. “Well then?” he asked, as they dodged around a crimson clad footman, his face—and path—obscured by the three-foot gold urn overflowing with evergreen branches.
“Well, then, what?” his sister asked, lifting her gaze as they started the climb to his rooms.
“Was it a fight?” At her perplexed look, he clarified. “That sent…” He searched his mind. “Alison—”
“Alice—”
“fleeing,” he finished over her. Rhys winced as she pinched him hard on his forearm.
“What manner of ogress do you take me for? It is nightfall. Of course I did not send my friend fleeing.” She fell silent, and he glanced at her. Lettie worried at her lower lip. “Well, not intentionally,” she said under her breath.
And as she went quiet—again—it occurred to him: she had no intention of telling him precisely why her friend had raced herself off into a storm.
Possibly.
“You are certain she has gone out?” he asked when they’d reached his rooms. Night had fallen, and no sane woman would ever dare venture out in—
Lettie nodded frantically, as always providing a very Lettie-like overabundance of information. “She claimed she had the start of a headache.” It would seem the more and more his sister spoke, the more he found in common with the mysterious Alice. “And so I allowed her some time. But then when I went back a short while later to check after her, there was no answer to my knock.” She spoke so rapidly her words rolled together. �
�So I let myself in and looked through the cracked window—”
His ears pricked up. “The cracked window? Oomph.” He winced as she pinched him again.
“Do pay attention.”
Grunting, he rubbed at his arm. “I should point out I was paying attention, and merely remarked upon—”
She silenced him with a glare that their shrew of a mother would be hard pressed to emulate.
“As I was saying, as I looked out, I caught sight of her cloak, disappearing into The Copse.”
The Copse.
Those towering oaks and the heavy brush had long provided a shelter for the most mischievous of the Brookfields who’d been escaping whatever infernal affair their parents had been hosting. And even the troublesome Brookfields had never ventured out into a raging storm at nightfall.
Rhys shoved his door open.
“Rhys?” she called after him, in panicky tones. “You are going to retrieve her.”
“I’ll retrieve your blasted,” empty-headed, “friend.” Clever and spirited, his sister had never been one to keep company with witless misses.
She flashed a wide smile. “You are truly the best brother,” she assured. “Even better than Miles.”
And so it was, a short while later, his cloak draped over his shoulders, gloves in place, and black Oxonian hat pulled far forward, that Rhys slipped from his family’s stone manor, and out into the blasted storm, to find the bothersome Lady Alice.
Chapter 4
How long did it take for a person to freeze to death?
Surely a pelisse, velvet lined cloak, and leather gloves all delayed the process.
Or rather, her now damp leather gloves, that was.
Flakes of snow falling about, Alice beat her hands together.
Alas, after an endless swirl of time outside the Marquess of Guilford’s grounds, she’d lost all chance to die with a proper answer to that question.
Her teeth chattered loudly. Not that she had any intention of dying out here.
And certainly not for him… the bastard.
From her position within the marquess’ copse, Alice squinted into the distance as another black conveyance rumbled forward, the crest impossible to make out as anything more than a blur of gold emblazoned upon the door.
“Bl-black a-and g-gold,” her muttering sounded inordinately loud in the winter still, and she immediately pressed her numbed lips tightly together. Yet another exactly-the-same color conveyance to amble up to the marquess’ drive. Could nobody drive in anything different? Pink, pale blue, violet? Must all the carriages be the blasted same?
Her nose dripped, and she absently brushed the moisture back, all her attention trained forward on that exactly-the-same conveyance of another guest just arriving for the holiday festivities. She stood there, motionless. The only hints of movement were the small tufts of white air escaping her lips.
Servants rushed about and then the door was opened.
Alice’s heart threatened to beat a path outside her ribcage as the liveried footman reached up.
She perched forward on the balls of her feet. She was poised to flee, but needed to stay, just as confounded as she’d been since she’d discovered who would be spending the holiday season with her.
Nay, not her.
Such implied that Henry Pratt was something to her. When he wasn’t. He was nothing more than a former betrothed, who belonged in name, body, and soul to another.
A familiar jolt of anger went through her and she embraced it. How much safer the outrage was than the pitiful sorrow that had gripped her for too long.
Would you get out of the blasted carriage, already?
After an endless stretch of time, with the help of a footman, the figure descended.
She groaned.
Lady Lovell.
One of Society’s leading hostesses and also one of the most vicious gossips.
And here, she’d been so naïve as to believe the “looks” were far worse than anything else, only to be proven so blasted wrong. Alice pressed herself against the oak and knocked the back of her head against the jagged trunk. Fool. Fool. Fool—
A blanket of snow tumbled onto the brim of her bonnet, slamming into her shoulders. She gasped at the biting sting of it. Sputtering around a mouthful, she wiped an already hopelessly sopping glove over her face.
Alice whipped her head back with such force that her bonnet blew back, and she looked up.
The limbs overhead dipped under the weight of the snow, but for one now barren branch. She glared. A barren branch whose burden now rested on her bloody freezing person, and about her equally freezing feet.
Bloody hell. Yanking the strings free of her bonnet, she ripped it off and beat the snowy brim against her leg.
Could this day possibly be any—?
The slow rattle marking the arrival of another carriage, ripped across her useless self-pitying.
Alice froze; her teeth chattering uncontrollably providing the only slight movement. “Worse,” she whispered. For she knew as she peeked out from her hiding place and spotted a pink carriage; that nauseatingly cheerful conveyance a vivid contrast to those elegant, black lacquer coaches.
Just as she knew with the same inexplicable intuition the day Henry Pratt’s letter had arrived, breaking off their betrothal.
Still, as the carriage stopped and servants rushed about, one of the occupants stepped out. The sight that met her knocked the breath from her lungs.
With the aid of a servant, a bespectacled Henry descended. A black Oxonian perched atop his head gave him a boyish look—a boy playing with his father’s regalia, when he’d never worn hats.
She cocked her head. He hadn’t. Hadn’t he? It was a silly thing to note as his young bride was handed down from the carriage and slipped her hand into his arm. Tall, statuesque, and in possession of midnight curls, she’d the look of a foreign princess.
Unlike Alice who’d been cursed with the same insignificant blonde hair as every bloody miss in England.
Just then, fate proved her hatred for Alice once more.
A gust of wind yanked at her red velvet cloak and set it whipping in the breeze.
Henry glanced over… at her thinly concealed hiding place.
Their eyes locked.
Heart racing, she dropped to her stomach, behind a slight drift.
Bloody, bloody hell.
The cold, damp snow instantly penetrated her garments and a painful hiss slipped from her lips. She welcomed the stinging pain of it to the humiliation at being caught gawking.
Alice burrowed deep inside the folds of her wet cloak, again motionless on the ground. Frozen. Concentrating on the little puffs of white air blowing from her mouth with her every breath, Alice leveled herself up on her elbows. The iced snow crunched noisily under that slight depression as she stole a glance from her hiding place.
The gentleman with blindingly bright blond hair, alongside the Spartan-like beauty, climbed the steps of the marquess’ family’s estate. Free to study them unobserved, Alice stared blankly after them.
Flipping onto her back, Alice stared through the snow-covered limbs to the grey sky threatening more snow. Her lips chattered noisily in the winter quiet. She’d always loved the winter. One of the only benefits to having grown up a child without a mother, and an indifferent (now dead) father and previously hardhearted brother, was the freedom it had permitted. How many times she’d ambled through the snow-clogged hills of the English countryside, making snow angels and engaging in snowball fights with an imagined foe.
As much as she’d long loved the cold and snow, with it now soaking through her garments, she’d a newfound un-appreciation for the stuff.
A sharp gust of wind rippled over the countryside and set the branches swaying overhead. She glanced up and grunted, rolling out of the way as snow tumbled from overhead. It landed with a noiseless thump beside her. Picking her head up, she glowered at the now sloppy blanket of white. “Bloody hell,” she hissed in the quiet. “Th-that
is b-bloody f-freezing.”
Raising shaking glove-encased fingers, she brushed the dampness from her numbed cheeks and nose.
Another gust of wind rolled through the countryside. Alice ducked out of the way as another batch of snow tumbled from the branches and landed with a wet thump in the drift.
Her numb lips turned up in a smile, just imagining the eulogy that would be delivered.
Poor Alice Winterbourne, died as she lived, unwed, surrounded by her former betrothed, who’d invariably chosen to make another woman his bride.
***Note, the bride was stunning in a masterful pink creation by Madam Lisette’s.
Chapter 5
How long did it take for a person to freeze to death?
Snow swirling about him, Rhys rubbed his glove-encased hands together in a bid to bring warmth into his chilled fingers.
He squinted, staring hard at The Copse where the lady had previously stood.
She’d flopped onto her back. His near frozen fingers awkward, he fished around for his timepiece, consulting it—nearly five minutes ago.
Though, if one wished to be more precise, the better question to be asked was how long would a lady stay hidden, before she allowed herself to freeze to death?
At first, curiosity had impelled the silent question from Rhys.
Then genuine awe.
And now concern.
Mayhap she’d already frozen.
If Lettice had been displeased before, she’d see him for pistols at dawn if he failed to return with her friend in tow—still alive. And though it wouldn’t matter to most bachelors who made it a point to avoid familial obligations, he rather liked his sister. Clever, loyal, and not afraid to go toe-to-toe with their mother, any such person was deserving of loyalty, regardless of blood connection.
Nonetheless, he quietly cursed whatever squabble between Lettie and her mad friend had sent him out into the damned cold.
With the latest carriage of guests to arrive now unloading, Rhys started across the grounds.
After all, he was a rogue, but he wasn’t a total bastard. Empty-headed miss or not, he wasn’t one to leave a lady outside in the dead of winter.
To Tempt a Scoundrel (The Heart of a Duke Book 15) Page 3