Vicky looked at her as if she feared for her sanity before glancing out the window. “Well, the sun is out today.”
“I think I might need some air.”
“We were just outside,” Victoria protested.
“I think I saw a few roses you hadn’t yet butchered.”
Victoria gave her a dark look. “You are a very cruel woman.”
But Victoria hastily went outside to inspect her work anyway before deciding that the roses weren’t, indeed, mangled enough.
One day later
Throwing a nervous glance at the haughty butler named Grayson, Dani raised her fist to the solid oak door of Rhys’s study and knocked.
No answer.
She gave him a questioning look and the butler shrugged. “I told you,” he said again, “he hasn’t come out of there for two days.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she sniffed pertly. “Why ever not?”
The arrogant man raised a brow at her. “We were hoping that you might be able to provide a believable explanation. The last time he locked himself up like this was after the accident.”
“I am hardly to blame for this!” Dani hissed. “I have been the epitome of kindness. That man has been an utter cad.” She crossed her arms petulantly and began to tap her foot. “Really now, he has to come out to eat.”
Grayson shook his head. “He’s locked himself alone with the liquor, Miss Carmichael. No doubt I’ll have to replenish the stock when this madness comes to an end.”
Dani rolled her eyes to the ceiling, silently praying for divine intervention and patience, both with the amazingly annoying man beside her and the one barricaded within his study. “Have you even tried to get him to come out?” she asked dryly.
“Of course.” Grayson looked affronted. “Unlike some, Lord Ashcroft is a violent drunk. God knows what he has done to some of the furniture already, but I shan’t enjoy cleaning it up after him.”
Dani could have happily kicked him. “Oh, just go away. I’ll take care of this. Ensure a tray of food is brought to his private chambers,” she instructed impatiently.
Grayson looked as if he was about to refuse but after a moment he turned on his heel and disappeared down the cold, dark passage.
Dani watched him go before turning back to the door of the study. “Rhys?” she called, softly at first, and when it became evident that he held no intention of responding, she tried again in an even louder voice. “Rhys Ashcroft, do you hear me?”
Nothing.
“Open this door, Rhys!”
Not a peep.
“I swear to God, if you don’t open this door this instant I’ll-I’ll shoot you with a pistol.”
Heavy, impenetrable silence.
Frustrated, she sighed. “I mean it, Rhys. I’ll shoot you. My father taught me how to shoot a pistol before he died. I can. Well, I may not be able to aim very well, but I’m sure I’ll be close enough to you not to miss.”
The door swung open and strong, putrid fumes of brandy slammed into her face, making her cringe.
“You,” Rhys slurred from the shadows, “are adorablesh.”
“Rhys,” Dani hedged tentatively as she stepped into the chamber. It was dark and rank and the heavy drapes hung closed over the only windows in the room. She sought him out in the shadows and found him skulking by a cabinet next to his desk, clumsily pouring himself another drink. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Close-“ he hiccupped “-the door.”
She did so reluctantly and what little light there was left faded into darkness. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust and when they did she could only make out dark shapes and forms. She could, however, discern enough to see that even in darkness, he wore that encompassing cloak. “Rhys,” she began gently, coaxingly, “why don’t we go upstairs? Val’s prepared a nice tray of food-”
“That’s a good idea. Upshtairs… with you.” He punctuated his statement with a burp.
“You’re drunk.”
“Observant as ushual, Missh Car- Carmichael.” He began to sway and lurch towards her and Dani felt anxiety settle over her skin.
“Rhys, you should really lie down, sleep it off, then we can talk.”
“Don’t want to talk,” he growled, advancing on her with drunken, predatory intent. His drink sloshed over the rim of his glass and splashed against the floor.
Dani took a step backwards, then another and another, retreating until her back thumped against a shelf of some sort. He followed her step for step until he was within an inch from her, the alcohol on his breath nearly suffocating her with its potency. “Don’t do this,” she whispered, trapped. “I came here to talk to you. You don’t want to hurt me. I know you don’t.”
His arm snaked out and balanced on a shelf beside her head, effectively cutting off escape from that direction. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he agreed hoarsely. “Lord, no. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Strangely touched by the soft meaningfulness of his voice, Dani gently laid a hand on his arm. “Let me help you upstairs,” she urged softly. “We can speak about this later.”
A weary groan came from the depths of the hood and he suddenly leaned close, burying his face in her neck and… sniffing? “Rhys!” Dani exclaimed, shocked and embarrassed. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve missed the smell of you,” he mumbled unrepentantly from her neck before lurching back, stumbling away from her and throwing his arms out, the forgotten glass crashing to the floor in the process. “Take me to bed, Miss Carmichael,” he declared loudly and humorously.
Dani felt her face burst into flame with heat. “You are an imbecile,” she told him flatly. “But I don’t see why I would have to complete the task when you are perfectly capable of walking yourself-” While she had been talking, he had begun to swivel on his feet and walk towards the door, only forgetting after he had solidly collided with it that he had ordered it to be closed. Dani sighed.
“Omf.”
She quickly walked over to him. “Here, let me,” she said patiently, ducking under the heaviest arm she had ever had over her shoulders.
“I think I need another drink,” he grumbled sourly, rubbing the area of his face that had collided with the wood of the door. Dani suspected it had been his nose.
“Trust me, that’s the last thing you need.”
“Bloody woman.”
Drunkenly, they managed to open his door and weave unsteadily down the passage towards the staircase that would lead to his private wing, stumbling into many walls and tapestries as they went. His weight was cumbersome and attempting to shoulder it all would be sheer folly on her part. Besides, she was reliant on him to locate his chambers as she had never ventured this far into the castle before.
If walking straight down a corridor was problematic, then tackling the stairs was catastrophic. He lurched into her, sending her crashing into the railings and the walls. Dani knew her back would ache later for her exertions but that was a problem she resolved to deal with later. Right now, it was imperative that the man hanging onto her shoulders sleep off this state of inebriety.
After what seemed too long by all accounts, they managed to heave into his chambers and he collapsed face first onto his enormous bed. Even his chambers were dark, Dani reflected as she took in the dark linen and draping. It suited him.
Spotting the tray of food left on a table beside the door, Dani brought it over to the side of his bed and perched on the edge with the tray in her lap. “Maybe you should eat something,” she told him softly.
“Mmm,” he mumbled, his face buried against the thick coverlet and the hood of the cloak covering everything else. “You’re so lovely.” Said drunkenly and sleepily, Dani refused to allow herself to put too much credibility in his words. “So… lovely. You know, I really love freckles.”
“Ssh,” Dani urged. “Let’s try eat, hmm?”
A resounding snore was her answer.
She set the tray aside and stood up quietly,
turning around to study the comatose figure in the bed. It would be so easy to pull away the hood and study the face beneath. She already knew from the night of the masquerade that even with the mask on Rhys Ashcroft was beautiful to behold. What could he want to hide so much?
But she sighed, already knowing that she could not, would not, push his hood back. She wanted him to willingly and trustfully reveal himself to her. Only then would she be satisfied. Only then would she know that she could trust him to be only himself, all of himself, with her. She couldn’t settle for anything less. On top of that, she hadn’t quite yet forgiven him for his subterfuge at the masquerade. She needed to speak to him about that, which was her primary concern for coming here today, but clearly she would not be able to get anything coherent out of him until tomorrow. She made a mental note to inform Grayson to lock that infernal liquor cabinet and hide the key just to ensure that Rhys remained sober long enough.
“I should just wash my hands of you,” she told the snoring lump on the bed sternly but then a soft smile touched her lips and she nearly whispered, “but, Lord help me, I can’t.”
Benignly, she left his chamber, closing the door behind her, and resolved to return the following day. She marvelled at her surprisingly good mood, something she’d been bereft of ever since the masquerade. Even if the visit with him was short and incoherent, just seeing him again filled her with contentment. It was strange, that. How could one person be the sole cause of your distress and happiness at the same time?
Back inside the chamber, Rhys pushed back his hood and watched her receding figure. He admired the graceful sway of her full hips under a heavy black skirt. Black… he would love to see her in any other colour. Bright colours, soft colours… anything but black.
Her words swimming through his hazy mind, Rhys caught himself smiling before drifting off into a dreamless sleep, his last thoughts of a woman with endearing freckles telling him that she would shoot him with a pistol if he didn’t open a door.
Chapter 12
Patricia Pennyworth went about her usual morning routine with fastidious propensity. From a reasonable hour, say about eleven-ish, she would deem it acceptable to arise from her comfortable bed, after which a lengthy toilette would ensue with the aid of not one but two maids. Hereby she would perfect the art of reprimanding said maids for lacking the ability to perfect the most complicated of tasks.
Her hair, for example, was in dire need of a wash. Being a woman with set traditions and customs her great-great-great grandmother used to follow, Patricia did not believe that washing one’s hair during the colder months was conducive to one’s health. As a result, the mousey locks were coated in grease and nigh impossible to fix into some semblance of prettiness or curl.
Naturally, she was not to blame. It was the ineptitude of her maids where the problem lay. So she docked their pay.
By the time she descended the stairs for breakfast, it was nearly noon.
Here, a hearty breakfast would follow, complete with London’s society papers and her latest correspondence.
Patricia would first make a grab for the society papers, eager to devour the gossip that therein lay. Having squandered most of her inheritance left to her by her late husband (a paltry sum as it were seeing as Lord Philips was a notorious gambler and rather poor at that to boot), she realised that she would have to marry again soon and marry rich. She was living well above her means. In actuality, she was almost destitute. However, Patricia felt that it would be too humiliating for a woman of her standards to accept anything less that absolute superiority. She would never be made a pauper.
She flipped open the paper to the gossip column, her eyes scanning through the jumble of names for some hint that someone, preferably old and disgustingly wealthy, was looking for a wife. Amid stories and rumours of a more scandalous nature, her eyes skidded to a halt on a name she never thought she would see again.
Lord Rhys Ashcroft, Earl of Falmouth.
Her fork clattered against her plate noisily.
Brusquely, she gestured for the unfinished meal to be taken away. That was indeed a rare occurrence for Patricia Pennyworth and she ignored the startled looks from the servants.
Lord Rhys Ashcroft, Earl of Falmouth, made a rare appearance at the Worthwell Masquerade. Why his sudden re-emergence into society now is cause for speculation, but some have it on good authority that it was because of a girl that His Lordship chose to appraise of his exclusivity. Could it be that this society will hear wedding bells for the once- thought- of- as- deceased earl and his unidentified miss?
Involuntarily, Patricia’s fingers flexed around the offending article, completely ruining the paper it was printed on. A rage unlike anything she had ever experienced began to boil under her skin. Her face burned and contorted, hatred for the man who had once spurned her filled her with an intensity that threatened to choke her.
Screeching like a harpy, she snatched her teacup and threw it viciously at a passing servant. The poor lad had to dive for cover before the porcelain shattered above his head, staining the wall with brownish liquid. Hurriedly, he vacated the room, along with several others who bore witness to the start of their mistress’s tantrum.
Blood-curdling screams and vehemently shrill curses followed for about half an hour, enunciated with the reverberating shatter of crockery meeting the walls.
The servants waited anxiously outside the dining room, anticipating their mistress’s anger to transfer to the abuse of one of them. When Patricia did emerge, it was only to bark a sharp order to one of the footman before she disappeared into her chambers.
“Ready the carriage. We leave for Cornwall within the hour!”
Rhys woke up with a vile headache.
A two-day drinking binge would do that to you. No, wait. Was it three days? His head hurt too much to think about it.
It was a chore to drag his body out of bed, let alone dress himself. Well, shed the clothes he’d lived in for the past few days and don new, fresh ones. His mouth, he reflected, felt as if some small rodent had made a nest in it.
His stomach made a disparaging sound of neglect and Rhys realised he’d hardly touched food for two days. That alone would contribute to the putrid way he was feeling this morning. Val would ensure that the problem be fixed immediately. All he would have to do is amble down to the kitchens- ugh. Any form of movement, even the thought of it, felt as if a mammoth hammer were colliding with his skull.
Gritting his teeth, he managed to shuffle to the door of his chambers and slowly wind his way downstairs.
Val was cleaning various pots and pans when he reached the kitchens. She glanced up at him and gave him a warm smile. “Breakfast is served in the dining room this morn, my lord,” she told him cheerfully.
“Uh…”
“The little miss said you’d be needing something fulfilling this morning, so put out your favourite things, I did.”
“Danielle?” God, he was inarticulate this morning.
“That’s the one.” Val paused from her spirited scrubbing and gave him a thoughtful look. “She’s waiting for you. In the dining room.”
He didn’t thank or wait for anything else from his cook. Rhys found his legs carrying him to the dining room with a speed he hadn’t thought himself capable of this morning. He skidded to a halt on the threshold of the stately, high-ceilinged room, his eyes finding her almost instinctively, thirsty for the sight of her.
Having located a golden beam of sunlight that streamed in from the high windows, Dani had placed herself directly in its path at the table. She was slightly turned to him, providing him a good view of her profile, while she read a book that she had no doubt pillaged from his dusty library. The sunlight caught and glistened in her hair, warmed the back of her long neck that was tilted slightly towards the book. At that moment, she presented the perfect picture. If he could, he would have it made into a portrait. He stood still, marvelling at her beauty and innocence and softness.
Realising that he was holdi
ng his breath, he expelled it slowly, reverently.
She caught the sound and looked up at him, throwing him a sunny smile and his gut clenched.
“Hello,” Dani said warmly. “There’s coffee on the mantel. I tried to get Grayson to serve it but the ornery man would hear nothing of it.”
“What does your aunt think of you disappearing so often to this castle?” he blurted, acutely aware of their intimate situation and the consequences that could follow should anyone find out about it. In long strides, he reached the mantel and poured himself some coffee.
Dani shrugged offhandedly. “Breakfast with friends,” she supplied. “Adequate chaperones. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. You’re not going to be forced to marry me, Rhys.”
He snorted, inhaling the welcoming scent of the brew wafting towards his face. Admiringly, he took an appreciative sip before gulping down the rest and pouring another, finally placing himself at the head of the table, Danielle on his left. Extraordinarily, the thought of marrying her didn’t send waves of unease coursing through him as it used to. Still, that didn’t mean he had any right to her. He should still endeavour to ward her off. “I thought I told you not to come here,” he said with a half-hearted attempt at being hostile. He blamed his compliance with her presence and on the hangover.
“I told you that I wouldn’t listen,” she returned with a smile. “I thought that a few days of absence would make you grow fonder of me. I’m told that it almost killed you, instead.”
He grunted dismissively. “Hardly.”
“The amount of liquor you consumed could fell an ox.”
“Don’t be absurd. And who said you were the cause that?”
She looked at him challengingly, delicate brow raised and those knowing blue eyes intent on the shadows that covered his face. “Was I not?” she asked in a feignedly sweet voice.
“No,” Rhys grumbled. He would never admit to it. Never. He’d take this little secret with him to the grave. Lord knew she already had far too much power over him as it is.
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