Babington blanched and shook his head frantically, his gaze all over the room.
Rhys added a heap of kidneys to his full dish, and then slapped the servant on the back. “No worries, my good man. Nor would you find yourself turned off if you were because of me.”
The servant emitted a strangled sound, pointing a finger weakly beyond Rhys’ shoulder.
He froze. Oh, bloody hell.
Babington winced, and gave a confirming nod.
“A lady?” he mouthed.
“A lady, my lord,” the pained footman confirmed in like silence.
Bloody, bloody hell. Which guest would arise at this ungodly hour? Other than his mother to chastise and threaten him, of course. “My sister?” he ventured hopefully, still continuing their noiseless discourse.
The footman gave his head a regretful shake.
Shocking and scandalizing Polite Society was certainly not new for him, but even he drew the proverbial line at crass talk in the presence of respectable ladies.
Plate in hand, Rhys wheeled about slowly and faced the latest scandalized guest.
Of course.
Alice lifted her fingers in an insolent little waggle; her expression impressively deadpan.
Rhys unleashed a stream of curses in his head.
He should expect that a young woman who’d gone dashing about in a snowstorm would rise before the sun.
Rhys searched for the horrified shock and outrage over his ribbing with the footman. Instead, a wholly unaffected Alice popped a piece of plum cake into her mouth.
“Is it too much to hope you did not hear all that?” he called from the sideboard.
The young lady swallowed and then dabbed at her lips. “Which part? Your pardoning Mr. Babington’s yawn?” A sparkle glinted in the troublesome minx’s eyes. “Or your kindly overlooking any morning tupping he’d been doing?”
Babington dissolved into a fit of choking.
And Rhys, one of Society’s most outrageous rogues responsible for blushing matrons, misses, and wicked wantons all over London, found his neck burning with color.
“Worry, not.” Her eyes danced with mischief. “I’ve never been accused of being a proper miss.” The young lady dismissively, grabbed a small—unnoticed until now—leather book propped open beside her plate and dedicated all her attentions to it.
His ears pricked up. “Oh?” Rhys was an excellent reader on those wicked ladies who were fair game and those virtuous ones to be avoided at all proverbial costs. He’d not been wrong before, but neither was he at all disappointed if the spitfire before him was, in fact—
“My brother is a rake,” she said simply, the way she might have said she preferred the sugared pastries to the non-powdered treats.
“Ah,” he was unable to keep the regret from tinging that utterance. Because really, what was a gent to say to that?
Alice scrunched her nose up, seeming content to carry on the conversation without further contribution from him beyond that one syllable utterance. “Or rather, he was a rake. He is—” She paused, sadness filling her revealing eyes. “Married. He is married,” she softly amended.
And just like that, the teasing, mischievous lady of moments ago went dark, replaced once again with this solemn, downtrodden miss.
Drawn to the table, he abandoned his usual chair in favor of the one beside the young lady. Rhys waved Babington off, and claimed the high-back velvet upholstered dining chair. “Am I to take it you dislike said wife?” There could have been no missing her outward reaction, and one so visceral, at that. “What is it? Does she take umbrage to your being underfoot?”
“Underfoot?” she blurted like he’d gone mad. And mayhap he had. For what else was to account for sitting beside his sister’s innocent friend, a respectable lady, and engaging her about her family. “No. I quite love my sister-in-law.”
“Of course,” he said slowly, as though he saw the reason for her effrontery. When in truth, he saw not an ounce of logic to, of, or about Lady Alice Winterbourne.
Giving her head another dismissive shake, she resumed her reading.
Yet—he drummed his fingertips upon the arm of his chair—she was not aggrieved over her brother’s choice in bride, so what accounted for the downward tilt to her lips. Rosebud flesh that had far better uses and purposes than heart-rending frowns.
It hardly mattered whether she was sad. Or angry… or anything. She was nothing more than a stranger—albeit, Lettie’s friend. That was, of course, what accounted for the need to chase back that melancholy and replace it with the earlier deviltry he’d spied from her.
“So you heard all of my exchange with Babington,” he prodded, settling into his seat. A real gentleman would abandon the matter altogether and make pleasantries about the unseasonably chilled weather they were having.
Alice flipped the page. “Which part? Your words to Babington about his tupping a parlor maid?” Rhys’ lips twitched. “Or your generous pardon if he were discovered in such a state.”
The slight sound of the page being turned was drowned out by another bout of noisy exhalations from Babington.
Alice glanced up from her page, peering past Rhys’ shoulder. “Though, I believe a far better question for Mr. Babington would be whether he is requiring a doctor to see to his persistent cough.”
A grin turned Rhys’ lips in a wide, easy smile. Not the affected roguish half-grins he generally donned with ladies, but a genuine expression of mirth.
That promptly faded as the lady returned her attention to her reading selection.
Accepting the proffered cup of coffee, Rhys blew on the steaming contents, and studied the young woman from over the rim—the wholly removed woman. Of course, it was always far safer when a virtuous miss was removed… particularly when that woman also happened to be his sister’s closest friend.
One hand on the book, the other holding a piece of French baguette in hand, she awkwardly turned the page.
It was a sad day as a rogue when he’d been so dismissed by a lady, for a book.
He took a small sip and grimaced at the sharp sting of the acrid beverage. “I certainly see why my sister approves of you, Alice,” he commented, matter-of-factly. Spirited, with a quick tongue and directness, she was unlike the simpering ladies who practiced an unspoken language behind their fans.
Alice paused, mid-turn. “I’m her friend.”
He’d have to be deafer than a post to fail to hear her censure.
He gave her a questioning look.
“I’m not a piece of horseflesh or a pastry selection, Lord Rhys. I’m a friend,” she said simply. Licking the tip of her index finger, she completed the page turn.
Rhys sat there, flummoxed, riveted by that innocent and yet wholly seductive for it, gesture. He had a sudden urge to draw that finger between his lips and suck.
He groaned.
The morning meal had been a horrid idea. And if the lady were given to rising early, he’d be better served avoiding the meal as long as she was here.
The young lady picked her head up. “Is everything all…?” As their gazes met, a becoming pink blush colored her cheeks.
So she was not wholly immune to him.
Around another sip of coffee, he grinned again and, emboldened by that delicate color, he stretched his legs out comfortably before him. “You still never did say what had you running all over the English countryside in the dead of night, Alice.”
Had he not been watching her so closely, he would have failed to note the way she stilled. Her long, graceful neck slightly bent, straightened. “No, I did not.”
He waited, counting the ticks of the clock. When after the tenth and another quick turn of her page, it became apparent that she intended to say not another word.
Rhys continued his study of her, taking a periodic drink of his now lukewarm brew.
The lady abruptly set her book down and dropped her elbows on a table that would have earned his mother’s highest rebuke. And for it, she garnered his ever-in
creasing appreciation. “May I ask you a question?”
Given that he’d posed the same query to her more than four times since yesterday, and still hadn’t received an answer, it was hardly fair play. More intrigued than proud, he inclined his head.
“Why do you drink it?”
His brow creased.
She pointed to his cup. “You’ve grimaced after every sip. Why drink it if you despise it?”
His mouth parted in brief startlement, which he instantly concealed behind an easy grin. “I’ll explain my coffee indulgence when you explain what had you running about my family’s properties.”
She instantly went close-mouthed, and returned prompt attention to her book.
His intrigue redoubled. Had she been any other woman, he’d have accused her of playing coy in a bid to earn his attentions. Alice Winterbourne, however, had shown far more interest in her baguette and plum cake than she had in his presence.
And the only reason that irked was because he took pride in the image of rogue he’d cultivated. Yes, that was the only reason.
Shoving back his chair, Rhys climbed to his feet. Plate in hand, he wandered closer to the impervious miss.
She glanced briefly up, following his movements with quizzical eyes.
“May I take this seat?” he asked in quiet tones.
“Given they are all your seats, I trust you could take them apart and use them for kindling if you so much as wished.”
“With my mother?” He snorted. “I’m fairly certain that would qualify as an offense punishable by exile.”
She laughed. The sound was clear and bell-like, innocent… and one wholly unfamiliar with the women he kept company with. Not that he was keeping company with her. They were merely two guests forced together at a holiday house party, now breaking their fast. Despite all those assurances, her laughter was infectious and he joined in.
Footsteps sounded at the doorway, and they both looked up.
The bespectacled pup who’d arrived yesterday with his too-tall hat and furred cloak, stared back—stricken.
Alice’s laughter abruptly cut out.
And as that pair silently looked at one another, a thick tension fell over the room, replacing the earlier cheer.
Rhys narrowed his eyes.
So this was the reason for the late night jaunt to The Copse—the too-stern looking Pratt fellow, doing a rather poor job in pretending he wasn’t paying attention to the lady.
Surely she, a minx who freely cursed and boldly laughed, wasn’t pining after a stiff, humorless pup like Henry Pratt, brother to the recently reformed rogue, Nolan Pratt?
And sitting back in his chair, Rhys cursed the unwelcome intrusion that had shattered his previous interlude with Alice Winterbourne.
Chapter 7
She’d been laughing.
Nor had it been the false expression she’d forced for her concerned family’s benefit.
Rather, this had been Alice’s laughter of old, pulled from her by a rogue, given to expert teasing. And it had felt so very good to laugh again… and mean it.
And then he’d arrived. Henry.
He remained rooted to his spot in the doorway. A hurt glitter lit his eyes.
Annoyance unfurled in her belly, and she swiftly yanked her attention back to her plate.
He was hurt? What reason did he have to be hurt?
Grabbing her knife, she carved up a sausage link. The tip of her utensil scraped along the plate and a chilling screech pierced the room.
Rhys leaned over and whispered. “Have a care, love. It’s already been slaughtered.”
Smile lines appeared at his eyes. “Now, if it were the roast at evening meal, then you’d have reason for your suspicions.”
That gave her pause. “Truly?”
He lowered his lips so close they nearly brushed the shell of her ear. “Does my mother strike you as one who’d tolerate a roast that is still mooing?” His breath stirred the sensitive skin at her nape and, reflexively, her head tipped away. Rhys’ gaze went to the elongated column of her neck.
A breathless laugh escaped her; a product of his nearness and reply.
Did she imagine the way his Adam’s apple bobbed? When he lifted his gaze to hers, only the teasing glimmer remained, and his grin.
It was a remarkable smile that so beautifully revealed the flawless even rows of pearl white teeth. And yet it was not so much the perfection of it, as the honesty in his mirth. It was unrestrained, unapologetic, and with its freeness flouted Societal expectations to never display too much emotion.
And—
A loud crash from the sideboard split the quiet.
The diligent footman rushed over and, retrieving the silver server, proceeded to fill Henry’s plate.
Porcelain dish in hand, without so much as a word of thanks, Henry made his way to the table and, with his usual devotion to propriety, waited.
Another servant rushed over to pull out his chair. And as he went through the pomp and circumstance of snapping his crisp white napkin three times and placing it upon his lap, Alice folded her hands together on her lap and clenched tightly.
Must he be here… at Lettie’s… in this breakfast room?
Since his betrayal, he’d existed as more an amorphous figure to hate and resent. Now, he was before her, a tangible reminder of her folly and humiliation—a public humiliation she was responsible for, that would continue to be whispered about by Polite Society until the next scandal came along.
Or, mayhap, forever. Mayhap, all juicy morsels lingered and were dragged out for a retelling when the ton began to forget.
Rhys moved his lips close to her ear again and another rush of tingles raced down the sensitive column of her neck. “My mother finds it uncouth.”
Fighting the dizzying pull of that whisper, she raised her gaze. “Beg pardon?”
“You asked why I drank coffee,” he said, lifting his glass. “Long ago, I dedicated my life to earning my mother’s disapproval whenever and wherever I could,” he elucidated A thousand questions whirred. Rhys spoke of a conscious decision to agitate the dowager marchioness. What had prompted that vow? He lifted his half-empty cup. “And she quite disapproves of coffee. She claims the heathens drink it.”
Her lips twitched. “She also advised Lettie that the heathens invented the waltz.”
“Ah, if that is the reason a gentleman is allowed to take a lady in his arms and put his hands upon her waist, tangling his fingers with hers, then I have much to thank them for.” He lifted his cup in salute.
Her heart did an odd little jump. She tried to laugh. His words, after all, were tossed in jest. And yet, God forgive her, he conjured an image of that waltz; one that was wicked and whispered of seduction, when she’d only ever seen it as a task insisted she master by her former finishing school instructor. Alice darted her tongue out and traced it along suddenly dry lips.
Rhys’ thick, golden lashes, which would have been the envy of any lady for their lushness, swept down, but not before she caught his focus on her mouth.
Henry snapped one of the leather journals he’d come in with open, shattering the brief pull between Alice and Rhys, Lettie’s rogue of a brother.
Instantly straightening, she grabbed her fork and knife and resumed dicing her sausage.
And this time, unlike before, as she popped that bite in her mouth, it didn’t seem nearly so difficult to bring herself to swallow it down. Returning her focus to her previously forgotten book, Alice flipped through the pages, finding her place.
Her skin pricked. She glanced up.
Cup of coffee in his hands once more, Rhys spoke in his near silent words over the rim. “Is he the one?”
She shook her head.
Rhys gave a nearly imperceptible tilt of his head over in Henry’s direction. Henry, as he’d been on so many occasions, was buried behind a leather folder, his nose deep in whichever case commanded his time. All of it.
“Your flight to The Copse?” he continued sotto voce.
Cheeks burning, she opened and closed her mouth several times. How in the blazes had Rhys gathered that… from this?
“Wounded eyes,” he whispered. “Strained smile. Slumped shoulders. You have all the makings of a heartsick miss.”
Immediately drawing her only slightly slumped shoulders back, she stole a glance about to determine whether Henry had overheard that pathetic catalogue. And furthermore… “I do not have wounded eyes.” She paused, leaning close. “And by the way, what in the blazes is a wounded eye?”
He stuck up two fingers. “The pair of them.”
“Well, it’s silly,” she said on a furious whisper. “Unless one’s received a facer, eyes cannot be wounded. That is the kind of drip and drivel in those silly romantic novels.” Those books she’d once favored which invariably saw love triumph. But that had been back when she’d been a hopeless romantic and believed in the power of love to conquer all and defy the odds. Mores the fool was she.
“Ahh.” Rhys reclined in his seat, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair.
Do not ask it. Do not ask it. He’s merely baiting me.
“What?” She’d always been hopeless when a challenge was issued.
“You once read romantic novels and now are reading—” Bold as the day was long, he picked up her forgotten volume. “Aristotle’s History of Animals.”
A loud scraping interrupted their discourse.
They looked as one across the table.
With stiff, hurried movements, Henry gathered the books he’d arrived with and then promptly quit the room.
Her faithless former betrothed forgotten, Alice snatched her book from Rhys’ long, gloveless fingers. The olive hue of those long, callused digits may as well have been tanned by a summer sun for their deep coloring. “And you find it so very hard to believe that a lady should appreciate literature on wildlife?”
“I don’t know you one way or another to say what you would be reading,” he conceded. “I was merely assembling all the pieces to rationalize the very reason you were outside in a blizzard the evening prior.” Coughing into his hand, he gave his head a less than discreet tilt in the empty seat previously occupied by Henry.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 175