Shaken, he trained his eyes on his nieces up ahead. “The serious fellow at breakfast?”
He winced. Where in the blazes had that probing come from?
Except… even as that query defied his rules on engaging a person in talks of the heart, he didn’t want to call it back. Mayhap, it was that he himself had been hurt by love. Mayhap, it was an inexplicable wondering about the woman at his side. But he did want to know what accounted for her misery.
Silence marched on for a long while, and then she spoke. “His name is Henry.” It didn’t escape Rhys’ notice that, for a second time, she didn’t counter his supposition.
Henry.
It was a perfectly stodgy name for a somber fellow who didn’t make his own plate and wouldn’t sit without a servant pulling out a chair for him.
And more… it spoke of an intimacy between the man and the lady with whom Rhys had been dashing around the English countryside a short while ago.
Something uncomfortable slithered around his chest. It was something he couldn’t identify and didn’t care to begin exploring.
Alice collected her bonnet strings in a white-knuckled grip. “We were betrothed.” He fisted his hands. She was to have married the gentleman. “He…” She drew a deep breath and spoke on a rush. “He married another.”
His gut clenched as, at last, her palpable glumness made sense. Her quiet despondency was one he could understand. One he had experienced… before he’d devoted himself to becoming Society’s leading rogue. “I see,” he said softly.
She stopped in her tracks and glanced up at Rhys; her eyes filled with wariness. “And just what do you see?”
He saw the reason for her melancholy. He saw why she remained outdoors in the middle of a storm, in the dark of night.
His nieces’ laughter pealed around the air; the joyous sounds spilling from their lips at odds with the somberness of his and Alice’s exchange.
In the end, he didn’t give her flippant assurances or a roguish retort. “I see why you would avoid the gentleman.” Looping his hands at his back, he rocked on his heels. “That, in being around him, you’re continually reminded of what could have been and what your life would be like even now had… things gone differently.”
Alice stared at him with stricken eyes. “Oh,” she whispered, touching a hand to the clasp on the front of her cloak.
“Did you expect me to make light of your revelation?” he drawled, unable to keep disappointment from creeping in. But then, he was the affable rogue to all and certainly not one to listen to a young lady share her most private heartache. What reason did she have to trust there was anything sincere about him? The only one who knew that he, too, had been gutted by love, his mother, would sooner turn over her title of Dowager Marchioness than share Rhys’ scandalous hopes for a future with an actress.
The lady studied her gloved fingers a moment. “No. Yes.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what I expected you to say. I was captivated by Henry because he was reliable, bookish, serious, and yet…” Her throat moved. When she looked at Rhys there was such hurt in her eyes, he ached to chase it away and restore the smile that had been there a short while ago. “That honorable gentleman betrayed me.” It was a bitter pain that he knew all too well and, though she was more stranger than anything, he hated that she should know that hurt. A wry little laugh shook Alice’s frame. “And yet, there is my brother, once a rake with a rotted reputation, who has proven to be a devoted husband to his wife and loyal and…” She plucked at the black velvet ribbon that hung from the heart-shaped clasp. “I’ve learned it is best to simply look at a person not as a title or category they might fit in to, but rather for who they are.”
He searched his gaze over her wind-burned cheeks and an appreciation for both those words, and the woman who’d uttered them, stirred. In a world where rank drove all, including, in Rhys’ case, his parents’ affection—or lack thereof—Alice saw more. “And what do you see when you look at me?” His body jerked and he wanted to call the query back. What did it matter what she believed or her opinion?
Alice took a step closer. The crunch of snow under her boots was inordinately loud in the morning stillness. She continued moving forward and then stopped, a mere foot apart. Head tipped back, she studied him. “I see a rogue.”
He curled his lips into their customary position of indolence. “One requires but a glimpse into the scandal pages to ascertain as much,” he drawled.
“There’s the grin,” she murmured. She stretched a fingertip close to his mouth, a breath of space from touching. His amusement faded. There was something vastly more erotic in the hint of Alice’s caress than all the bold touches and embraces that had come before from wanton widows. “A practiced smile. One that is carefree. Bored. Arrogant. Your smile says all those things.”
Her accusation was certainly not the first time he’d been called such, and he’d certainly been called far worse. So why did her words rub at a nerve he’d never before known was exposed?
“But, do you know what I’ve come to find, Rhys?” She trailed her gaze over his face.
“What is that?” he asked gruffly.
“There are many types of smiles and after one has been hurt, one dons a safe grin.”
Her stodgy betrothed. “You speak as—”
“As one who knows?” she interrupted. “Yes. A smile, I’ve come to find, is often used to deceive. It’s not reserved for rakes, rogues, or scoundrels but a tool used by all who’ve been hurt. I am just as guilty. It is how I know that one is false. Most rogues, they are not rogues because they were born condescending, cold-hearted dastards.” She angled her head, lifting her gaze to his.
Panic welled in his chest. His mind thundered for her to stop. He wanted to silence whatever utterance was about to spill from her lips… because she saw too much.
And it scared the bloody hell out of him.
“Smiles hide hurt. I’d wager you’ve known your own.” The lady lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Or I could be wrong, and you really could be this arrogant, content-to-shock scapegrace who sets Polite Society to talking.”
Regret filled him. Regret that, at the moment he’d come upon her in The Copse, vulnerable and hiding from a man who’d never been worthy of her, Rhys had been irreverent and rude.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly.
She shook her head. “I don’t…?”
“Yesterday, when I came to… to…”
“Retrieve me?” she dryly supplied.
Rhys winced. “Surely I didn’t say—?”
“Oh, you did,” she said, more of the cheerfulness from their snowball fight before restored.
He tugged at his collar. “I was an unmitigated arse.” Who’d allowed his previous experiences with women of all stations to cloud his judgment.
“Yes,” she concurred. “But I was also pitiable, sulking about outside… in a storm.” Her eyes twinkled. “Shall we come to an arrangement, then?”
Again, his mind danced down the path of wickedness. “What manner of… arrangement?” he asked, his voice hoarse to his own ears.
She flashed an innocent smile, absent of coyness and wickedness. That act hinted at one wholly unaffected by him, effectively shattering his lust.
“I shan’t be the downtrodden, sad-eyed creature hiding about and you won’t be dismissive and presumptuous.”
He winced, wanting to debate her on that scathing assessment. And yet, he’d lived a life dismissive of all because… well, it had simply proven to be more safe.
“Well?” Alice stuck her gloved palm out.
He stared at those long digits, encased in gloves, wanting to tug the thin, leather fabric back and feel the heat of her palm. Rhys quickly took her hand in his. Even through the fabric of their damp gloves, an electric surge shot at the point of contact, traveling up his arm.
Let her go… release her…
And yet, he remained, fingers curled around her smaller ones, unable to relinquish that hold. No
t wanting to shatter the connection.
Alice’s smile froze, and then slowly faded as her gaze went to their joined hands and then back to his. Her bow-shaped lips parted.
But she did not make any move to draw back. Instead, she curled her delicate palm, lightly squeezing his—
A loud squawking from across the snow-covered lawns, broke the pull.
They looked as one to the stone terrace, cleared in the early morning hours by meticulous Brookfield servants.
His mother, arms akimbo, watched on.
With a gasp, Alice snatched her hand back and he silently cursed the blasted interruption.
The dowager marchioness was flanked by Ladies Lovell and Guilford. Even with the distance between the ladies and Alice, there could be no doubting the ire in the two matrons’ like expressions. Faith and Violet rushed onto the terrace, jamming their fingers excitedly in Rhys and Alice’s direction.
He swallowed a groan. His mother had taken to following after him… outside, in the dead of winter? It was a mark of her determination.
The ever-jovial Lord Lovell hovering just beyond his wife’s shoulder, waved in greeting. “Rhys, my boy, a pleasure,” his booming voice echoed around the countryside.
Oh, bloody hell. “Likewise, Lord Lovell,” he called out that lie.
And by the loud snorting that left the other man, he’d gathered the fabrication there.
Alice adjusted her bonnet, drawing the brim low over her brow. As they joined the gathering on the terrace, Rhys found himself longing for the stolen moments in the snow he and Lady Alice Winterbourne had just shared.
Chapter 10
The only thing more ominous than the Dowager Marchioness of Guilford’s too-obvious matchmaking attempts was her silence.
Since he’d returned, with Alice at his side earlier that morn, Rhys had been greeted by scores of it from his mother. Great, big stretches of unending silence and dark glares. He had enough unfortunate experiences with the woman who’d given him life to trust that taciturnity.
As such, Rhys had taken the safest—and certainly the most cowardly path—to safety. He’d retreated.
Or, if one wished to be truly precise, he’d hidden.
Which was no small task or unimpressive feat in a household brimming with guests and servants.
Alas, desperate times and all that.
Standing before the bevel mirror in his chambers, Rhys lifted the collars of his shirt. With a murmured word of thanks, he accepted the black silk cravat from his valet, Fischer, who hurried off to gather a jacket from the armoire.
Except… he paused, fabric dangling from his fingers.
Was it his mother he’d been hiding from? Or Alice who’d seen entirely too much?
Unnerved, he looped the satin scrap around his neck and leveled the sides of the material. Quickly going through the motions, he wrapped the fabric once, and then drew it through the main knot creating a haphazard display.
“My lord.” Pain stamped in his face, Fischer reappeared, a black tailcoat with black velvet trim in hand.
Rhys snapped his collar down.
“Cheer up, Fischer.” Rhys plucked the jacket from the other man’s hands. “You look even more miserable than me.”
Fischer held his palms up, imploringly. “Might I?” Agony contorted his features. “May I…” He reached for Rhys’ neckwear.
“I assure you, my knot is fine.” Or fine, enough, anyway. In the sense that he had one on.
The stout valet swallowed loudly. “But, my lord, last time Her Ladyship followed me to the servant’s dining quarters and scolded me on your deplorable dress,” he whispered. “She suggested I take my services elsewhere.”
Rhys gnashed his teeth. Interfering, miserable harpie. It was as much a part of her as the perpetual scowl she wore and the coldness that spilled from her person.
Ah, the dragon had that effect on all. She always had. “Do you take me as one who’d sack you because of a cravat I’d gone and rumpled myself?”
“No, my lord,” the other man said, his voice threadbare.
Rhys smoothed the lapels of his tailcoat. “That is correct. I wouldn’t.”
Rhys then looked around the room. “My boots, if you would.”
Fischer cringed. “But, my lord… boots?” Rhys may as well have ordered the other man to steal the dowager marchioness’ jewels for the horrified shock in that whisper. Swiping a hand over his face, the valet shuffled off.
Returning his attention to the mirror, Rhys readjusted his silk cravat, smoothing the knot.
There was a firm knock at the door. That rapping was solid and powerful, unlike his mother’s vexing scratch. “Enter,” he called out.
The door handle was already twisting, and his brother stepped inside. Immaculately attired from his snowy white cravat to his strapped, gleaming, black shoes, he exuded refinement and a deference to Polite Society’s fashion dictates.
Miles did a quick once over of Rhys. It was a perfunctory search employed by one who sought to verify that Rhys was suitably attired for the dinner party.
Rhys arched an eyebrow. “E tu, Brute?”
“I don’t know what you’re speaking about.” The guilty flush staining his brother’s cheeks marked him for the poor liar he’d always been.
Rhys snorted. “Were you sent to verify whether I was joining the dinner party? Or to drag me to the table if I weren’t?”
Miles grinned. “Both?” he asked, sheepishly.
“Ah, at last, honestly.” Taking pity on Fischer, who stood shifting back and forth on his heels, he dismissed the servant. The portly fellow dropped a bow, and another deferential one for Miles before making a hasty retreat.
“She was fearful you wouldn’t join us,” Miles confessed after they were alone.
He chuckled. “What rubbish. Mother hasn’t feared for anything outside the marquisate title.”
Miles’ lips turned down at the corners. “You know that isn’t true,” he said somberly.
Of course, the optimistic counterpart to Rhys’ cynicism, his brother had long rushed to their mother’s defense, if for no other reason, Rhys oftentimes suspected, than to spare the family conflict and tension.
“She is also equally concerned with each of her children’s marital states,” his eldest sibling intoned. There was such an unexpectedness to that droll reply, it pulled a sharp, bark of laughter from Rhys.
“Which, I trust, is the reason for your visit to my rooms?”
This time, his brother nodded. “She also asked that I… speak with you. Brother to brother.”
Rhys tensed. “Oh?” he ventured cautiously.
Hands looped behind him, Miles wandered over to the garish rognon desk. Its ornate rosewood trellis marquetry and ormolu mounts suited to the tastes of the woman who’d outfitted the manor twenty years earlier: ostentatious, glimmering, the décor of this place exuded wealth and prestige. Letting his arms fall to his sides, his brother examined the open ledger. With a distractedness to his movements, he caught the corner of the page between his fingers and lingered his focus there.
Rhys stiffened, braced for a disapproval that came from all members of the peerage for one who dabbled in trade.
At last, Miles shot a look back. “A… steam engine?” he murmured.
He sought to make sense of the meaning in those three words strung together and punctuated by a slight pause. Rhys rolled his shoulders. “It has been around for more than a hundred years now,” he felt compelled to defend. “An inventor named Newcomen. Watt merely improved it.”
“Hmm,” Miles replied, again his thoughts carefully schooled. His brother returned to studying Rhys’ books. Near in age, they had been close as young boys. Where many spares to the heir resented the role as second and forgotten child, Rhys had never coveted the title. Instead, he’d welcomed the freedoms it allowed him to escape their parents’ notice. Yet, Miles had never been one of those aloof, unfeeling brothers either. Rather… he’d been a friend until, with the passage
of time, responsibilities and life… for each of them had replaced the friendship they’d once enjoyed.
At last, his brother released that page and faced him. “I had no idea of your business interests.”
“Yes, well, there is much we don’t know about one another.” Lillian. Rhys’ business ventures. So much. That hadn’t always been the case. There had once been a time they’d shared secrets and stories. Regret filled him at the natural gulf that had been brought by time and their responsibilities.
“You are right,” Miles said, sadness stealing into his tone. “Mother asked me to speak to you about the Guilford line.”
He laughed. The Guilford line? “Married as you are and she’s still not content?”
“Faith and Violet will be the only children Philippa and I will ever have,” his brother said with a quiet somberness that killed Rhys’ dry amusement.
Rhys’ jaw went slack. He struggled to force words out. A question. A platitude. And he, glib with words, found himself at a complete loss with this.
His brother coughed into his fist. “It is a decision that belongs to Philippa and me, and is a product of…” Miles’ eyes darkened. “My being unwilling to risk her life for the sake of an heir.”
“I didn’t know,” he said lamely. I should, though. I should know about my brother’s life and Lettie’s friends…while all along, he’d been so self-absorbed that he’d kept a careful façade in place and shut everyone out. How odd that after a handful of meetings, one young lady had so carefully detected that mechanism within him, and made him see the truth of how he’d lived his life these past years—safe. For he hadn’t wanted to speak on what was hard or painful… for him… his family. It had been easier transforming himself into the careless rogue Alice had described.
Miles skimmed his fingers over the ledger. “I’m telling you this to try and explain mother’s relentless determination where you’re concerned. To her…” His brother paused. “To all… you now represent the line.”
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 178