Rhys dissolved into a paroxysm of choking, until tears streamed down his cheeks.
His brother quickly crossed over and banged him on the back.
“I… I…” The last thing he wanted, desired, or needed was the obligation of the Guilford title. And yet, with everything his brother had shared, the dowager marchioness’ determination to see Rhys wed made sense.
At least as far as ruthless matchmaking mamas were concerned.
Miles flashed a wry grin. “You’re taking this a good deal better than I’d suspected.” That hint of amusement instantly faded to a mask of solemnity donned by his brother. “I’m…” He hesitated, seeming to search. “Sorry that her attentions have shifted to you and that my inability to carry on the line should see those responsibilities pass to you.”
They’d grown, and grown apart. That divide was a sadly natural gulf as a product of life’s responsibilities. Miles’ murmured regrets, however, spoke to a brother who’d always known Rhys… even with the passage of time.
“Do you believe I’d resent you or Philippa for that?” He scoffed. Striding over to the gleaming, black boots at the foot of his bed, Rhys sat. “If that is the case, then you don’t really know me,” he chided, tugging into first one of the articles, and then the next.
Miles steepled his fingers, tapping the tips of the gloved digits together. “I thought I’d explain Mother’s determination… and the situation the Brookfield line finds itself.”
The muscles of his gut clenching, Rhys stared at the boule mantel clock in an act of cowardice, unable to meet his brother’s gaze. For what his brother now alluded to thrust forward long buried possibilities: Rhys married… with a family of his own. Those had been silly, romantic dreams he’d allowed himself as a young man; dreams he’d never before shared with another. After all, gentlemen didn’t willingly cede their independence for marital constraints. The hopes, however, had been there. He hadn’t sought a proper Societal wife; stiff, dull, and vapid. Rather, he’d longed for a spirited one, capable of laughter and who’d flout Polite Society’s conventions along with him.
A lady such as Alice—
Rhys jumped up. “We should go,” he blurted, his heart thudding inside his chest.
What sickness afflicted his head that a proper miss should keep wheedling her way inside his mind?
Miles gave him a probing look. “Are you all r—?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” He wasn’t. He was madder than King George himself.
Rhys reached for the handle when a hand on his shoulder stayed his movements.
He cast a questioning look back.
“Mother wished me to speak to you about your doing right by the line,” his brother said with a somberness that sent Rhys’ muscles tensing. “I, however, wanted you to know that I would never expect you to marry because of the Brookfield line or to please Mother or me.” He held Rhys’ eyes. “Or anyone… except yourself. As one who deeply loves his wife, I would hope that you will one day know that.”
Rhys’ rubbed the back of his neck. Even with everything his brother had revealed about his own life, Rhys still could not bring himself to share the folly he’d made in his youth: giving his heart to a woman who’d broken their secret betrothal all for a sack of silver like the Judas she’d been, to stay away from the Brookfield spare to the heir. Once, such a truth had devastated him. Now, nothing but embarrassment at his own folly lingered. “I…” he finally brought himself to say. “Thank you,” he finished lamely. “We should join the dinner party,” he continued on a rush.
“Of course,” Miles murmured. He stared at Rhys for a long moment, having the look of one who wished to say more.
And as they started from the room, Rhys’ mind returned to thoughts of the dinner party… and the minx he’d spent the better part of the day hiding from.
Chapter 11
The dowager marchioness despised Alice.
There was no other accounting for her placement at the dining table.
Alice peeked between the gold candelabras unfortunately placed and the garish tremblent to where her friend sat.
“I’m so sorry,” Lettie mouthed. She cast a too-pointed glance to the miserable blighter Alice had been partnered with.
At her side, laconic as he’d always been, Henry spooned some of the white broth into his mouth. While at the opposite end of the enormous, rectangular table, his wife, regaled those around her with talk of their honeymoon trip to Paris. That talk was definitely loud enough to reach Alice’s ears.
Colorful tales of the Continent that should hurt Alice. Nay, the telling should gut her. After all, at this very moment, had life continued on the path she’d expected, she would be seated here as Mrs. Henry Pratt.
She stole a sideways glance at her former intended. He attended his bowl the same way he had his books.
Alice nibbled at the tip of her finger.
Had he always been this quiet? She searched her mind for the discussions they’d had. What had they spoken of and about? Aside from his career and his aspirations as a barrister, there had been remarkably little else of import… and never had he delved into her interests or hopes or dreams.
No, he’d always been so serious. He had certainly never been, nor would ever be, one who’d dash about throwing snowballs at a lady and two children. Why… even his laugh had been restrained and… respectable.
Unbidden, Alice’s gaze traveled to the gentleman seated on the opposite side of the table, three seats to the right of her.
His dining partner, was none other than Miss Aria Cunning. A hauntingly dark beauty, who wore a ready smile. Gesticulating wildly as she spoke, the young woman earned a deep, rumbling laugh from Rhys and those seated around her.
I was once ready with stories and jests… and freely smiled. But never had she been one to charm. Not the way the stunning creature held those around her enrapt. Rhys nodded at something the lady was saying and then, whatever his return reply, he earned a pretty blush… and a husky laugh better suited to a wicked widow than a darling debutante.
Stop staring. Except, she remained horrifyingly riveted to the pair in the midst of their discourse, an interloper watching through a glass at people who did remember how to laugh.
Only, Alice hadn’t forgotten, as she’d believed.
In these two days here, she’d laughed more than she had in the time since she’d been thrown over for another. More precisely, she’d been brought to laughter by Rhys.
Another throaty expression of mirth filtered from Miss Cunning’s perfectly formed lips.
Just as he’d managed to elicit the same response from that lady. It was what rogues excelled in; charming and tempting and—
Gritting her teeth, Alice grabbed her spoon and dipped it into her bowl. A little too forcibly.
The clear broth spilled over the edge and splattered the table, leaving a small mark upon the white satin tablecloth.
Bloody hell.
Alice’s skin pricked with the feel of those looking her way. She was a Winterbourne, however, whose family had been prone to far greater embarrassments than spilled broth.
Alice tipped her chin up and the curious onlookers returned to their discourse and meals.
All except for one. From her seat near the head of the table, the dowager marchioness gave her head a disgusted shake before she, thankfully, shifted her miserable attention over to Lord Guilford.
Alice made to retrieve her spoon and stopped. Unrepentantly, with a boldness only a scoundrel could muster, Rhys stared back.
God help Alice for being a miserable rotter, she hated the grin on his well-formed lips that met his steel-grey eyes. For it wasn’t one of those false expressions they’d spoken of earlier. This was real and sincere and dangerously alluring… and all because of the young beauty who just then said something else that brought his focus back.
Her place properly tidied, Alice forced herself to reach with calm, measured movements for her spoon. This time, she took a careful bite.
Because it means your two stolen exchanges were nothing more… they were merely a rogue’s game, freely played with whichever lady was at hand.
Mayhap. it was because she’d been thrown over before. Or mayhap, it was something more… that ultimately rogue or barrister, respectable gentleman or wicked lord, Alice had never truly mattered. Not in the ways that she, once dreaming of love, had longed to matter.
Bereft, she set her spoon down with fingers that trembled.
A quiet cough brought her head up.
Using the gold brocade napkin in his fingers, Rhys dabbed at the corners of his mouth. “Smile,” he soundlessly commanded.
Alice blinked slowly.
Rhys articulated each word, slow, mute. “No sad eyes.” Angling his head ever so slightly, Alice followed that gesture…
To Henry.
Henry?
Her lashes stopped their movement altogether.
Henry.
Rhys had erroneously assumed she’d sat silent and morose because of the arrangement that had placed Alice precisely beside the bounder who’d broken her heart. She glanced at her former intended and found him boldly studying her from over the rim of his wine glass.
Alice started.
There was a greater directness to the gaze that met hers than ever before. “He’s a rogue, you know.”
At having been caught silently engaging Rhys from across the table, her cheeks burned hot. “I beg your pardon?” How dare this man, of all people, publicly speak to her on what Rhys was or was not?
One hand gripped his spoon, while his other held firm to the edge of the table. “Guilford’s brother.” He flicked his fingers and returned them to their previous position. “I’ve seen the way he’s flirted with you.” He paused, some simmering emotion revealed through the lenses of his spectacles. “It’s the same way he’s flirting with Miss Cunning even now.”
Outrage flared in her breast. “Either way, you have no reason to speak on it,” she said coolly, as her bowl was cleared.
Alice gave thanks for the interruption, eager to have done any talk at all with the blackguard beside her.
The gold-clad liveried footman placed silver platters of roast fowls and chicken, stewed peas, and French peas about the table. Then, they proceeded to serve the guests.
Alice murmured her thanks, and reached for her fork and knife.
“And why shouldn’t I speak on it?” Henry intoned, freezing her movements. “Should the fact that I marr—?”
Uncaring for the guests around them, she leveled him with a hard glare. “Careful,” she warned. First, he’d thrown her over, and now he’d casually make mention of it in passing at a dining table filled with guests? Was he blasted simple or emotionally deadened?
Henry blushed but, relentless, he leaned forward, whispering close to her ear. “My circumstances should not drive you to carelessness where that one is concerned.” He flicked his chin at a near imperceptible tilt toward Rhys.
Alice followed that insolent gesture to Rhys… who stared boldly back through thickly-hooded, golden lashes.
The candle’s glow sent shadows dancing on the harsh, angular planes of his face. It was timeless in its masculine beauty the manner of which artists and sculptors lauded in their works.
She forced her gaze back to the hated figure at her side, latching on to two insolent words dropped from Henry’s mouth: That one.
“Dearest, Henry, I was just sharing with the others, the magnificence of Paris’ street lighting.” Those seated offered the black-haired beauty the attention she coveted. When all eyes were trained on her, she beamed. “What was the name of them, dearest?”
“Street lights,” Henry mumbled, earning a slight frown from his young bride. “They’re called street lights.” Mumbled words, when Henry had always spoken in his crisp, decisive, barrister tones as Alice had teasingly once referred to them.
“Yes, street lights,” his wife parroted. “They line the Passage des Panoramas and…”
As the other woman prattled on, Alice reclined in her chair and, blessedly, Henry didn’t utter another word.
She peeked over at Rhys. Silent, he now contemplated the contents of his wine glass, while the effervescent Miss Cunning chatted with her brother-in-law.
Alice willed him to lift his gaze; mourning the earlier connection shattered by Henry.
When at last the meal had come to an end, she sent a prayer skyward.
“Well, that was a lesson in torture,” Lettie muttered at her side. “Street lighting? Street lighting?” she repeated incredulously. “The woman went on for at least an hour—”
“It was an hour and three minutes,” Alice whispered. Such details, she’d obtained courtesy of the tortoiseshell bracket clock.
A snorting giggle exploded from her friend, that mirth-filled sound bouncing off the walls.
The dowager marchioness, arm in arm with Lady Lovell, leading the ladies on to one of the too-many-to-count parlors, stopped. The other followed suit.
Lettie’s mother glanced back. “Lettice, if you’ll accompany me?” Disapproval glittered in her always-cold eyes.
Lettie groaned, but quickly disguised that misery as a cough. “Always escape notice. Always escape notice,” she breathed, that litany rolling from her lips in a regretful mantra.
“Go, I assure you I’ll be quite fine at the back here.”
“You are just glad you don’t have to join me with them at the front,” Lettie said under her breath.
“Lettice,” her mother called out again, warningly.
Alice winked. Muttering to herself, Lettie quickened her step and, skirting the other small gathering of ladies, joined her mother.
As soon as the party had continued on, Alice ducked around the corner. The footfalls and discourse of the ladies grew increasingly distant. Nonetheless, Alice lengthened her strides, hurrying on.
A booming laugh sounded from over her shoulder.
With a gasp, Alice slammed her hand to her chest and searched the empty halls.
Then it came again.
Approaching steps; heavier footfalls and deeper voices and…
She groaned.
Blast and damn. It was the gentlemen.
Ducking into the nearest room, Alice did a sweep of the haven she’d found.
Only…
The space doused in light, gleamed from the mahogany billiards table and well-stocked sideboard.
She slapped her hands over her face. The billiards room. Of all the bloody, rotted rooms to sneak in to, she’d chosen the most masculine of all sanctuaries. Alice forced her arms back to her sides and fought to regain control of her panicky thoughts.
After all, just because she’d found herself in a billiards room did not mean the marquess and his guests would take their drinks here. There were parlors and libraries and—
Approaching footsteps—too many of them to discern a precise number—reached her ears.
Heart hammering, Alice did a frantic search. She settled her gaze on the floor-length doors leading to the stone terrace that ran the length of the impressive estate. Her skirts whipping about her ankles, she raced for the double-doors.
“Alice.”
She gasped, whipping about.
Her heart sank.
Framed in the doorway, Henry stared back. Then he moved his gaze away, touching his eyes on each corner of the room. “What are you doing here?” he asked with an insolence that set her teeth on edge.
Her annoyance was short-lived, as the footsteps and voices in the hall grew increasingly closer.
Henry pulled the door closed.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, grabbing for the gold handle.
He shot a palm up. “Please, wait,” he implored. “They are adjourning to Lord Guilford’s libraries for bran—” Color raced up her former betrothed’s cheeks.
“Brandies?” she supplanted.
It was hardly shameful and simply customary of Society, and, yet, with his usual display of propriety, he couldn’t manage to utter that word. And with silence falling between them in this cavernous room, Alice caught a glimpse of the life that would have been hers had they been married: polite, staid, safe. In short… dull. Such would never be the existence one would have if married to a man such as Rhys. Jolted at that musing, she gripped the door handle hard. The gold metal bit sharply into her palm. “You should leave, Mr. Pratt,” she said tightly.
His throat muscles convulsed. “You once called me Henry.”
Yes, she had. And they’d once been betrothed. “I asked you to leave.”
“I’m not leaving until I speak to you.”
She clenched her jaw. Her faithless, former betrothed wished to speak to her. After offering her marriage, then jilting her, wedding another, and stealing the privacy she’d sought to take for herself… he’d ask for anything from her? How had she failed to see his selfishness? “There is nothing to say.” And when he folded his arms at his narrow chest, rooting himself to his spot, Alice pressed the handle. She’d rather brave the elements of the winter’s night than his company. She let herself out.
The cold air slapped her face and invaded her lungs, sucking the breath clear from her.
Teeth instantly set to chattering, she drew the door shut with a firm click. In a desperate bid to bring warmth to her trembling limbs, Alice rubbed at her arms. She’d rather take her chances with the bloody cold than deal with—
Henry joined her on the terrace.
Alice tossed her hands up. “Wh-what do you w-want?” Why would he not go away? Her frustration had nothing to do with the pain at being near him, but a deep-seated annoyance.
“I-I had n-not finished speaking of that gentleman… Lord Guilford’s br-brother.” With every exhalation, Henry’s breath fogged the lenses of his spectacles. With an aberrant curse flying from his lips, he yanked those wire frames from his face and proceeded to rub the slight fog from them. “He’s a r-rogue.”
“A-and?” she asked tightly, hugging her arms close.
“A m-man such as h-him is d-dangerous for l-ladies to be around,” he finished weakly. Was it the hypocrisy of his passing judgment on any person’s character? Or simply the cold that had robbed the remainder of that admission of breath. “I’ve h-heard stories of his reputation. Y-You w-will only be hurt if—”
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 179