by Jess Russell
****
Rhys’s tears were appalling to him in the light of day. He had not cried in…well since his mother’s death twenty-four years ago.
Last night he had listened to the rain mixed with the ticking of his clocks, but the sounds had not soothed him. Ironically his bed hangings looked very much like the purple and blue tent he had danced under just hours before. In an effort to blot out that image, he had concentrated on finding all the constellations picked out in diamonds.
His eyes moved to his favorite, Orion the hunter with his jeweled belt and mighty sword. Orion would slay all the dragons and fiends of the night—well, that is what his mother had told him as a child. But the Great Hunter had failed miserably last night. He could not even vanquish one dark-haired, green-eyed witch.
Rhys had marked out three and then four and finally five bongs from the French portico clock on the mantel. He would have sworn he had never slept at all, but he could not recall hearing the next six so he must have fallen asleep.
The sun was out in full force now—the light clear and radiant as it often was after a long hard rain. Even the puddles had dried to only the barest sheen.
His body felt tight and pent up like a sneeze that would not come. He needed exercise.
Rhys was just on his way out when Safley announced Uncle Bertram.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Roydan.” His uncle stood inside the doorway.
“No, not at all, sir.”
In spite of his answer, Rhys was disturbed. He did not want this conversation.
“Safley, will you see to some ale?” he said as he walked to his desk and shoved the morning papers under a pile of letters.
“If it’s all the same to you, Roydan, I’d rather have something a bit stronger,” his uncle said sheepishly. Rhys squeezed his teeth together. If his uncle had need of fortification at this time in the day, it did not bode well for their upcoming conversation.
“Very well, Uncle. Safley, you may leave us. I will pour.”
“Your Grace.” He bowed and the heavy door closed behind him.
“A very good man your Safley. He has been with you a long while now, I believe.”
Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Sir, he has been with me since I attained the title over seven years ago. I believe you recommended him to the position.”
“Ah, yes. Quite right.” Uncle Bert coughed. “I have never steered you wrong, my boy, have I?”
Rhys handed his uncle a brandy. “No, sir, you have always had my best interest at heart.”
“I try, my boy. I try.” Uncle Bert looked distracted. He took a large swallow, nodded appreciatively, and settled himself into a wing chair next to the fire. Rhys sat as well.
“Well, I will not condescend to you by beating around the bush.” He cleared his throat. “Campbell is wondering if the girl has put you off somehow.”
Rhys pressed his tongue on the hard ridge just behind his teeth.
“Perhaps she is too plump?” his uncle offered.
Rhys took his first sip, savoring the slow burn. “She is most attractive, sir.”
His uncle visibly relaxed into his chair and took another mouthful of brandy. “Yes, she is a sweet young thing, isn’t she? I like a bit of flesh on a girl myself. Gives a man something to hold on to, don’t you know.”
Christ. Rhys had to stop himself from lurching out of his chair and pacing the room.
Uncle Bert took another taste, shifted forward in his chair and then back again.
“So my boy, what is the holdup? You certainly don’t want to lead the family on, do you? You must know all the papers have marked how attentive you have been to Miss Arabella.”
Yes, Rhys knew only too well what the papers had been saying. Yet another cartoon by that damned Gillray, The Monk Meets his Match, depicting Rhys ripping off his monk’s robes to reveal a timid Arabella beneath. Still another with him kneeling at the altar, again in monk’s robes, with a diminutive Arabella perched on an altar holding out the collection plate and desperately trying to remove his halo, to replace it with a pair of horns.
This last was too much. Damned infernal rags. Can’t they ever let a man in peace? The broadsheets and their ilk could poke fun at him all they liked, but he drew the line at their involving the Campbells as mercenaries, and particularly, Miss Arabella as a wanton. He had not even bothered to read this morning’s papers.
There was no point in prevaricating. He must go forward or retreat entirely. And why retreat? There was no other eligible woman he wanted. Arabella Campbell would do just as well as any. True, she did not seem overly keen for the marriage, but that would mean there would be no unrealistic expectations for love and happiness.
“You are quite right, Uncle. The papers have been odious.” He desperately wanted this conversation to be over. “I promise to speak with Lord Campbell within the week.” Even as he spoke the words, he felt the heaviness of his title crashing down on him.
His uncle, watching him keenly, finally spoke. “Listen lad, if the girl doesn’t suit, we will find another. No sense in shackling yourself to a chit who does nothing to…inspire you. I am only offering Arabella Campbell because she has impeccable bloodlines, seems reasonably intelligent, and is, to my mind, quite fetching. But there is still time to retreat. I just caution you, your oar is in, and you must decide to set sail or no, and soon. I know you would not want to dishonor the girl or her family.”
“No, Uncle, you have done right in coming. I am out of sorts lately.”
“Anything I can help with, dear boy?”
Could he confide his uncertainty to his uncle who was his only real family? Could he unburden his heart? But how could he open his heart to Uncle Bert, when he did not know his own feelings. Uncle, I am in lust? I am unable to put a mere dressmaker out of my mind? And she doesn’t even want me?
The whole notion was preposterous. He shook his head as much to himself as for his uncle.
“No, Uncle Bert.” He tried to smile. “Unless you would like to switch roles with me, sir?”
Bertram laughed. But Rhys must have let a bit of his despair slip past his smile because his uncle stopped abruptly, leaned forward, and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I am sorry I was not about when you were young, lad.” Then he looked away, saving Rhys from having to do so, and took a slow sip of brandy. “I knew what your father was. True, he and I were separated by almost fifteen years, but I heard the stories. We had a few dramas of our own.” Uncle Bertram’s lips tightened, and his gaze tracked to the portrait hanging above them.
Rhys glanced at the painting as well, but he need not have. He knew it in all its agonizing detail—the surly expression, and the beginning signs of dissipation that already marred the subject’s face.
The old duke had had an insatiable appetite for all the vices. He had been a spendthrift, a debaucher of women, a miserly landlord, a cheat, and a fraud. But perhaps his worst sin was his indifference to anything not solely for his pleasure. Rhys had never, or almost never, come within the old duke’s field of vision, but when he had—
Rhys turned away from the picture. He had thought about exiling the thing to the attics but instead he used it as a constant reminder of what he would not be.
His uncle cleared his throat. “And then, after your mother’s death…well, you went off to school and I went into the army.” Bertram smiled ruefully. “Being the spare is not always easy either, my boy. Though, in answer to your question, no, I am very happy being simply Lord Bertram, thank you.” He laughed. “Why do you think I am so anxious to get you married and producing?” Bertram rose and filled his glass then gestured with the bottle to Rhys who shook his head. “And now we have to deal with this damned codicil to Ian’s will.” Bertram snorted. “Ian’s solicitors were a bunch of lazy, drunken, opium-eating sots. Too bad the firm’s new owners are such a thorough lot, else those files would have remained buried for decades. Well, lad, ’tis a folly to cry for shed milk. We must go forward.
“Perha
ps it will be for the best in the end—a blessing in disguise?” His uncle’s eyes softened as he spoke and Rhys wanted to look away. “I would like to see you happy, lad. You are due for some happiness.”
Rhys tried to answer his uncle’s smile, and though he felt his lips twitch upward, he knew it was more of a grimace. Happiness? He was not even sure what it was anymore. The feeling had eroded to almost nothing. A vague shadow lurking at the edges of his heart. Duty, responsibility, and now lust…those he knew well. But happiness…
“Be easy, Uncle, I will speak to Lord Campbell soon.” Rhys shifted, and then stood. “If there is nothing else? I have had Sid saddled and waiting, but I shall have him untacked if you need me further?”
“No, no, my boy.” His uncle rose and set his glass on a side table. “You mustn’t keep that fine beast waiting. I’ll warrant there is no better animal this side of the channel.”
****
Thoroughly soaked and winded, Rhys pulled Sid up. They had just done a bruising run through St. James’s Park when the rain had come—sudden darkness, and then sheets of water accompanied with blinding lightning and rolling thunder. Everyone on the street had dashed into doorways and tea shops to watch the drama from relative safety. Within a minute the streets were empty.
He raised his face to the cold, lashing wet. The weather and the emptiness suited his mood but apparently not Sid’s. The beast threw his head and worried his bit. “Hush, boy.” Rhys patted the horse’s steaming neck. Sid liked to put on a bit of a show.
Uncle Bert’s little speech had thrown Rhys. He knew his uncle cared for him, but the real anguish in his uncle’s eyes, especially when he was talking about wanting Rhys to be happy made Rhys shift in his saddle.
Digging his heels into Sid, he headed for the Horse Guards. He gravitated to this particular corner of London more times than he could count.
Rhys had actually thought to go into the Guards like his uncle. The idea of rules and strict discipline suited him, and he thought he would have made a good officer.
When his father had heard, he was apoplectic. He had barged into Rhys’s rooms at the Albany. The only time he saw his sire was when the old duke needed money. All he had to do was threaten to sell Valmere, and Rhys would give him the blunt. It was their old song and dance. But this visit was different. His father looked worse than usual.
“By God, I will take care to bankrupt every last estate and see you ruined!” he had said. “You are worthless except as my heir, and you think to take yourself off to tangle with old Boney and get yourself killed?” Rhys could still see him staggering around the room, spittle spewing from his mouth. “I still have a healthy appetite. I am not done. I chose poorly twice now, but perhaps Dee Gooden might be just the ticket. How would you like her for your dearest step-mama? You were once very…fond of her. And when she whelps then you may go to the devil for all I care. I’ll wager that miserable little pickle between your legs has probably dried up by now for lack of use.” His father’s pupils were mere pin pricks; he had been so fuddled on opium. “By Jove, I would swear you weren’t mine if I had a hope of getting away with it.”
Well, in the end his sire had had the last laugh; just as Rhys was preparing to go to France, the old duke had the temerity to die. Rhys had almost gone anyway, but with the estates and farms in shambles, he’d had no choice. Duty called, and it had been his rudder ever since.
Sid tossed his head, wanting to be out of the wet. “All right, old boy, let us see if we can find you a treat.”
The men’s daily exercises must have been called off because of the rain. He dismounted and made his way into the stables, leading a snuffling Sid.
It was strangely quiet inside. Usually on a rainy day, the men were jammed into the barracks polishing and grooming, trading insults and dares. He saw a stable boy and called to him asking for Colonel Barret. The young man recognized Rhys immediately, pulling his forelock and bowing.
“Your Grace, the colonel took most of the regiment and their families on a picnic to Richmond.” When Rhys made no comment, the boy shyly offered, “It was his young wife’s idea, Your Grace. I expect they are all huddled in the Fife and Drum just about now.” The lad smiled, ducking his head.
“Ah, I had forgotten the colonel was lately married.” Rhys felt an unexpected swell in his throat and swallowed it like foul medicine. “I shall make use of a stall to dry off my mount.”
The lad jumped into action. “Pardon, Your Grace, here I am blabbing while you are soaked through. Please come and sit. I’ll get a blanket, put on a pot, and then see to your mount. I will be only a moment.”
“No, I thank you, I am well enough. I will see to the horse myself, but a mug of ale would not go amiss.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Right away.” And the boy-man ran off.
Rhys sighed. Why did he always seem to come off demanding when he really wanted to be amiable?
Rhys walked Sid to a nearby empty stall, untacked the horse, found a bit of toweling, and methodically rubbed down the animal. Sid nickered and bobbed his huge head against Rhys’s shoulder.
He had a great respect for horses, and this one in particular. Sid was very nearly Rhys’s best friend. Rather pathetic, but how could one quibble with such a loyal, trusted comrade? Sid just happened to be a horse. Well, there were worse things in life.
Rhys closed his eyes—wet horse and Sid’s own particular dander mixed with all the familiar smells of a barn, seasoned hay, oats, leather, linseed oil, and earthy sweat. The patter of rain tat-tatted on the roof above them, becoming a kind of meditative music to work by. He smoothed his hands over the horse—he need not open his eyes, he knew every line of the beast from Sid’s soft velvet nose to his rough silk tail.
But his father’s image would not be laid to rest. Rhys stiffened, and Sid jerked his head.
He was seven years old.
His father had arrived at Valmere out of the blue as usual. But that morning he strode into the stables as if he had never been away, demanding to see the progress his son was making in the saddle.
Rhys could be found hanging about the barn most days. He had loved all its many treasures—the loft, full of magical, winking fairy dust, the shoot that would become his slide, landing with a whoosh in a pile of new-mown hay. Old Mac’s room with its warm stove and ancient rocker sitting on a bright rag rug. The rug had replaced the old threadbare one that had finally worn through to the wood floor. Mac had gone red right up to his whiskers when Mrs. Cotton had thrust the rug at him last Christmas muttering something about “auld men and their auld worn-out things.” The room held the smells of tobacco and coffee, of tallow and peat—smells that had seeped into the very walls.
But the barn’s most amazing riches, hidden behind towering walls, were the horses themselves. And the very last stall, tucked right next to Mac’s room, held the most splendid treasure of all; it was home to Jolly, Rhys’s Welsh pony.
That day Rhys had brought Jolly out of his stall for his father’s inspection. He dared a shy smile, so proud of his beautiful pony. His father might find fault with Rhys, but anyone could see Jolly was perfect in every way.
The duke made a slow circle around Jolly and then stopped directly in front of Rhys. “Is this a joke?”
Confused, Rhys looked to Mac but then seeing his father’s mistake turned to him and said, “No, sir, his name is Jolly, sir.”
But his father was speaking again. “By God, when I was your age I was riding a sixteen-hand hunter, not some toy. You will remember you are the son of a duke.” Rhys stupidly had the urge to cover Jolly’s ears as hot tears washed his eyes.
“Mackenzie, I will not be humiliated on my own estate. See that the boy gets a proper mount for the morrow. Till then, I suppose this nag will have to do.” He turned to Rhys. “Well, don’t stand there gaping, tack the thing up.”
Rhys’s fingers slipped on the bridle’s throat lash and Mac had to come to help tighten the girth. The whole process took twice as long as usu
al. The only sound was his father’s crop snapping against his booted calf. The sound stopped suddenly. Rhys looked up from lowering a stirrup and just caught sight of the horse and rider as they pounded out of the paddock.
Rhys heaved up into the saddle and fumbled for the stirrups. Mac squeezed his thigh, “Steady, lad,” he said, winking. And Rhys had raced off to find his father.
The duke had gone into the northern park and had jumped the stile that separated two fields. He stopped and turned back to watch Rhys. There was no mistaking the challenge. Rhys’s breath caught, fear squeezing deep within him. There was no choice, he must go. He clucked to Jolly, and the pony, ever game and trusting, surged forward.
“Lean over his withers, lad.” He could hear Mac’s voice in his head, but all his practice was for naught in the face of his frowning sire. Fear and a desperate wanting to please took hold instead of calm reason. He went into the jump unbalanced, too far back in his saddle, his reins too long. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the worst. He felt the pony lift, and they flew through the air.
It was over in a moment.
Thunk! Rhys’s eyes snapped open as he grabbed the pommel. They had done it! The earth was again solid and sure beneath them. He immediately sought his father’s face; sure their performance would earn some glimmer of praise.
His father rode right up to Rhys, looked directly into his eyes and said, “No son of mine will ever make such a sloppy show. See that you do better on the next.” And he wheeled his great black and galloped to the next field.
Rhys dashed at his tears with the back of his hand, ashamed. He was no baby. He would prove himself. He dug his heels hard into the pony. When Jolly stumbled Rhys used his crop.
His father was headed neck or nothing for the hornbeam hedge at the far edge of the field. He looked back, and Rhys thought he could detect a smile on his father’s face. The hedge was clearly the next challenge. But surely his father would veer at the last moment. Surely he did not expect Rhys to take a jump that high? Mac had never let him jump anything half so tall. Rhys watched in panic and awe as his sire and the black sailed over the hedge.