“What are you looking at?” Rhiannon asked softly, even as she nodded and smiled at the men and women eddying around them in a steady flow of industry and, yes, amusement.
“According to Voil, a hoyden of the first order.”
“A hoyden?”
“The gun.” Endymion adopted her agreeable smile and nod as she took the arm he offered and they made their way up the steps to the mine offices and storage sheds.
“Point taken. Why are you here?” She was tenacious, his duchess.
“I was under the impression the entire dukedom of Pendeen is mine to wander at will.”
“You know what I mean, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps I am here because my wife is so afraid of a simple conversation with me, she has gone to ground like a fox the last hour of a Boxing Day hunt.”
“I was not aware that heirs might be conceived by conversation.”
“It depends on how the conversation ends.”
“Tsk! Good Lord, could this day grow any more tiresome? Captain Randolph, what brings you to the mines? Is there some disaster at the Swan and Crown?” Rhiannon slipped her arm free and walked toward the extravagantly dressed man conversing with Voil.
Tiresome?
Something about the man, this Captain Randolph, stirred a memory in Endymion. He had no time to think on it as he fully intended to force Rhiannon to answer his questions and to give him a chance to—
“Your Grace,” Captain Randolph said and walked toward Endymion, hand outstretched. “Welcome to Pendeen.”
The expression on Rhiannon’s face lent him far more information than this man’s bold assumptions and costly garments. Her opinion of the captain was even lower than that of her husband. A comforting thought. Endymion clasped his hands behind his back and stilled his face to his most bland expression.
“How kind of you to welcome me to my own home… Captain, is it?”
“Retired, Your Grace.” Captain Randolph offered a negligible bow, his features frozen in counterfeit subornation. “Presently, I am the steward here at Pendeen.”
“Steward? I sent for you the day after I arrived, Captain.”
“Yes, Your Grace, I have been indisposed.”
“Drunk,” Rhiannon muttered under her breath. Endymion did not fail to miss the hardening of the captain’s eyes nor Voil’s bark of laughter.
A clash of querulous voices across from the mines office drew everyone’s attention to a sort of rotating hearth before a monstrous furnace. A platform atop high scaffolding circled a large metal hopper. Several women with heavy kerchiefs across their noses and mouths were descending the platform in full cry at one another.
“I need to see to this,” Rhiannon said and squeezed Endymion’s upper arm. “Why don’t you question Captain Randolph about the estate, Your Grace? I am certain he can tell you anything you wish to know.”
The little minx. She’d put them both in their places and left the field in a flurry of kerseymere skirts.
“Voil.” Endymion nodded after his determined wife. His friend gave him a look of resigned incredulity, but caught up to Rhiannon and offered her his arm. Which she took far more quickly than she had his.
“Tell me, Captain Randolph, how is it I have seen fields full of crops and sheep and what appears to be a thriving system of mines, yet the estate’s income is in continuous decline?”
He only half listened as the steward tried in vain to answer his questions. Endymion had spent weeks in London going over the reports of the mines manager written in an uncompromising, obviously male hand, and the summaries of the estate’s rents and production written in a hand very similar to that of his duchess. After three questions, the supposed steward’s ignorance was clear. When Mr. Thomas joined them, the obsequious captain nearly wilted in relief. The fool put Endymion’s queries to Mr. Thomas as if they were his own.
Endymion, however, had learned long ago to quickly ascertain a conversation bent on wasting his time. Something he found intolerable. His continuous attention to his wife as she soothed the riled tempers of several combative women whilst Voil looked on in tenuous consternation had nothing to do with Endymion’s inattention to the empty droning of the captain and Mr. Thomas’s impatient responses.
Rhiannon stood between two groups of women, silencing one with a mere gesture and listening to the other. She had their respect and, more important, their trust. She’d been left here, a mere girl of fourteen and had, somehow, grown into a duchess without the example Endymion had been fortunate enough to have.
The women dispersed, laughing as they strolled toward the pump just this side of the rail fence. Some chose to wash their faces and hands whilst others filled a bucket and made use of some tin cups hung along the fence to quench their thirst. Rhiannon walked to the ladder that led up the scaffolding to the platform.
“Your Grace, I am certain you will agree that allowing children back into the mines will cut back on costs. Children work at half the pay of women and even less than half of what men are paid,” Captain Randolph was saying.
Endymion turned to respond when the din was rent by a sharp crack and a shout. His feet were in motion even as he saw he’d be too late. The scaffolding and ladder collapsed, slowly in his mind, though he knew it to be an illusion. Screams, running feet, and the horrendous whoosh of crashing wood enveloped him.
His voice failed him. He reached the wreckage and began to fling broken planks behind him with a furious strength he forgot he owned. He had a vague notion of Mr. Thomas and some of the miners working at his side. They cleared a path and realized someone stood just the other side of the heap of broken scaffolding.
“Rhiannon,” Endymion barked. “Voil! Where is my wife?”
“Pendeen, you owe me a new coat. This one is ruined,” Voil complained from the far side of the rubble, his back to them. When he turned, Endymion saw Rhiannon, pressed against a retaining wall and shielded by Voil’s body. Covered in splinters and dirt, the marquess attempted to tidy himself with his handkerchief.
All movement, all sound ceased as his friend escorted Rhiannon around the pile of debris. A wave of cold washed over Endymion and then a wave of heat. She barked orders at the miners and asked if anyone had been injured. Endymion clenched his fists to the point of pain. He could not breathe no matter how hard he tried. Finally, she saw him. She stopped, said something to Mr. Thomas, and then something to Voil, and then hurried to Endymion’s side.
“Dymi?” she inquired as she touched his arm. He looked down at her fingers, smudged with dirt. A few of her nails had broken. Her clothes were filthy and one of her sleeves had a long tear in it. Never had she looked so beautiful, nor so infuriating. And never had he been so lost from himself.
He reached for her, grabbed her upper arms and shook her. “Are you unhurt? What were you thinking? Why would you put yourself in such danger, you little fool?” He ran his hands over her, checking for blood or cuts or injuries.
She did not speak, only stared at him with doe-like, stricken eyes. She gripped his forearms and held on tight. Suddenly, every ounce of strength slid from his body. He rested his forehead against the soft cushion of her hair. Her breath wafted across his neck above his neckcloth and beneath his chin. He closed his eyes and listened to her breathe—softly, sweetly. Alive. He managed to match his breathing to hers.
His hands slid down to clasp hers. As if struck by lightning, his head shot up. He glanced around and spotted his horse. This time, when he dragged her across the dirt and rocks, she did not fight him. He lifted her onto Dunsdon’s withers and flung himself into the saddle behind her. A chorus of questions launched at his back—from Voil, from Mr. Thomas, from the captain—pelted him and fell unanswered.
“Dymi, perhaps we should—”
“You will not put yourself in danger again, Duchess.” He held onto but a sliver of civilized emotion. The Cornwall sky darkened. A vague rumble of thunder rolled across the valley. He urged his horse forward. He had to put the barren dust and ca
verns of the mines behind him. Trees, a piece of blue sky, a pasture of green beckoned him.
“You cannot come here and order me about like some lackey, Your Grace. I am—”
“You are my wife,” he shouted. “You are mine to protect. Why the devil do you think I left you here? I thought you’d be safe. I was wrong.” It struck him like a knife. “No more, Rhiannon. I will not lose one more thing to this Godforsaken place. I cannot. No more.”
Too much. He’d said too much. Seen too much. Lost too much. Worse, the man he’d become had no idea how to make it right without losing himself. He’d never been afforded that luxury. If he shattered, how would he ever manage to put himself together again?
He’d lost his gloves. The tendons in his hands stood in stark relief to the white of his knuckles. Rhiannon covered his hands with her own. His strength seeped through the thin leather of her gloves and warmed her. The sky roiled, a dark grey kettle brewing a summer storm. Safe in the shelter of his arms, she watched the rain walk across the fields toward them. Even once it reached them, peppering them with stinging drops, Endymion kept his horse at a steady walk. She didn’t mind. He needed the slow, dependable pace, the assuring rhythm of it. For the first time since his return, she knew what he needed from her. Even if she did not know why.
They rode on, down hedge-lined roads with verdant fields on either side. Save for the occasional drumbeat of thunder in the distance and the bleats of mama sheep calling to their lambs, no sound invaded the cloak of silence wrapped around them. Rhiannon blinked the rain from her lashes and tilted her head up to conduct a careful study of her husband’s face.
Her husband.
She’d known the boy Endymion better than she’d known anyone in her life. She’d recognized the duke he’d become from the day of his return, a younger version of his grandfather, a man she’d in turns feared, respected, and eventually hated. Yes, she’d avoided him all week, but that did not mean she had not watched and listened and wondered. The previous Duke of Pendeen had manipulated lives, held them under his hand like chess pieces, and sacrificed them when necessary to secure the glory of the House of de Waryn. Upon his death, Rhiannon had vowed never again to relinquish her fate to another.
Today, she’d seen a completely different Endymion. Oh, the controlled and officious duke had been present in full force, but the man who’d stormed into the depths of the tin mine to drag her out of danger had infuriated and amused her. And, yes, revived the attraction she’d had for him all those years ago. The attraction that had led her to agree to a deal with the devil to make Endymion her husband. A pact for which he’d never forgive her.
“You do not allow children to work the mines,” he suddenly said, his voice a pleasant rumble against her.
“No. They attend a school the rector and his wife have organized on the estate. In the afternoons, the older children work in the fields or on their families’ farms.”
“The lamps?”
“Davy’s lamps. I read about them in a mining report from Wales and wrote to him. He sent me a quantity of them to test.”
“Apparently, your letter writing skills are superior to mine.” The bemusement in his eyes belied his expression, still strained and carved in solemnity.
She laughed softly.
“I should not have left my letter writing to my uncle.”
“No.” She held her breath.
“I…wanted to write to you, Rhee. I wasn’t allowed. And then…it was easier not to because I didn’t know what to say.” He cleared his throat.
They’d ridden up the drive and arrived at the front portico of the house before she realized it. He dismounted and lifted her from the horse. She stared up at him, whilst a groom took the horse and Vaughn came out of the house exclaiming at the state of their appearance.
“It would not have mattered what you said, Dymi. It never did.” She followed a still flustered Vaughn into the house. “His Grace and I are in desperate need of baths and tea, Vaughn.”
“Of course, Your Grace. At once, Your Grace.” The butler snapped orders at footmen and maids and started up the stairs.
“Vaughn,” Endymion said.
“Yes, Your Grace?” He turned, head cocked in inquiry.
“The portrait.” Endymion offered Rhiannon his arm. This time, she curled both hands around it.
“Yes, Your Grace?” Vaughn paled slightly and swallowed.
“Thank you.” Her husband led her up the steps and past the smiling butler. When Endymion and Rhiannon finally reached the door to her chambers, he raised her hand to his lips. He turned it over and brushed his fingers across a scrape in her palm. His eyes never left her face as he pressed a kiss to her wound and closed her hand around it.
“I will…see you at dinner, Your Grace?” she asked as she gripped the handle on her chamber door.
“I look forward to it.” He sketched a bow and started toward the doors to his own chamber, where his pale-faced valet awaited him. Suddenly, he stormed back to her, seized her in his arms and kissed her—long, hard, and with a passion that terrified her. “After which, you and I have things to discuss and you have questions to answer.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Like, when were you going to tell me someone has been trying to kill you?”
Chapter Seven
She’d done it deliberately, the clever minx. Endymion refilled his brandy glass, leaned a hip against the black and gold chinoiserie sideboard, and watched. Watched as the exquisite beauty in bronze silk continued to charm and amuse the Marquess of Voil. Dressed in a shimmery gown that caressed her body like a lover, Rhiannon had entered the parlor before dinner and left Endymion and Voil in a state of attentive confusion, from the first sip of her before-dinner glass of sherry to the invitation to join her in the upstairs drawing room for brandy once the meal was done.
The entire meal had been orchestrated to ensure Endymion did not question her about the afternoon’s accident at the mines, nor anything else of substance. An army of servants in severe black and white livery had attended the three of them. The devil, they’d outnumbered them four to one. Rhiannon knew full well that nothing of consequence was discussed in the presence of so many servants. She’d had her cook prepare ten courses. Ten! From the woman who had complained bitterly at the serving of four courses merely a week ago.
Almost from the moment they were seated at the table, she’d engaged Voil in a lively discussion of the war against France, the social season in London, the location and management of his estates. And all the while, Endymion had sat, fevered and chilled in turns. Irritation crawled across his skin, a stinging centipede of awareness. He refused to lower himself to wonder why. He tapped the forefinger of his free hand atop his thigh. He dared not add to the conversation, for fear his first words might be…
“Where did you find such a dress?”
The fabric clung to every curve of her body. The bronze silk ebbed and flowed around her, a perpetual cascading fountain in the candlelight. It drew glints of every shade of golden brown from her hair. Hair dressed in an elaborate coiffure of curls atop her head, as elegant as any style worn by the loveliest of London’s ton beauties. Her earrings and necklace were Whitby jet, glowing against her skin in magnificent simplicity.
To Endymion’s mind, there was entirely too much bare skin against which the Whitby jet glowed. The gown bared her shoulders and a great deal of her chest in a bodice of crossed swaths of satin that lifted her breasts to the point he feared they might spill out for everyone to see. Well, Voil, at least. He took a sip of his brandy and scowled as Rhiannon’s laughter flitted across the drawing room for the third time. The marquess was making her laugh simply to enjoy the effect it had on her bosom. Bastard!
“Did you say something, Your Grace?” Rhiannon inquired, her face a mask of polite boredom.
“Nothing of consequence, Duchess.” He placed his glass on the sideboard and joined his wife and Voil at the arrangement of burgundy and gold damask settee and chairs before the fire
place. “Rather like our entire conversation at dinner.”
“Are you saying I have no conversation, Pendeen?” Voil asked. “Doing it a bit brown for a man who barely said two words through ten courses.”
“There was no need,” Endymion replied. “You and my lady wife had all the conversation needed.” He propped an arm atop the black marble mantel.
“Really, Dymi,” Rhiannon chided. “What a ridiculous thing to say. Not to mention, rude.”
“Not to worry, Your Grace,” Voil said with a smile. “I am accustomed to His Grace’s rudeness, being a victim of it on a daily basis.” The marquess half reclined on the settee whilst Rhiannon sat in the comfortable chair next to it. Did the man ever simply sit on pieces of furniture?
“That is too bad of you, Your Grace. Lord Voil is a most amiable companion.”
Endymion snorted. “He is a most pestiferous companion. There is not a settee, sofa, or chaise in my home that does not bear the imprint of Lord Voil’s fundament.”
Rhiannon’s sultry laughter ran down Endymion’s body like a caress. He barely stayed the involuntary shiver it evoked.
“If your house weren’t the dullest establishment in London, I wouldn’t choose to hide there so often.” Voil, propped on one elbow, leaned toward Rhiannon. “I fear my virtue is in danger from so many determined ladies, I have no choice but to make myself scarce from time to time.”
“Nearly every day,” Endymion clarified. “Usually from just before luncheon until after dinner.”
“Does His Grace truly keep such a dull house?” Rhiannon put her question to Voil, but she turned her teasing eyes, the color of Scottish whisky, on Endymion.
“I have attended Quaker funerals less dull,” Voil drawled.
“I keep a French chef who is as fond of Lord Voil’s handsome face as Voil is of Andre’s cooking,” Endymion replied.
“Andre?” she inquired of Voil, her eyes wide with faux innocence.
“What can I say?” Voil said with a shrug.
Thief of Broken Hearts (The Sons of Eliza Bryant Book 1) Page 7
