“If you will excuse me, sir, I should like to visit my bride now.” He got to his feet and gave a curt bow. “Good day.”
Durham just inclined his head, eyes still sharp with suspicion. Rhys forced himself to walk calmly until he reached the corridor and was out of sight. He let out a shaky breath. His shirt stuck to his back, damp with perspiration. His mind seemed in shock, jumping from one frantic question to the next without fixing on any answer. He would have to cancel the order for roofing slate—cancel the furniture ordered for Maggie’s sitting room—tell the artist there would be no wedding portrait—tell Maggie—tell Maggie. . .
God help him. He had to tell her she would be marrying into penury. If she still agreed to marry him at all.
He asked the footman where Miss de Lacey was. In the garden, was the reply, and Rhys followed the man out of the house. A number of servants were busy outside, pulling weeds and clearing ground for the new plantings she envisioned. His chest hurt; he could never give her that sort of garden at his house, not now. Fear and dread tore at him. Perhaps she was better off here. Perhaps he ought not even put the choice to her, for she might choose him.
He walked through the garden, his steps falling faster and faster until he was almost running. Ahead, almost by the arbor, he caught a glimpse of her flat straw bonnet, tied on with a bright green ribbon.
She looked up at his approach, but her happy smile faded at his expression. “What’s wrong?” she asked at once, without any form of greeting.
Rhys took her by the hand and pulled her behind him, away from the prying ears of servants. She threw down her basket and clapped her free hand to her hat, hurrying along with him. When they were quite alone, he stopped.
“Rhys, what is it?” she asked again, fully alarmed now.
“Do you love me?” he asked, grasping her arms.
“Do I—? Of course, you know I do,” she protested.
He shook his head. “No. Not that playful, flirting way. Do you love me?”
Margaret gaped at him. His fingers dug into the softness inside her elbows, but she barely noticed for the intense, almost agonized, expression on his face. “I do,” she replied quietly but firmly. “More than anyone or anything. Come what may, my heart is yours forevermore.”
His fierce look faded, replaced by relief and a dawning smile. “Thank God. The only way I could have misplayed this . . . mistaken this . . . was if you didn’t love me.”
Margaret didn’t know what to make of that. “Misplayed?” she repeated. “Is there some—some game I do not understand here?”
A vaguely bitter smile crossed his face. “A game. Yes, I do believe it has been a contest.”
She frowned. “What are you talking about?” A terrible thought struck her. “Does this involve my brother?”
“Yes.”
Her heart fell a thousand feet. Francis had refused. After all she had said and sworn to him, her brother hadn’t given his consent. “I will tear his bloody head off,” she said venomously. “I will make him rue the day he ever considered contravening my wishes—”
“We signed the marriage contract,” he told her. “Just now. I hope you can assemble your trousseau quickly, for I have no patience for a long betrothal.”
For the second time in minutes, Margaret stared at him, speechless. “What?” she cried. “He—You—he consented? We are truly to be married?”
“Of course.” He grinned at her. “Did you think I would be denied?” And he kissed her. Margaret felt the ground shift beneath her feet, as it always did when his lips touched her. For a while all thought of Francis faded away; who cared for brothers . . . or really anything but Rhys . . . at a moment like this?
“But then why did you look so grim?” she asked several minutes later, when her head had cleared. “Are—are you suffering doubts?”
“Doubts,” he repeated, holding her close. One hand moved soothingly over her back, but then he released her and turned away. “Perhaps. Not for myself, but . . . We did play a little game, your brother and I.”
“A game?” She hovered anxiously beside him. “What sort of game?”
He sighed. “A game where we . . . tested each other.”
“Test? What sort of test?” She was instantly suspicious again. “What did he do?”
He traced one fingertip down the lines between her brows until they smoothed away. “You have no dowry, Maggie,” he whispered.
“What?” That made no sense. Everyone knew Francis had promised her forty thousand pounds. But Rhys kept stroking her face, and it was hard to keep up any outrage while he was touching her. “That’s ridiculous,” she murmured.
“The contract I signed specified that you had no dowry,” he said. “Nothing but the clothes and jewels you already own.”
“But—but you’d be ruined,” she said. “Your plans—your hopes— How can you call that a test?”
“He didn’t think I loved you,” he said simply. “He thought I was an opportunist, a scoundrel who wanted you only for the money. So he prepared a contract that made it very clear I could have you, and only you. The only money I would have from him would be five thousand pounds, if I agreed to walk away without you.”
“That is not a game!” she cried, his meaning finally sinking in.
“No, I rather think it was.” He gathered her close again. “And I won,” came his whisper in her ear. “He shall keep his money, but I shall have you. And that, my darling, makes me far richer.”
“Then—why did you speak of doubts? Did you doubt I would still marry you?” She pushed against his chest until she could look into his face.
She had never seen him look so grave. “I wouldn’t blame you if you jilted me,” he said. “I can never offer you this.” He waved one hand to indicate the grounds and house behind them. “I have an empty town house and a crumbling Welsh manor. I can’t offer you a fashionable life in London. You would be a fool to marry me now.”
“And if I didn’t,” she said faintly. “Would you marry one of those other ladies on Clyve’s list?”
“No.” The color seemed to have leached from his face. “Alpine goats have more appeal than they do.”
She sniffed, then gasped, then choked on a horrified laugh. “You can’t mean it.”
He didn’t laugh or even smile. “You could marry someone Durham approves of. You could keep your place in life.”
Margaret thought of the polished floors and soaring ceilings of Durham House, the rooms decorated to her own taste, and imagined having such a house of her own to set up and manage. Of the balls she could continue to attend, the fashionable clothing she could continue ordering, the society she could keep. And she thought of Rhys returning alone to his bare house, his steps echoing in the empty rooms, with more cupids falling from the ceiling. Of the witless idiots who would mock him and sneer at him for failing to marry an heiress. Of the fact that he had signed a marriage contract that condemned him to even deeper ruin, since now he would have a wife to support—because he loved her.
“I think I would rather herd goats with you than marry another man,” she said. He stared at her a moment, then his shoulders eased as if a cord had been cut. “I have been poor for most of my life,” she went on. “These few months as sister of a duke have been like a dream, but not always a happy one. Every moment with you, though . . . those have been happy. Somehow we will find a way. I would rather be poor with you than wealthy with another man.”
His eyes closed. “Maggie,” he whispered. “Darling, I’m sorry—”
“Shh.” She rose up on her toes to touch her lips to his. “Don’t be.” It was Francis’s fault, not Rhys’s, but she wasn’t interested in that right now. “If you love me, kiss me again.”
His smile was slow but real. “How many times, Miss de Lacey?”
“As many as you can manage.”
“And for how long, Miss de Lacey?” he murmured, his lips brushing hers.
She put her arms around his neck. “For the rest of my
life.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Margaret knocked at her brother’s study door. As she waited, she adjusted the cuffs on her traveling dress. The footmen were bringing down her trunks and taking them out to the wagon waiting in the street. She just had one last thing to do before she left forever. When the servant opened the door, she went inside.
“I’ve come to say good-bye, Francis,” she said calmly to her brother.
He scowled back. Since the day Rhys signed the contract, Francis had been surly and curt to everyone. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, and a glass of sack was never far from his hand. Today the whole decanter of wine sat at his elbow. “You’re leaving?”
“I am. Before I go, I wish to say a few words to you.”
He hesitated, then jerked his head in a single nod. Margaret waved the servant away, waiting until the fellow closed the door behind him. She turned back to her brother. “You, sir, are a snake.”
His eyebrows drew together sullenly, but he didn’t reply.
“Perhaps you think you did the right thing.” She shrugged. “You never bothered to tell me one word about what you planned to do, or why, so I don’t know what justification you made to yourself. Instead you took back all your money, which was your right—I told you to keep it from the start. I do not hold it against you, nor do I want it back. But instead of being a gentleman and a man of your word, you lied to Rhys, and for that I will never forgive you.”
“I thought he only wanted the money,” her brother muttered. He took a gulp of his wine. “He’s a damned fortune hunter, Meg.”
“He’s the man I love,” she flung back at him. “An earl, a respected and responsible man—and no different in fortune from every other man who courted me. What did you expect, when you told the world I would have forty thousand pounds for a dowry?”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. He stared into his glass. “I didn’t think you would be swayed by a tawdry seduction. You fell for him too quickly, Meg. Wait a year and I’ll restore the funds, if he’s still the one you want.”
“Wait a year?” She laughed in scorn. “What is another year to Margaret, who’s already waited three decades to find a man who could find her beautiful? Interesting? Desirable? I’d rather have Rhys and take in washing than wait a year merely to appease some suspicious whim of yours.”
“Will he still find you beautiful when his credit dries up and he can’t rebuild his estate?” Francis growled. “Will you still love him when your fine clothes have worn to rags?”
She raised her chin. “I will,” she said quietly. “I have been poor and plainly dressed before; I shall survive it again. Rhys has lived in his estate as it is, and is content to continue doing so.” She paused. “I’m sorry you can’t see that we truly care for each other, but I’m happy with my decision.”
Her brother swilled back the considerable wine in his glass. “I don’t want you to make a mistake, Meg,” he said thickly, looking almost gaunt with despair. “He’s seduced you—you must wait until the allure wears off. It will, I promise you. Better to suffer a bit of heartbreak now than years of regret, knowing you threw away your chance to be happy . . .”
When he said no more, she bit her lip in sudden understanding. “Someone broke your heart,” she guessed. He closed his eyes. “I never knew,” she said softly. “Oh, Francis—”
“Leave it,” he snapped. “It was a youthful mistake, and not one I’ll make again.”
“Yes, like the way you gave up all spirits after your first blue-deviled morning.”
“Marriage is far more important than that!” he roared, erupting out of his chair with such fury, she took a step backwards in alarm. “And more lasting. If you regret it and wish to come home in six months, there is nothing I can do! You will never be free of him.”
There was an element of torment in his voice she’d never heard before and didn’t quite understand. “I don’t want to be free of Rhys,” she said slowly. “Francis, I love him. He loves me. No matter what lies ahead for us, I trust him to be honorable, just as I vow to be with him. I’m not a schoolgirl any longer, with vague dreams of marriage that can’t possibly bear up in life. In truth, perhaps it’s better I’m a more mature woman. I suspect many bad marriages are born out of youth’s naivety and idealism.”
His mouth quirked in a bitter smile. “Too right you are, Meg. Too right.” He sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. You’re not a silly girl. I still think of you as a child, but of course you are not. And I daresay you’ve always been more level-headed than I in any event.”
Margaret hesitated. He looked older, beaten down, and tired. For the first time she realized he had lost weight since becoming the duke. His clothing, fine and elegant though it was, hung a bit on his tall frame. It occurred to her that he would be alone in this enormous mansion after she left, weighed down by duties and responsibilities without a single friend or trusted relative to lean on and confide in. It wasn’t like Francis to lean on anyone, but she felt a burst of compassion for him anyway. “I hope you won’t allow one mistake to keep you from ever risking love again. You would make a splendid husband.”
He stared out the window for a moment. “I highly doubt it.”
“Because you were wrong once? Or because you cannot trust the motives of anyone who would want to marry a duke?”
He shot her a sour look, then sighed, his gaze sweeping the room. “I suppose I have to consider it, for the sake of all this.”
“For your own sake, consider it,” she said firmly. “And for mine. I look forward to spoiling your children.”
A bit of real humor softened his expression. “They had better be sons. A daughter would destroy me. You’ve come damned close, and you’re only a sister.”
Margaret laughed. “Yes, sons! I wish you several sons, so you might reap the full measure of your sex’s pig-headedness.”
Francis smiled faintly. “Of course you would.” He turned back to the window. The grounds behind Durham House had been sadly neglected, and were still a mess of dug up landscape. “This isn’t mine, not really. It’s only mine to administer until the next generation comes along.” He paused, then said quietly, almost to himself, “Until my son inherits it.”
“First you need the wife.” She came up and straightened his lace jabot, flicking her hands over his velvet-clad shoulders. “A good, sensible lady who won’t dissolve in tears when you roar at her. Someone who can bring warmth and laughter to the house even when you’re in one of your grim moods. Someone who will make a good mother.
He grunted. “How will I find such a creature, if you leave?”
“Miss Cuthbert is still available to assist you in finding a match,” she offered, but he only looked at her grimly. She rolled her eyes. “Think of it as a lucrative investment. You never have any trouble finding those. And this time you shall have additional pleasures not found on the ’Change.”
He started to smile, then frowned. “Did Dowling—?”
“Did I what?” Rhys spoke from the doorway. Neither of them had heard it open, although a flustered servant hovered just behind him. His dark gaze rested on Margaret, steady and warm, before shifting to the duke. “Your Grace.” He bowed. “Miss de Lacey.”
She couldn’t help it; a wide smile spread across her face, and she managed to walk sedately to his side even though she wanted to run and throw her arms around him. “Lord Dowling is late for his bride,” she said lightly.
“Lord Dowling is ever so grateful she waited for him,” he replied, catching up her hand to kiss her knuckles. “I had a small errand to do.”
“Where are you going?” growled Francis.
“To the church,” Rhys said. “It’s our wedding day.”
Her brother seemed startled. She saw the dismay in his face before he masked it behind a scowl and grumbled something under his breath. “Won’t you come with us?” she asked on impulse. “Will you come to my wedding, Francis?”
“I don’t approve of this,” he muttered.
“That has been made abundantly clear,” said Rhys, squeezing Margaret’s hand. “But we would still be honored to have you stand up with us.”
The duke regarded them for a moment, then jerked his head. “Very well then.”
Durham was silent and glowered at him the entire way to the church, but Rhys barely felt it. He knew it made Margaret happy to have her brother there, even if he had treated them so abominably. He didn’t quite have it in him to forgive the duke so readily, but for Margaret’s sake, he could hold his tongue today.
The wedding was brief and small. Clarissa Stacpoole and Freddie Eccleston came, and Clyve was there. Aside from a loud, indrawn breath when Margaret repeated her vows, Durham said nothing during the ceremony. Margaret’s eyes grew wide when Rhys slid the ring on her finger, a wide gold band with a clear blue aquamarine set on it. He grinned at her in reply, and her answering smile was brilliant with happiness.
When the ceremony was over, Clarissa provided enough chatter for them all, although Clyve and Eccleston did contribute hearty congratulations. Margaret murmured an excuse to her friend and walked to where her brother stood apart from the rest.
“Can you be happy for me, Francis?” she asked softly. “For I am very happy.”
He kept his eyes fixed away from her. “I shall try. I suppose it will be easier if Dowling treats you properly.”
“I have no doubts. I believe—” Through the open church door, Margaret caught sight of a familiar and expected figure. “Pardon,” she said to her brother, and hurried forward to meet Miss Cuthbert.
“Am I late?” cried her companion. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was escaping its cap. “Oh dear, I’ve missed the wedding!”
“But not the congratulations.” Margaret pressed her hand. “We missed you.”
A fierce smile broke out on the older woman’s face. “I had a good reason, Miss de Lacey—or no, you are my Lady Dowling now! But here it is. I did my best.” She handed over a heavy purse.
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