by Liz Tyner
His mother had spoken to him repeatedly about the heathen, informing him that the miss was beyond help. Each time she’d recounted the discussion between the two, her voice rose in anger. Not the bare mewl it had been before.
Finally, she’d left her room of her own volition to come and find him to complain with exasperation of having to deal with this motherless child who’d been left too long to her own devices. She’d wondered how he could possibly expect his own mother to correct such a tremendous neglect of education in the woman. ‘It would take years, years,’ she’d explained as she walked away, shaking her head.
He’d quashed his immediate urge to go to Bellona and pull her into his arms, celebrating with her the rebirth of his mother’s life.
Thoughts of Bellona always caused his mind to catch, wait and peruse every action or word concerning her a little longer. The miss did something inside him. Like a flint sparking against steel. Made him realise that his heart still beat, his life still continued and that some day he’d be able to walk into a room and not be aware of all that was missing, but see what was actually there.
He turned, moving towards the archery target that now stood in the garden beneath the library window.
Disappointment edged into him when he did not find her near the targets she’d had placed about. He went inside the house, thinking of her hair and the way she reminded him of pleasures he did not need to be focusing on right now. As he passed the library door, he heard pages rustling.
He stepped into the library. Stopped. Stared.
She was lying on his sofa. Around her face, her hair haloed her like a frazzled mess, more having escaped from her bun than remained. This was the moment he would have walked to her, splayed his fingers, held her cheeks in both hands and kissed her if…
Ifs were not for dukes, he reminded himself.
She rested stockinged feet on the sofa. Her knees were bent and her skirt raised to her calves while she frowned into a book. His mind tumbled in a hundred directions at once, all of them landing on various places of her body. The woman should not be displaying herself in such a way.
Courtesans did not act so…relaxed and improper. Even the women he’d visited in London—ones without modesty—would have remained much more sedate in daylight hours.
But he remembered his manners. Perhaps he’d erred, not she. She had not heard him enter the room. He took a quiet step back because he did not want to mortify her by letting her know he’d seen her sprawled so indelicately.
But then he saw the books. A good dozen of his most precious books scattered about her. One was even on the carpet. How could she? It was one thing to trespass, another to shoot an arrow at a man, but…the books…
Books were to be treated as fine jewels—no. Jewels could be tossed about here and there without concern—books were to be treasured, removed from the shelves one at a time, carefully perused and immediately returned to their place of honour. They were made of delicate materials. A nursemaid would not toss a baby here or there and books deserved the same care.
She looked up, swung her stockinged feet to the floor as she sat, dropped the book at her side. Her foot now sat on top of a boot, her skirt hem covering it, as she lowered her hand towards the remaining footwear.
Modesty. Finally. ‘You may dress.’ He turned his back on her slightly, so he would not see if her skirt flipped up while she put on those worn boots. He would have thought Warrington would have done better by her. He would put in a word to see that she had decent indoor shoes.
He heard a thump and the sound of pages fluttering.
‘I cannot read this—this—’
From the corner of his eye, he saw the title of one of his father’s favourite volumes disgracefully on the floor. He pressed his lips together and gave himself a moment. ‘Why are you in the library since you disregard reading?’ he finally asked.
‘Your mother has insisted I pick a book, study it,’ she muttered, ‘and be able to speak about it. She is punishing me.’
He heard the sound of her fidgeting about and then silence. He turned.
She glared at him, but she only had one boot on and she held the other in her lap, her right hand resting on it.
‘I do not think I like your mother,’ she continued. ‘The duchess told the servant who stores my bow I am not to have it. The servants are afraid to disobey her.’ She stared at him. ‘The duchess said it is good for me to learn to read English. That I should not be unleashed on society until I have better ways. I am fine with that, as long as they are my ways. I told her I do not wish to be unleashed on society.’
‘The books?’ With his hand, he indicated the floor.
‘They have too many pages and not enough drawings.’ She frowned. ‘Melina taught me the words when I was a child and when I discovered I was not reading Greek, but English, I hid the books. I have only read a few letters since then and they are never more than three pages long. This—’ she stared at him as if he had written the offending length ‘—this has so many words I do not know how the man did not run out of them.’
She picked up the book, holding it in her left hand and shaking it in his direction. For a moment he forgot to be outraged. Her bodice bounced enticingly.
He pushed his thoughts in a safer direction.
He remembered how she’d helped his mother. He took a breath. He must remind himself that the duchess’s health was more important than any book that had been in the family for near a century. Even one with hand-inked illustrations which Miss Cherroll had just waved about without any care.
He switched to a ruse she had used, turning it in her direction. ‘Books are actually only meant for the upper classes. Only peers should have them. They are too much for the common folk to appreciate.’
‘I agree. Only peers. Common folk have no time for reading. I sold both our books to a sailor,’ she said. ‘He knew how to read. It did not make him smarter, though, because he paid a good price for nothing.’
Her eyes sparked with a challenge that bolted inside his stomach.
She perched on the sofa like a preening bird and let the books rest about her like so many twigs.
‘I suspect his purchase was not as much—’ he eyed the books ‘—as my father and grandfather and I spent for those.’ He walked to the sofa and picked up a tome from the floor. ‘So when you are not casting jabs about the books, what do you really think of them?’
‘They are too much to read. But very dear to sell. I was so happy when I discovered that.’ Lifting one volume, she put it atop another. ‘I would not damage such costly items.’
‘That almost reassures me.’ Rhys kept his face unmoved. ‘What books did you sell?’
She held her chin high. ‘I do not remember. But I remember the necklace we bought for our mana. She had it on when she died. We claimed our father sent it with a ship.’
Rhys imagined the three girls giving the gift to their mother.
‘Your mother,’ she continued, ‘says I have been addled because I lost my own mana so young. She said I misled her about the pirates trying to capture our ship. She thought I lied about everything.’ Bellona’s lips firmed and she shook her head precisely.
‘So I sang the sailors’ song to her. She believes me now.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I should not have done it. I do not like that song. It is erotikos.’
Damn. The song had probably singed the pages of his mother’s prayer book and he would be hearing about it the rest of his life and on into eternity if he made it that far. He waved a palm about. ‘You do not sing improperly—not to a duchess. My mother. Miss Cherroll, you are to be a companion, not—’
She sighed, shut her eyes and shook her head. ‘I do not think she truly minded. I only wish I did not do it because it gave her a reason to trick me into looking at these infernal books.’
Dark eyes, more like some woodland pet than a woman’s, took him in. She didn’t say one word, but argument was in that gaze. He’d never seen eyes like those. His midsection
jolted again and he looked at the floor to push his attention elsewhere.
In one stride he picked up a book and held it in both hands. ‘This is Alexander Pope.’
‘Well, that tells me nothing.’
Then he saw her eyes turn to the book at her feet. He gasped, and pulled it from the floor. ‘You cannot place The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe on the rug. I have read it three times.’
‘I didn’t like the first page. Warrington has a copy. My sister read the first words and I left the room.’
His head twitched to indicate the book. ‘You simply cannot judge it by the—’
She contradicted him with her eyes. ‘Why not? The first page of the book is about the rest of the story.’
‘This one is about a man who lives on an island and learns to make do with what he has, and he is very happy because no women are about. Just cannibals.’
She snorted. ‘I do not see how that makes fine reading. My sisters and I lived on an island.’
‘He was marooned.’
‘You mean he could not leave if he wanted. How sad…’ She smiled. ‘And is England not an island? I cannot return to Melos, which is also an island. Melina and Warrington refuse to let me go back home because of the Greek war for independence and they fear pirates.’ She snorted again. ‘And then there is the man on Melos who wished to marry me, but…one of us would not have survived the wedding night.’
‘You were asked to wed?’ He studied her, and, yes, he could see how a man might say anything to get her into his bed. She sat, wiggling that one stocking-clad foot, like an asp, tempting him to partake of forbidden fruit.
‘If I had not hated him,’ she said. ‘I might have thought of it. I did not care for him and he had the mean eyes.’
‘Marriage is an honourable state.’
‘Your mother would be surprised to hear that from your lips. You should have married long before now. She has feared many times you would do as your father did and near destroy everything dear.’
‘My father?’ Rhys struggled over the words. ‘My mother held my father in the highest esteem.’
Bellona nodded. ‘Of course. But it was hard for her to love him at first.’ She grimaced. ‘When your brother was born and your mother became ill, your father stayed in London while she remained here. When he left, he told her he was a duke first, a man second and a father third. He did not mention being a husband.’
He heard her words. He saw her lips moving.
‘Do not joust at me. My father is dead,’ he said. ‘His memory is sacred. I will not have you disgrace him.’
‘Your mother said everyone knew. She felt abandoned. When she became strong again, she went to London and reminded him she was his wife.’
He picked up the volumes and placed them back on the shelf while he controlled his temper. Once the books were shelved he turned to her.
The rumours said Bellona’s father had died young and left a wife behind who’d been descended from the Greek upper classes. Perhaps the sister Warrington had married was descended from some Aphrodite-like ancestor, but this one was from the wrong side of the clouds. It did not matter to him if she had been born on a gilded mountain-top. Once he discussed her with his mother and repeated what false tales Bellona had just spread about his father, the woman would be gone. He would have the carriage readied and escort her to it himself. A woman could not disparage the duke’s father in his own home and expect to remain.
‘Nothing my father ever did was disrespectful to my mother.’
Her eyes widened. Pity directed at him. He frowned.
‘I must have misheard,’ she said finally.
‘I am certain you did.’
She glanced away. ‘I am certain I did, too. Perhaps I do not understand English as well as I think.’
When she turned her head, he saw a flash of gold at her ears. His mother’s earrings. He swallowed. He had unleashed the worst sort of woman into his very home.
‘Your mother fears leaving her rooms,’ she said. ‘She knows when she does you will think she can manage on her own and abandon her for London just as your father did.’
‘I would not abandon my mother.’
She looked down. ‘She knows you would not mean to. It is your duty. She understands.’
‘You are… I am… That is unacceptable. You are a liar of the worst sort. You will return to Whitegate.’
Perhaps that would be safest for them all. For her—because if she discovered how society would truly perceive her, she might be crushed. For his mother—because she did not need a woman near who would take her jewels while spreading lies. And himself—for a reason he did not wish to consider.
Bellona’s jaw clenched. She jumped to her feet, and moved to the bell-pull, her boot under one arm. ‘I will send for a carriage. I will not have to read at Warrington’s house.’
He could not believe it. His bell-pull. In his house!
‘Cease,’ he commanded, hand out in a halting gesture. No one except he or his mother touched this bell-pull. And he would not let this thief leave with his mother’s jewellery.
She stopped, still clutching the boot. ‘I’m leaving. Even the walls are sad here. No one laughs. No one plays. It is all reading and embroidery and dressing of hair and clothes.’ Her nose went up.
‘I will see that you do leave. A carriage will be readied.’ He waved an arm. ‘Come with me. I want my mother to know what you have said about my father.’
‘You first,’ she said impudently.
He did not want her to dart away with the earrings. ‘I insist. You first. I am a gentleman.’
‘Then do as I wish.’
He would not stand and argue with her. ‘Do not dare run for the door.’
‘You tell me to leave and then tell me not to go.’
He stepped forward, but kept an awareness of her and held out his arm for her to precede him. She rolled her eyes, but flounced from the room.
He gave a quick rap on his mother’s door and strode inside. She sat in her chair, but instead of the prayer book… He stepped closer. Fashion plates.
She glanced up at the two of them, but then returned to the books. ‘Oh, Rhys. I do not know how this poor child will ever be saved from herself and I have such a short time to mend her because I am going to send her packing any day now. She does not listen. She is worse than you are and I never thought anyone could be worse than you…’
He stared at her.
She clucked her tongue, examining the engravings. ‘I send her a maid to fix her hair and she complains. I gave her gold earrings and had to insist she wear them. Gold. What woman thinks gold is unsuitable?’ She held up a plate so he could see. ‘Child…’ She held the drawing so Bellona could see. ‘This is the gown I had made for me in blue to match my eyes. I don’t want yellow for you, but I cannot decide.’
‘I do not need any new clothing.’ Bellona’s words were clipped. ‘I am leaving.’
‘Nonsense,’ his mother commanded. Then his mother’s eyes caught on Bellona’s boots. She gasped, eyes wide. ‘Un-for-givable. Where are the slippers I found for you?’
‘I hate them. They pinch. I cannot wear them.’
Rhys watched. He just watched.
His mother’s fingers shook so that the papers in her hands made a fluttery sound. ‘Your stockings are dirty. Were you raised in a stable?’
‘Above one.’ That goddess nose tilted up. Rhys thought she might not have any of the society airs about her, but her nose and eyes could manage well enough and needed no lessons.
‘Now. Go. Put on fresh stockings and get those slippers and return to me. I wish to see you wearing them now.’
‘You are just like Gigia.’ Bellona frowned. She looked at Rhys. ‘She is just like Gigia. I will never drink too much around her.’
‘Then you were very lucky if you knew someone like me, but obviously you did not pay her enough heed,’ his mother said. Her eyes tightened on Bellona. ‘And you are just like my daughter was�
�may the angels hold her tight in their embrace. I thought never to get her wed to the right man.’
Bellona pursed her lips and blew. ‘I do not need anyone to find a husband for me.’
‘Bellona. I cannot believe it.’ The duchess sat, closing her eyes. ‘What did I tell you about being a lady?’ She shook the paper towards Rhys. ‘And you are in the company of a male.’
‘But he is only the duke and has already tossed me out.’ She shook her head. ‘I must return to Whitegate. You must give me my bow and arrows so I can leave.’
Only the duke? Rhys tried not to be offended. That was a phrase he had never heard in his life.
‘I forbid it,’ the duchess said firmly. ‘You are running amok and you have no mother to train you. You cannot leave until I tell you to. You will never have that bow and arrows if you do not do as I say.’ His mother turned to him. ‘Rhys. She cannot leave until I tell her.’
‘I am not running amok,’ Bellona said. ‘I am doing as I please.’
‘Exactly the same thing.’ His mother turned to him. ‘Tell her, Rhys. Tell her she cannot leave.’
‘I believe she should,’ he said stiffly.
‘Nonsense. Why, no man of any higher level than a nightsoil collector would give her a glance as she is. And she has good skin and rather a startlingly good singing voice. I am teaching her a hymn.’
Rhys took in a breath. ‘Is that what she sings to you, Mother?’
‘Why, yes.’ Her voice calmed and her shoulders relaxed. ‘Along with a few old songs from her country.’ She looked at Bellona. ‘Run along and change those stockings, and hurry back because I want you to decide on a colour.’
‘I will not hurry,’ Bellona said, leaving.
He cleared his throat, giving the wench a chance to pull the door shut behind her.
He must inform his mother about the tales. Then he would explain to this miss the repercussions of disrespecting a duke’s household—only a duke—and send her packing that very day.
Rhys forced himself to soften his words. He did not want his mother upset more than she must be. ‘She is a talebearer.’
