by Liz Tyner
He thumped his walking stick on the floor. ‘I hate Warrington for giving refuge to those women when he should have packed them back on the ships they arrived on.’
‘They’re your daughters, no matter how much you deny it. You know it and I know it.’
‘I know no such thing.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s possible I spent some time with their mother while I was away from home. So I can understand how they might be under the impression I am their father. Ridiculous as it is.’
‘You make this easier for me.’
‘You let her gull you. You couldn’t keep your hands off her.’ He frowned and looked to the ceiling. His voice softened. ‘Not that I don’t understand. I had the same problem with her mother. Couldn’t leave the woman alone. I’d sail from Melos thinking I’d never see her again and then I’d go back. I couldn’t stay away.’
‘You were a married man.’
He chuckled, shrugging. ‘Only slightly.’
‘You are going to only slightly pay for deserting your daughters.’
Hawkins raised a pointed finger and softly shook it in the air. ‘Oh, no, no, no. You cannot do a thing to me or I will remind everyone how you soiled her. I am no different from other men. I even kept my number of visits to the island to a reasonable amount.’
A flush of intensity blasted Rhys’s body.
‘You would do well to follow my example.’ The voice hit Rhys’s ears with a clatter that rang on and on.
Rhys’s stomach churned cold.
Hawkins strode past Rhys. The walking stick brushed Rhys’s leg. Hawkins looked back over his shoulder. ‘She’s been nothing but trouble since she arrived. Calling on my wife. Not settling into suitable English society as her sister did. She’s nothing to me. My children—she let my real children see her. My daughter cried. Un…for…giv…able.’ He dragged out the syllables as if he spoke four words.
Hawkins stopped in the doorway. ‘And you…’ He pointed the cane at the painting over the mantel. A work by Lawrence. ‘Wouldn’t know a good painting if you fell over it.’
Rhys didn’t speak. He didn’t want to give the man even the smallest response, afraid of what his voice might reveal.
Hawkins’s walking stick crashed against the door frame. ‘You lie to yourself, Rolleston. You think you’re better than me, but you’re not. Your brother was born to be duke—not you. If he’d been wise enough to wed and sire a son before he died, you’d be living off your nephew’s whims. Now you toss crumbs about instead of scrabbling for them. Your dead brother’s crumbs. I bet every morning you say a prayer of thanks that he died.’
Hawkins left, pulling the walking stick up and putting it under his arm.
Rhys didn’t move.
The foundation of his life cracked, turning into rubble.
Chapter Twenty
Rhys went to a soirée. Louisa was there. She turned her shoulder to him when he walked near and relief surged along with guilt. The relief won when she danced twice with someone else and her eyes shone on her partner. Watching her, it was as if he’d never seen her before. This woman he’d hoped to marry, but had never really seen for who she was—because, he now realised, he’d never truly loved her.
He forced his attention to the man who was speaking to him, Lord Andrews.
Lord Andrews leaned closer, winking and smiling. ‘So what of the bit of muslin you—?’
‘Stop.’ Thoughts pummelled Rhys from the inside, causing him to need a moment to sort through even half of them. ‘I asked her to marry me. She refused.’
Lord Andrews stared. Rhys didn’t think he’d ever looked at Lord Andrews properly either. The man was commanding, of fair face and quick-witted. Yet, Rhys would have compared him to a toad, waiting, watching for insects. They’d shared brandies more times than Rhys could count.
‘I am pleased we spoke,’ Rhys said. ‘But I must be away.’
On his way to the door, he dropped the brandy glass he held on to a footman’s tray.
He had to wait for his carriage outside, the unseasonably cool air brushing his face and waking him up to feel even more.
How many times had he truly looked at himself through his own eyes? Possibly never. He’d always used the eyes of others to gauge himself. His father. His older brother. His mother. The things he did privately were deemed to deserve no judgement. No censure. No introspection. After all, he was the second son. It did not matter. Nothing mattered until after Geoff died and then everything tilted in a different direction.
The town-coach door was opened. Rhys stepped inside and made himself comfortable. Even in darkness, he knew exactly what the crest on the door looked like. He’d had the colours corrected as they faded. But he didn’t know the face of the man who’d held the door. Didn’t know his name.
Rhys touched his cheek with his marred hand.
He had thought, when he’d first discovered that Bellona was not the offspring of someone in the Greek upper classes, that she was scarred by her birth. Perhaps in a way like the statue without arms the sisters had found on Melos. The one that Warrington had told him about and said the sisters thought an ancestor of theirs had posed for. Supposedly, the statue favoured their mother.
But blemishes and perfection did not always appear in the expected forms. The white line at the top of Bellona’s nose made him want to kiss it. Her hair tumbling about called to him in a way perfection never would.
He was marred. Bellona had risen from a world of struggle and became someone of strength. He had been handed the world and only had to continue on the path already cleared for him, yet he’d been unable to choose the right steps. She’d made her own path and tossed her head back and fought with all her strength to survive, becoming stronger.
He’d become weaker. Softened by the world giving him his wishes as he indicated them. He supposed—but he would not wish to repeat it—if he had true strength, it had been gained when he’d watched Bellona follow the rules she created for herself.
The feeling of a funeral surrounded him, and now he felt he knew what it would be like to attend his own last service, and see the crypt surround him on all sides, with the grim knowledge that he had done this to himself.
*
Bellona sat in her room, the needle slowly going into the fabric and moving out on the other side. Her eyes not rising once. Holding the embroidery high into the light, she examined the stitches. She would be better letting the maid sew while she attended the washing. Cleaning she could do well, which no one wanted her to do. Embroidery, which everyone expected of her, was a tangle of threads.
If not for the war with the Turks, she would be wishing for a return to Greece. She couldn’t safely sail to Melos now. Or ever. If she did, she’d not be able to see her nieces and nephews grow. She’d not see her sisters again.
Warrington’s voice didn’t carry through the walls any more. She wondered if her sister had finally quieted him or if his throat had simply given out from the exertion. This was the one time he seemed to have forgotten his rule about servants not hearing family matters.
She looked into the grate. Only ashes left. No more of the vile newsprint.
She wished for more words to burn. Burning the papers somehow seemed to ease the ache in her heart. She could not even look at the mark on her body any more. Once, it had made her feel stronger, the memory of her mother—a trace of the past. Now, even the blemish ached.
Just like her heart and all the rest of her that mattered.
Ruined. That word had carried through the walls a few times.
‘She could not be more ruined.’ That had spewed into the air and cloaked her with a feeling of being unwashed.
The needle jabbed her finger and she didn’t spare her grumbles. She could be more ruined. Warrington was wrong to think otherwise. If not for her sister and niece and nephews, she would be finding out where the scandal sheets originated and marching there with the largest hammer she could beg from the stable master. The printer would be having a holiday from his w
ork long enough for repairs. Then he could write about the angry woman who’d smashed his press and stopped him from being able to put his cruel words on paper.
Rhys could not be sailing easily through this either. He could not.
‘A visitor for you.’ Her sister spoke from the hall.
Bellona’s heart pounded. Rhys. She thrust her sewing to the side.
The quick sideways shudder of her sister’s head paused Bellona’s movements.
‘The duchess.’ Melina frowned. ‘She’s…’
‘She’s in quite high dudgeon,’ the duchess said, walking in behind Melina. Melina rolled her eyes and left.
The older woman’s skin hardly covered the bones of her face.
‘Embroidery again?’ She walked closer, the black crepe of her skirt reminding Bellona of a raven’s wings fluttering about. Her reticule matched the clothing and her bonnet completed the effect.
She peered at the sewing while opening her reticule. ‘You should conquer reading first. Then dancing. Perhaps leave the sewing to someone else.’
She held up the folded paper and tossed it on to Bellona’s sewing. ‘I received this unsigned note, but I believe it is from Rhys’s man of affairs.’ She knotted the ties of her reticule. ‘I believe the words are simple enough for you to make out. I brought it for your own good.’
‘Your kali thelisi, good will to me, is kind.’ Bellona forced her lips into a smile and refused to touch the paper, uncertain if she could read it. Refusing to let the duchess see her stumble. ‘But I was going to send my sister to tell you I am not at home.’
‘Oh, my,’ the woman said. ‘Neither am I. The stairs weakened my knees. I’ll be in bed the rest of the week.’
‘You shouldn’t overtire yourself.’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you—if I left?’
‘Yes. I don’t wish to be near you.’
‘The house is quiet without you. The servants seem to miss having you about. One of their own has left them.’
‘Your maid was very kind to me.’ Bellona glanced at the messy fabric beside her. If she’d known what was to happen, she would have stolen a piece of Melina’s perfect embroidery and worked on it, pretending to complete it.
‘I’m sure the staff here is also kind to you.’ The duchess looked around the room. ‘The maid does know where her loyalty lies, though.’
‘As you know yours.’
‘True. I do.’ She held her head up, again reminding Bellona of a bird. ‘I’m a duchess. I’m well suited to it. But I am a mother first and I only have one offspring left.’ She sighed. ‘Are you with child?’
‘It is a little soon to know.’ She shrugged. ‘And when I do know, I will not inform you.’
‘I will raise the child for you.’ The duchess picked a bit of fluff from her gown.
‘I will bear that in mind.’
‘I’m excellent at selecting nursemaids. I have a gift for it.’ She lowered her lids. ‘I made sure my children had the best of governesses. Ones that suited them.’
‘Perhaps you should have cared for the babies.’
The duchess frowned. ‘Child. Think about it. If you were a babe, would you want me or a governess comforting your tears? I am not suited for that duty.’ She raised a brow.
Definitely, Bellona would have chosen a servant. ‘I see.’
‘Even now, I know to put the needs of my son first and let someone else handle the task of giving him direction.’ The duchess’s chin bobbed. The lines at her eyes deepened. ‘You must go to London and speak with Rhys. He’s causing a disgrace to our name by lowering himself to squabble in public. He is not maintaining his dignity at all. You caused this by your presence and you can correct it.’
‘But it would not be—’
‘Proper?’ the duchess inserted. ‘Child. You two lost that chance already. I would hope that you could be a bit discreet. Perhaps leave your bow and arrows behind and travel in darkness.’ She examined Bellona. ‘I’ll send a quiet servant with you and you can wear my veil and dark clothing. If anyone sees you, they’ll assume I’m visiting him.’
Bellona didn’t speak. She shook her head.
‘It’s not that I particularly like you,’ the duchess continued. ‘But I think I could—even though I cannot imagine you would ever be a true duchess. But I must have grandchildren and I want them now. There is only one way I know to get them and I will have to accept someone, so it may as well be you.’ She shrugged. ‘No one’s good enough for him, but then no one was good enough for my daughter or Geoff either. You see where that has left me.’
She shook her head. ‘I could accept someone as unschooled as you because of the grandchildren.’ She leaned towards Bellona. ‘I have decided I want the babies strong most of all. I want them to survive. You would have a spirited child.’ She sniffed. ‘You’re tolerable for short lengths of time. And you sing well.’
‘I doubt I would let my child meet you. Rhys is not going to be in my life again so you must pick out someone else to breed the next heir.’
The duchess chuckled. She examined Bellona toe to head.
Fingers splayed, the duchess put her palms together and then she interlaced her fingers. ‘The butler did the unthinkable. He started a betting book with the staff concerning Rhys and you. Even taking in the possibility of an heir. I am not supposed to know of it, but my maid understands the importance of her duties.’ She extended her forefingers towards Bellona. ‘All sorts of wagers are being bandied about. I plan for my maid to do quite well. The maid has been informed that she is to wager on you marrying Rhys inside the month and that the first child will be a daughter, because I know you will do that just to spite me.’
‘I liked you better when you were crying,’ Bellona said.
‘Well, child, you should have thought of that earlier. You should have thought about the consequences when you…bathed with my son. The butler has not yet recovered his senses or he would not have started the betting book.’
‘You have no say in this.’
‘Fine. But you need to alert Rhys that you mean nothing to him.’ Unclasping her hands, she stood.
‘I have.’
‘You have not convinced him.’
‘He’s a grown man. He can do as he pleases.’
‘Oh, he is,’ the duchess said. She smiled. ‘I have it on good authority—since the staff in London knows I must be informed of events—that an interesting tale could be bandied about at any day.’
‘What about?’ Bellona couldn’t help herself.
The older woman’s lips turned up. Bellona thought of Gigia.
‘I shall win that wager,’ the duchess said.
She didn’t walk to the door like a woman with a sore knee. She looked back. ‘My son has to have some tenderness for you or he would not be so bound on destroying your father.’
*
Bellona paused two steps from the room’s entrance, listening as she brushed the black veil from her face. A murmuring voice, a male, answered Rhys’s bursts of command.
She took a deep breath, moved to the doorway and saw Rhys and a smaller fellow. The diminutive man, face wan, needed a razor, although he had been near one much more recently than Rhys.
‘Your Grace,’ Bellona spoke, pulling Rhys’s eyes to her.
His eyes showed no reaction to her presence. He stood. ‘I beg forgiveness that I cannot entertain you. But as you can see we have much to finish.’ Papers mounded his desk and a small stack rested on the rug.
She tossed her reticule into the empty chair. ‘So no shop owner may dare exhibit any of my father’s paintings or they will have the Duke of Rolleston’s wrath visited upon them. Even the tradesmen are afraid to sell any artist’s supplies to him, for fear of reprisal. His every step outside his house is noted, and should anyone extend any favourable notice to his art they are warned away.’
This time, his face turned directly towards her and his eyes sparked an inferno. Then he switched his attention to Simpson and the man
jumped back in his chair. Even Bellona could see the guilt in the face of the man of affairs.
‘Rolleston.’ She snapped the word out, pulling his gaze. Even though she did not fear him, she didn’t like the look he gave her—the calmness a bit too scorching.
‘My dear. I am impressed.’ Then he pointed a pen to his man of affairs. ‘Simpson. For your talebearing you are let go without a reference.’
The man’s jaw dropped and he gathered his papers as he stood.
She stepped back into the doorway, feet firm. ‘Stop,’ she commanded Simpson.
‘Oh, I could not, miss.’ He caught a paper that had slid from his fingers, grasping it before it hit the floor.
She put a hand out, palm against the wood. No one could move through the doorway without pushing her aside.
Simpson stood, looking at her, eyes wavering but feet immobile. ‘Pardon, miss?’ His eyes begged.
‘Tell him,’ she commanded the duke. ‘Tell him there will be no repercussions for his actions.’
Words knifed the air. ‘There will be.’
‘Then he may wed me for my proika, my dowry.’
Rhys coughed. ‘His wife will object.’
She shook her head in frustration. ‘You cannot blame this man for his concern—if he did write to Harling House to mention your behaviour towards my father. You have a houseful of servants here and I have noticed that your staff at Harling House cares for you. Or perhaps they just fear the duchess and only pretend affection for you.’
‘I am quite well, thank you.’
Her eyes raked over him, and she pressed her palm tightly against the door frame.
Well groomed, he looked like a duke and commanded a woman’s attention in a discreet way. Unkempt, his appearance made a woman’s hands beg to straighten his clothing. Or loosen it some more. His eyes looked into the depths of her being.
Rhys need never question whether a woman would only want him for his title and his wealth. But he should always question whether she wanted him only to pleasure her senses. The days Bellona had not seen him had taken her strength and weakened her for his touch.
