If only she could do the one thing she’d sworn she would not. Seduce him. Make him want her so much that he couldn’t stop himself from making love to her as he had stopped himself today.
Despite her claims of being uneducated in such matters the night before, it seemed Anne would have to learn the ways of seduction, and quickly.
After all, it might be the only way to keep her husband by her side.
Chapter 7 Rhys stormed down the hillside, away from the cottage, away from the cliffs and toward the stable. Eventually he planned to walk the green expanse of hilly country that seemed to go on forever.
Not that the beauty of his surroundings mattered even a bit to Rhys. He was too frustrated, both physically and emotionally, to notice such things.
Waking up beside Anne, his body curled around hers, his hands touching her in such intimate ways, was not in his plan. He had run here to escape everyone in his life, including his wife. He didn’t want any of them to see him as he struggled with the truth of his parentage. His vulnerability at this time was unconscionable and he needed peace to overcome it and hide it away before he saw to the business of the blackmail awaiting him in London.
But with Anne here there was no peace. She forced him to face his emotions. She made those emotions merge and twist with the desires he had always fought to control and the feelings she demanded he know.
So instead of respite, now he found himself tormented by and unable to escape the scent of Anne’s skin, which still hung on him like perfumed heaven.
He wanted her. He wanted to turn around, go back to the cottage, lock the door, and simply drown in her body for a few days. He wanted to make love to her, to claim her in every way he had ever imagined but suppressed out of a need for propriety and control.
But he couldn’t. He knew what awaited him when he returned to London. He had seen the horror of blackmail play out with other men and it never failed to destroy them. Their secrets were always laid bare in the end, no matter how valiantly they had struggled to protect them. Once that happened to Rhys, the scandal would tear through his life, his mother’s life, even his married sisters would not be left untouched, though he could at least hope that the superior reputations of their respective husbands would offer some refuge.
But Anne…Rhys still clung to the idea that he could keep her from all this. Shield her, at least, from the very worst of what was bound to come. If he could keep her from the truth and make her see that separate lives were the best and only option, there might be hope for her.
But that wasn’t his only reason to stay away from the temptation of his wife. Even if he could never be stripped of the title of duke in the eyes of the law, even if the world continued to “Your Grace” him until he went mad from hearing it, he knew the truth.
His father had pounded into him the sanctity of his blood and the proud history of his line. And with Rhys, that line had been broken. Intruded upon. If he gave in to his desires, if he drowned himself in pleasure with Anne, he could very well have a child, a son who would inherit Rhys’s false title.
But if he had no children, there was still a chance that some distant cousin, some true Waverly heir could be found and the line would thus be repaired and carried forward upon Rhys’s death.
But for that to happen, he had to stay as far away from his wife as he could. It meant summoning up all the control he had long been proud of and making sure he didn’t impregnate her or bind her to him in any other permanent way.
“Damn it!” he cried out to the heavens in general as he raked a hand through his hair.
“It appears you are in good spirits this morning.”
Rhys froze at the voice that echoed from behind him. Slowly he turned and found a man standing beside the path, an axe over his shoulder and a friendly smile on his face.
“And just who the hell are you to comment on my mood?” Rhys snapped, reaching blindly for the arrogant superiority that had long been his protective mantle.
A smile tilted one corner of the man’s lips, a knowing expression that raked across Rhys’s already ragged emotions.
“Speak, stranger,” he commanded. “If you know what’s good for you.”
“You really don’t recognize me, Your Grace?” the man asked, his smile fading in the face of Rhys’s judgment and anger. “Well, I’m not surprised. It’s been many years since I could call you friend.”
“Friend?” Rhys repeated, sarcasm dripping from every letter. “You must be mistaken. I don’t have friends who are—”
He stopped mid-sentence and looked all the closer at his companion’s face. It appeared remarkably like the friendly countenance of Mrs. Parks, the village woman who brought him food. And that meant this man was likely…
“Stuart?” Rhys said, all the anger leaving his voice and his body. “Is that you?”
Another smile widened across the other man’s face, open and friendly, even after Rhys’s cruelty. “Indeed it is, Your Grace. When I arrived late last night, Mother said you had come for a visit. I thought to accompany her here this morning and chop you some wood for your fire.”
Rhys blinked, staring at the man who had once been a boy Rhys played with on the cliffs. The boy who had taught him the right place to jump into the sea. The boy who had been his first friend who wasn’t of rank or importance to the ton.
“Great God, Stuart,” Rhys said, reaching out a hand slowly. “I hardly recognize you.”
The other man seemed surprised by the offering, but shook Rhys’s hand regardless. It was a strong handshake, much stronger than those of some of the so-called powerful men Rhys spent his time with at home.
“Well, it has been many years since we last met, Your Grace,” Stuart said. “You have changed much yourself.”
Rhys lowered his chin to avoid Stuart’s gaze. He could well imagine what he looked like, disheveled from sleeping in the same clothing he had worn yesterday, unshaven, hair a mess. He likely didn’t look much like a duke.
But then he wasn’t. In truth, he was scarcely better than the man before him. A man he had spoken to in such a dismissive tone not two minutes before.
“But it seems I’ve interrupted you in the midst of some kind of upset,” Stuart said. “I could leave you to it…”
Rhys frowned at the implication that there was another option. “Or?”
Stuart grinned. “Or you could work out some of that frustration with me.”
He held up the axe and gave it a wiggle as he laughed. Rhys stared. Was this man actually implying that he should go chop wood? Like a common servant? Like a common…
Well, a common person in general. Which was, in truth, what Rhys now was, at least in his heart.
“Why not?” Rhys said as he fell into step beside the man who had once been a friend. “I couldn’t feel any bloody worse.”
Rhys choked out another deep belly laugh as he leaned against the pile of wood behind him. Stuart let the axe blade split through another log and continued with his story.
“So then the woman says, ‘That’s not a hat, sir. That’s my little doggie.’”
Both men dissolved into shaking laughter. Rhys leaned over, clutching his aching stomach as he slapped a palm against the woodpile a few times. God, it felt good to laugh. How long had it been since he truly laughed like this? He could scarce recall.
Before he could ponder that much more, he heard a feminine voice say, “Goodness, that must have been a bawdy joke indeed, to inspire such hysterics.”
The laughter on Rhys’s lips died instantly and he turned to see Anne coming down the hill toward them. She was smiling and had a small basket draped over her arm. But as she drew closer, Rhys saw the anxiety in her gaze, especially when it briefly fell on him and then darted away.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Stuart said, straightening up from his leaning position on the axe handle and giving Anne a deferent bow.
“Good afternoon…Mr. Parks, is it? Your mother said you accompanied her today in order to chop some
wood for our hearth.” She smiled her thanks. “When I couldn’t find His Grace, I thought to look for you here.”
“A very smart thought, as here we are,” Stuart said.
Rhys stared as Anne gave a light laugh. She was smiling at the other man with a warmth and friendliness that seemed to be at the very core of her nature. Even with an elevated life, an exalted title, Anne had never resorted to the superiority or cutting cruelty that was so often a part of the ton.
It was most definitely a part of him. And he had never regretted it until these last few days when he realized he hadn’t deserved to see himself as better than anyone, no matter what his so-called father said about it.
“I’ve brought some of your mother’s delightful food,” she said, lifting the basket delicately. “You two must be hungry after so much hard work.”
Stuart shot a quick look toward Rhys and then shook his head with a smile. “I much appreciate the offer, Your Grace, but I should likely return to your cottage and help my mother back to the village. And then I have a full day of work ahead of me.”
Anne nodded, but Rhys thought he saw her gaze slide to him once more. “Very well. It was nice to meet you, and please give your mother my thanks. I much enjoyed the time I spent with her this morning.”
Stuart nodded briefly, said his good-byes, and then left Anne and Rhys alone. There was a silence that rose up between them when Stuart was no longer a buffer. Uncomfortable, just as it had been the day before.
Finally Anne stepped a bit closer. Rhys found himself holding his breath as she raised a hand and reached for him. She hesitated a fraction of a second, then brushed at his shirt instead of touching him in any intimate way.
She didn’t meet his gaze. “You are filthy, my lord. Whatever have you been doing?”
He smiled. “A bit of wood chopping.”
Her eyes widened and she actually took a step backward. “You?”
He nodded once and made no further explanation. Of course it was shocking, the work was far beneath him. But once he had gotten the hang of it, he had to admit it felt good to do something so physical. To pour his bitter emotions and frustrations into every swing of the axe and be rewarded by the cleaving of each log.
“Well, I have a flask of tea here,” Anne said, setting the basket on the wall of wood beside her. She handed the item over. “You must be thirsty after such hard work.”
Rhys nodded his thanks and opened the flask. He was greeted by the rich scent of the tea, and when he took a sip he smiled. It was the most delicious brew he had ever tasted. And it was prepared just as he liked it.
But of course Anne would make his tea as he liked it, wouldn’t she? After all, she had studied to be his bride for a long time. And there was also the fact that she claimed to love him. Knowing that shocking fact colored the simple gesture of her bringing him tea. It made it an act of love, not just duty or politeness.
He swallowed and motioned to the basket. “Did Mrs. Parks bring this to the cottage?”
Anne nodded. “Yes. And she stayed to tidy up a bit and offered to do any laundering we had. She’s a lovely woman, we had a nice talk.”
Rhys took another long swig of tea, but kept his gaze focused on his wife as he did so.
“I can well imagine she had stories for you about my past,” he said, though the idea somehow made him uncomfortable.
Anne nodded and her smile widened. “Yes. She told me a little about your time here. How much she enjoyed your family visits. Her stories reminded me of how carefree you were when we were children.”
Rhys found his jaw clenching and said nothing in response. When a moment had passed, Anne shifted uncomfortably.
“At any rate, I brought this down in the hopes we might picnic if you’re hungry.”
Rhys hesitated. Sharing a meal with his wife was a perfectly natural gesture, and given their surroundings, a very pleasant idea. But hadn’t he just told himself he had to separate more from her?
“Come,” Anne said when his hesitation stretched out between them. “You must eat, mustn’t you?”
Rhys’s stomach replied by growling, and he shrugged before he reached out and took the basket and the blanket she had placed beneath it.
“Very well. Follow me, I’ll take you to the best picnic spot on the property.”
Anne smiled as she fell into step beside him. As they walked, Rhys waited, ready for her to talk to him about what had transpired in their bed that morning. Or to press him about his intentions to end their marriage.
But she did neither of those things. Their walk was quiet, even comfortable. Anne said nothing until they moved over a hill and she gasped.
Rhys couldn’t help but smile, for her reaction was exactly what he had hoped for when he decided to bring her here to this spot that had been a favorite of his as a boy.
A flowing field stretched out before them, awash in color from the many blooming wildflowers. Cutting through the green and rainbow-colored expanse, a stream bubbled toward the unseen but angry sea in a winding path. Just beyond the field, a cluster of untamed trees marked the beginning of wild country where no one had ever planted or marred with human elements beyond footsteps or hoof falls.
“My God, Rhys,” Anne breathed as she followed him to a spot beside the brook where he spread out the blanket for their picnic luncheon. “This is magnificent.”
Rhys couldn’t help but smile at her wide-eyed enjoyment. “Indeed it is. I loved to come here as a boy.”
Her gaze darted to his, but she made no comment. Instead she dropped down on her knees on the blanket and began to unpack the delicious foods Mrs. Parks had prepared for them. Rhys joined her, taking the plate she ultimately prepared.
They had eaten quietly for a little while when Anne looked out around her. She took in a deep breath and Rhys knew what she felt and smelled. Sea salt air with a gentle softness of summer to it. There was nothing better.
“This place is so wild,” she murmured, then looked at him briefly. “Not at all like you.”
Rhys found himself smiling and then, utterly unexpectedly, a burst of laughter escaped his lips. Laughter just as real as what he had expressed when Stuart told him that joke. Anne stared at him, almost like he had gone a little mad.
“Is this an insult, wife?” Rhys finally asked when he regained his composure.
“No!” Anne raised her hands, almost in a plea, and started to speak again. But then she stopped, tilting her face and examining his so closely that Rhys almost turned away. Finally she smiled. “You are teasing me?”
He shrugged as he set aside his now-empty plate. “You’re surprised?”
Anne wiped her hands on the linen napkin in her lap and nodded. “It isn’t your normal demeanor, I admit.”
Rhys turned his face. His normal demeanor. How often he had found himself pondering that very thing over the last week. Being here, knowing the truth about himself, it made every moment of his life run through his mind in a constant stream. And so often he saw images of how dismissive he had been of others, just as he had initially been with Stuart just that morning. He recalled times when he had been cold, unfeeling…even cruel.
Had the victims of his actions really deserved what he said or did? Was his coldness and distantness truly warranted?
“I suppose I am…” He hesitated, uncertain of how to describe his behavior. “I am stiff under normal circumstances.”
Anne frowned, and he saw that she was thinking of his past as well. She claimed to love him, and perhaps that blinded her in some things, but she was an intelligent woman and she had to see his lesser qualities. What did she think of him then?
“Formal. You are formal.” She shrugged. “But that comes with your title, doesn’t it?”
Rhys couldn’t help but cringe at that reminder. His behavior had been caused by the assumption that he held one of the highest titles in the land. That somehow his birthright had given him more cause to behave in a prideful and superior manner. He had called that propriety
and convinced himself it was the way to command the utter respect the Waverly name deserved.
“My title,” he said softly. He sounded raw, his voice empty.
She nodded, unaware of the undertones to the path of this conversation. “Yes. Being a duke comes with great responsibility. Even before your father’s passing, I saw you transform from the boy you once were and shoulder those things with enormous seriousness.”
Rhys rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t always been serious. He could remember running through the countryside here with not a care in the world. It was only when his mother stopped bringing him to this place, when his father…when the duke had become the main guiding force in his life, that he had stopped laughing and started feeling the disdain his birth allowed him.
“But,” he said, almost more to himself than to her, “there are many of my rank who are not so…formal, as you put it. Like Simon. Simon is a duke and he is…different.”
Anne leaned back, looking at him for a long time before she spoke. “You know, I cannot recollect the last time you called him Simon. I’ve not heard you refer to him as anything but Billingham for years.”
Rhys nodded. Yes, he had always called those of rank by their titles and insisted others do the same with him, even close friends. But now it was different. Simon was more than a friend. As the days went on, Rhys was beginning to accept that Simon was his brother.
“I-I’m beginning to see him in a different light, I suppose,” he answered.
“You see him differently because of whatever happened between you in London. Whatever drove you here,” Anne said.
She kept her eyes on the blanket beneath them, plucking at a loose thread absently, but there was no denying her tone. Once again she was pressing him for the truth, though perhaps more subtly than before.
Rhys almost smiled. Anne was tenacious, he had to give her that.
“I cannot speak to you about that, Anne,” he said softly. “Someday soon you will understand why. But not now.”
She didn’t look up from the blanket, but Rhys saw the muscle in her jaw twitch ever so slightly. His answer was unsatisfactory to her and for that he found he was truly sorry, but he couldn’t give her more. He had to keep her in the dark about his reasons for running. To shield her, even in the smallest way. If he didn’t, she would try to protect him and damn herself in the process.
The Unclaimed Duchess Page 8
