Feeling his questioning eyes on her, she gave her head a clearing shake. “I’d never fight with Lettie,” she said softly.
He snorted. “Then you have far greater patience than most.”
She frowned. Lettice had been the only friend she’d had… ever. She was the one person who’d been unafraid of the gossip that came in any dealings with Alice, and hadn’t been sorry-eyed whenever talk of Henry Pratt, “The Bastard”, as Lettie had named him, was mentioned.
“I’m not disparaging my sister,” he said, with an unerringly accurate read of her thoughts. He rubbed his gloved hands together frantically. He breathed against them, in what could only be a futile attempt at warmth. “She could put the greatest barrister in London to shame.”
The shock of those words ripped through her. Alice tripped and went down hard on her knees.
With a curse, Lettie’s brother stopped mid-stride and doubled back.
As he reached down to help her up, she searched the sharp planes of his face for a sign of deliberate cruelty. Brushing off his offer of assistance, she struggled to her feet.
“Are you all right?” he asked, glancing up and down her person.
She hadn’t been fine in more months than she could remember. But he was the first who asked after anything other than The Scandal. “F-fine,” she said quietly. “I am fine.”
It did not escape her notice when they resumed their journey that he continued at a slower, more measured pace.
“So it was not an argument with my sister,” he murmured, to himself. He cast her another look. “A row with dear Mama, then?”
That startled a laugh from her. How much more wonderful it was to laugh than to indulge the melancholy state she’d lived in for more months than she should.
He glanced questioningly at her.
Alice slapped a gloved hand over her mouth. “Forgive me.” She measured her words. Well, blast, how to offer anything that would not be construed as an insult. “I just would not…” She went close-lipped. But then, mayhap word of her insult would reach the dowager marchioness and she’d order Alice gone… and then face could be saved. For then, it wouldn’t count as fleeing.
Lettie’s brother lifted an eyebrow. “Would not have taken the dowager marchioness as the maternal sort?”
Her lips twitched. Given the lady in question had insisted on being addressed only as “my lady” and nothing more at their first meeting, there’d never been a hint of anything maternal about the greying matron.
He winked once. A mischievous twinkle glinted in his steel-grey eyes. “You would be correct.” He dropped his voice to a shamefully loud whisper. “There is nothing warm or maternal about her. It is why I, to her greatest annoyance, call her Mama.”
The tic at the corner of his right eye indicated she and this stranger… Lettie’s brother had moved into dangerously somber territory, where all teasing stopped, and secrets dwelled.
Lettie’s brother, whose name she still did not know. Alice peered into the distance. How far had she in fact traveled? The gentleman had been right in his earlier claims about her common sense.
He tapped a contemplative finger against his lip, bringing her gaze to that hard flesh slashed up in the hint of a smile. “Very well. You’ll not tell me who your squabble was with, my lady?”
“There was no squabble,” she persisted, hating the formality he’d erected through that proper form of address. Feeling his stare, she looked up. He lifted another pointed brow. “Alice,” she corrected instead, giving him that name she so despised. “You may call me Alice.”
The name was given to her not by a loving parent but by a servant after she’d entered the world. She was supposed to be a child meant to replace a beloved son her parents had previously lost.
“Alice,” he repeated, as though experimenting with the feel of her name, his velvet baritone wrapping those two syllables in a silken caress.
She trembled; a little shiver that had nothing to do with the winter’s chill that had left her numb with cold… and oddly more perilous for its effect. When he uttered her name, there was a beauty to it that she’d never before known. Not even from her betrothed, who’d been unable to divorce the “Lady” from her name when he’d spoken to her.
He is a rogue…
How matter-of-fact Lettie had been in describing her elder brother. And given that Alice had been the sister of a rake who’d only ever kept company with shameful and wicked scoundrels, she’d not paid much thought to Lettie’s rogue of a brother.
But hearing mention of it and walking beside that same man, who managed to make one’s hated name a soft caress, proved the dangerous power of those sorts.
“A-and d-do you have a name, as well? Or with her absence of maternal warmth, have you gone these many years without?”
A laugh escaped his lips, stirring little tuffs of white air. “My many years? Egads, Alice, you know how to wound a gent.”
She knew nothing where gents were concerned. Alice had only learned of late just how little she knew about their entire species. “Is that a no?” she asked with a droll grin.
“Rhys.”
His was warrior’s name that so very perfectly suited a man of his command and ease. “After Rhys ap Thomas?” she ventured.
“Henry of Tudor’s faithful supporter?” He doffed his hat and beat the snow-covered brim against his leg. “Alas, in addition to the dowager marchioness’ lack of maternal warmth, there is also a woeful lack of appreciation for history.” He waggled his brows. “Though, if she were, I trust it would be more likely Rhys ap Gruffydd, rebel, hanged for his plotting, that would have been a likelier muse.”
Her mouth parted. As scholarly as her former betrothed had been, not even he possessed even the remotest interest in history.
He shot her a sideways glance. “Come, I am Lettie’s rogue of a brother,” he drawled, his boots kicking up snow around them as they walked. “Are you of an opinion that rogues should be slow-witted?”
“N-no,” she said quickly, grateful for both the night cover and the brim of her bonnet for concealing her guilty flush. “Not at a-all.”
They reached the bottom steps of the marquess’ estate. Those stone stairs previously cleared by servants for the arriving guests were now dusted with a soft covering of snow. She hesitated. To enter together would expose them both to the very scandal he’d chided her over earlier.
Lord Rhys sketched a short bow. “I shall take the servant’s entrance around back.”
She chewed at her lower lip, and shot a glance down the expansive stretch of the marquess’ properties, warring with herself. Lettie’s brother had already journeyed out into the cold in the midst of a storm to assist her. Of course, she had not needed rescuing, as he’d so put it. But still, it was unpardonably selfish to be the reason he was still out trampling through the snow.
The wind howled mournfully about them.
Rhys dipped his head down, shrinking the space between them. Through the clean country air, made sharper by the winter, the sandalwood scent that clung to him filled her nostrils; that soft, warm woodsy smell oddly alluring. “Unless… you wish discovery, Alice?” he whispered, the dry amusement there shattering the pull, as much as the words themselves.
Whipping about, she sprinted up the eleven steps. Her fingers numb from the cold, she reached for the handle.
“I take that as a ‘no’,” he called, briefly staying her retreat.
She angled a glance over her shoulder. “A definitive ‘no’,” she whispered. After her disastrous taste of love with the faithless Henry Pratt, the last path she cared to venture down was the marital one.
As Alice let herself in, Rhys’ quiet laughter rumbled after her.
“Unless I wish to be discovered, indeed,” she muttered to herself.
With Lettie’s brother… a notorious rogue with a ready quip on his lips. It was preposterous. It was—
“There you are!”
Alice shrieked.
Lettie grabb
ed her arm and dragged her forward. “Going out in the midst of a storm and in the dark of night,” her friend whispered, with an outraged tone that would have impressed Mrs. Belden, their dragon of a headmistress. She glanced about, a frown deepening on her lips. “Where is my brother? I instructed him to return with you.”
And he’d readily complied… in the middle of the freezing cold, at night. When, two years ago, Alice’s own brother wouldn’t have been able to pick her out of a ballroom full of ladies. As such, she’d an appreciation for a devoted brother. At her friend’s probing look, Alice cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I do not know,” she settled for. Which was, in fact, the truth. After he’d gone ‘round back to the servants’ entrance, she’d no idea where he might be.
Lettie grunted. “Where have you been?” she demanded.
A servant rushed over to assist Alice from her sopping cloak.
Originally, she’d taken flight with the sole purpose of hiding to sulk in her own misery. In that copse, however, with Alice’s rogue of a brother, she’d gone from annoyed with Rhys’ high-handedness, to laughing at a devastating wink and his ability to laugh and tease. In short, the dangerous combination that made up all rogues and rakes.
“Well?” her friend prodded as they made their climb abovestairs. With every step taken, Alice’s boots left a sopping trail in her wake.
“I was walking.”
“Because of him,” Lettie lamented. She tossed her arms up in an exaggerated manner that only she could manage. “Pining for a man who was never, ever deserving of you.”
They reached the main landing and several servants rushed all around.
“Hush,” she whispered. “I was not… pining.”
For she hadn’t been. She’d merely wished to observe him and his perfect bride from a distance… and keep just that between them—a distance.
“Here we are,” her friend murmured, bringing them to a stop beside a doorway. Lettie’s expression brightened. “Given your window was broken, and there were no additional chambers in the guest suites, you’ve been given this chamber.” She swept the door open. “Between mine,” she motioned to the left of her. “And Rhys’.”
Rhys.
Her savior in the snow. A teasing rogue who’d also quite freely ordered her about—or attempted to, anyway.
As her friend tugged her inside, Alice swallowed a groan.
Splendid.
Chapter 6
Rhys adored the early morning hours. It was that small sliver of time when all Polite Society slept on and the streets were largely quiet, the riding paths empty, and a man was free from bother.
Or a man was usually free from bother.
“Where in the blazes have you been?”
The following morning, that sharp whisper brought Rhys up short outside his chamber doors.
Given the owner of that equal parts furious and suspicious question and the unlikeliest use of blasphemy, he’d be foolish to not be suspicious.
With all the enthusiasm of one walking to face his hangman, Rhys forced his attention down the hall.
His mother stood, arms planted akimbo in a battle-ready position.
Oh, bloody hell. Here just one day and he’d already earned the Wrath of the Marchioness, as he’d taken to calling it over the years.
“Mama,” he called out. The bane of her existence, he’d worked diligently since his boyhood days to needle her at every turn.
Her grey eyebrows shot up, and she raced forward. “Hush,” she whispered, stealing a frantic glance about. “You will awaken the guests.”
And moving at anything other than a sedate pace?
This did not bode well for him. At all.
“Considering they are an entire corridor and no fewer than one hundred paces between us, I trust we should be quite safe from discovery,” he said drolly as he finished drawing the heavy oak slab closed.
He took a step.
His mother matched his movements.
Rhys feinted left.
She followed suit.
So he’d be forced into an early morning battle. Very well. Swallowing a sigh, Rhys rocked back on his heels. Given that the dowager marchioness had taken the whole of the years he’d known her to rising well after the sun had climbed high into the sky, these encounters were the worst for him and the wisest for her.
Unexpected moves from her that always saw him off-kilter.
By God, Wellington would have been wise to employ her all those years ago against Boney. The war would have not carried on for more than a month.
“I asked you a question,” she demanded in hushed tones, stealing another furtive look about.
“No, you urged me to silence lest I wake guests slumbering more than… one… two… three…” He silently counted the remaining panels. “Twenty doors away.”
She scowled; the wrinkled planes of her face deepening, highlighting her increasing years. The perpetual frown she wore made a lie out of all the words about one growing lax with age. “Do not try to distract me. I asked where you’ve been.”
Rhys lifted his hands in false supplication. “Given that you’ve discovered me exiting my rooms, I trust it should not be a question to merit that volatile reaction.”
The dowager marchioness alternated a suspicious stare between his door and the opposite end of the hall. “I know your flippant replies and shameful attempts at jest are meant to divert my attention from your… your… behavior.”
His behavior. At any other time, she would have been well within reason to question his whereabouts and pursuits. “Given that you’re personally responsible for all the guests,” he drawled, “I assure you, there are no hidden widows or naughty lovers hiding about.” He paused. “Though if you’d allow me to issue an invitation—”
She choked.
Rhys lifted his head in a mocking acknowledgement. “I take that as a no, then.”
His mother’s eyes bulged. “Y-you… y-you…” Scoundrel. “Scapegrace,” she settled for. But then, she brought her shoulders back and gave a flick of her canary yellow skirts. “I’ll not allow you to distract me.” She proceeded to tick off on her fingers. “First, you disappeared last evening. Disappeared, Rhys, when… when…” He winged an eyebrow. Color fired in her cheeks. “Guests were expecting to see you.”
“Guests?” he asked with feigned confusion.
“Aria arrived and you were nowhere to be found.”
The lady his mother expected him to wed had arrived which added a level of very real peril to his circumstances that had been previously missing. He fought the urge to yank at his suddenly too-tight cravat, briefly eying the path to freedom beyond her shoulder, contemplating escape.
Her gaze bore searchingly into him; probing his face. “Do you have nothing to say for yourself?”
As much as he’d sustained himself through her company over the years with a false brevity to rouse her annoyance, now he wanted done with the whole exchange. Restless. “Lettie enlisted my services and, as her brother, I obliged,” he said, with an unusual graveness.
“Enlisted your services?” she squawked. That break in her own calls for silence marked her rapidly spinning out of control temperament. “You are no servant, Rhys, no matter how uncouth and ill-mannered you so often are.”
He opened his mouth to make mention of the vixen with a tangle of golden curls, but something quelled the words on his lips. Some inexplicable need to keep that surprisingly enjoyable and private exchange with Lady Alice Winterbourne a secret that belonged only to him. As such, he settled for his usual expected dry humor. “Oh, come, Mama. It is one thing to disparage me. But the Brookfield staff? They are the model of decorum and respectability.”
His mother’s eyebrows dipped. “Furthermore, when have you been the devoted brother? If it were Miles, I would trust there was something honorable at play there, but you?” She scraped a derisive glance up and down his person.
He frowned as her barb found its mark. Mayhap it was the early morning hour…. o
r that the Christmastide season was nearly upon them. For the truth was… it was not her disgusted look or disparaging tone that struck uncomfortably close but rather her accurate claims about him as a brother. He had been a self-absorbed bastard these many years. His mother’s betrayal aside, he should have been there for Lettie.
“You’ve gone quiet,” she noted. “You are up to something.” She took a step closer, jolting him back from his maudlin musings.
He retreated a quick step. His back knocked into the heavy panel, rattling the wood.
And it spoke to her determination that the dowager marchioness didn’t give so much as a look or make mention about the noise. Going up on tiptoes, she peered at his face, the way only a leading gossip in Society could.
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally, sinking back on her heels. “Very well, then,” she said, with a surprising capitulation that only a fool would trust. And Rhys Brookfield was no fool… particularly where his ruthless mother was concerned. He’d born witness to the depths to which she would fall to orchestrate whatever ultimate end she wished her pawns-of-children to fulfill. “That will be all.”
“Always a pleasure, Mama,” he said in parting as he dropped a bow.
As he made a measured escape, he felt her gaze following him until he disappeared around the corner.
And feeling much like the troublesome boy whose knuckles she’d ordered his tutors to rap for misbehaving, he broke out into a quick run down the blessedly empty, quiet corridors.
He passed a young maid, exiting a room, with a cloth in her hand.
Her lips twitched, and she sank into a curtsy.
Not breaking stride, he winked, and continued on. Slightly breathless from his exertions, he skidded to a halt outside the breakfast rooms. At having his freedom once more, he whistled a naughty ditty, and entered.
“Babington,” he greeted the senior footman on duty, catching the other man mid-yawn.
“Beg pardon, Lord Rhys,” the fellow near in age to his own rushed.
The dowager marchioness’ effects on the servants had proven lasting; a staff eternally afraid a wrong move would see them turned off without a character reference. Waving off that needless apology, Rhys gathered a plate from the sideboard. “Not a thing to apologize for. Not as though I’d come upon you tupping a parlor maid,” he said in a bid at easing the other man’s unease.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 174
