She shifted in her chair. And here she’d always taken rogues and rakes as self-absorbed sorts. Rhys, however, had gathered details the way a constable might the clues of a case. But then, a brother who went out in a storm at his sister’s bidding and who noted the minutest details in Alice’s words, bore little hint of those wicked sorts. “I… used to read them,” she finally conceded.
He took another sip of his coffee. “It is a shame you stopped.”
It was a shame? Curiosity piqued, she could not stop the question from coming. “In what way?” The young ladies she’d gone to finishing school with had all spoken of hiding those tomes away from mocking older brothers or disapproving papas.
“Reading the romantics suggests just that… a romantic spirit. It’s entirely possible for a person to be both romantic in spirit and practical of mind. To exist, one without the other, leaves for a colorless soul.”
A colorless soul. At that image he painted with his broad brushstroke, her annoyance stirred. How dare he presume to form a judgment of her based on what she chose to read… and not read? She was not colorless… she was…
Flummoxed, Alice sank back in her chair.
Well bloody hell on Sunday. Since Henry’s betrayal, she had been dispirited. Henry hadn’t made her into a downhearted, morose figure, burying books and talks about the heart. She’d allowed herself to become just that. Unnerved by that realization and Rhys’ piercing focus, Alice picked up her fork and dragged it around the barely-touched contents of her plate.
Quiet laughter filtered in from the hall.
The Marquess and Marchioness of Guilford strolled into the breakfast room. Arms looped, heads bent, they whispered to one another, the entire world seeming forgotten. There was a beautiful intimacy to their exchange. The young couple lingered in the doorway. Lord Guilford raised his wife’s knuckles to his mouth, placing a kiss upon them.
Alice swallowed hard.
I wanted that… I wanted a devoted love, who saw me and no other…
But that had never been Henry. Even before he’d betrayed her. He’d been absorbed with his work as a barrister and his cases and earning sufficient funds to build them a fortune. Only, he’d never realized—she hadn’t wanted a fortune.
But then, he had… and connections with his employer which his marriage had ultimately secured him. That is what had had been of most importance to Henry.
Feeling Rhys’ eyes on her, she stole a peek.
He winked.
“Good morning, big brother,” he boomed, and the pair jumped apart.
A pretty blush stained the marchioness’ cheeks. “Rhys,” she greeted, and then looked to Alice.
Alice hurried to stand and dropped a curtsy. “My lady.”
“Lady Alice,” the other woman returned with a warm smile that reached all the way to her eyes.
Her husband dropped a respectful bow.
Given the fact Daniel had attempted to seduce the young woman, and been bloodied senseless by the marquess in repayment, it spoke volumes to the marquess and marchioness’ character that they’d be so welcoming of Alice.
Nonetheless… she gathered her book and, with another slight curtsy, bid the Brookfields a good morning, and made her escape.
“She’s playing at matchmaker,” his brother warned as soon as Alice had taken her leave.
Lingering his gaze on the doorway, an inexplicable regret filled him at the lady’s hasty departure. Mayhap, it was merely the tedium of the countryside, but he’d been… enjoying speaking with her—again.
He forced his attention back. “What?”
“Mother,” Miles clarified.
“Ah, yes. Of course.” Doomsday could be approaching on the morrow and she’d be frantically trying to coordinate matches for all her unwed children. “I’ve gathered as much,” Rhys muttered. A servant came forward and refilled his coffee. With a word of thanks, he blew on the contents. “She’s been less than discreet and quite clear in her expectations.”
“Aria,” Miles stated as a matter-of-fact.
Rhys toasted the accuracy of that supposition with his cup. “Indeed.”
His brother gave him a regretful smile. “Alas, I fear, the only thing that might deter her efforts is if you were otherwise betrothed.” Miles’ eyes glimmered. “And given the carefully crafted guest list, she’s taken care with the ladies invited.”
Married. All the women, he was otherwise not related to, were married.
Alice’s heart-shaped visage flitted forward.
Well, not everyone.
His sister-in-law lowered her voice. “I’m sorry that you find yourself at the center of her…” She grimaced. “Efforts.”
It had been, of course, the expectation that Miles would marry and secure the Cunning connection. Alas, the one time he’d shattered his role of dutiful son and instead wed Philippa, had seen those responsibilities shift. Not that Rhys would begrudge a single one of his siblings their happiness.
He inclined his head. “It was inevitable. Ultimately, we all find ourselves in her crosshairs.”
“Uncle Rhys!”
He glanced over to the seven-year-old whirlwind of energy bursting into the breakfast room. Close at her heels, her three-year-old sister.
“We are under siege,” he cried out, jumping to his feet.
Faith and Violet hurled themselves at him and he staggered back, feigning a fall.
Faith giggled. “You’re too big for us to knock down.”
“Mayhap at the last time we met.” He hefted up his smaller curly-headed niece and dangled her over his shoulder, until great, big, snorting gasps of laughter escaped her. Again, he pretended to stumble, panting as he spoke. “You both must have grown a foot each and added two stones between you.”
He set Violet, breathless with her giggles, on the floor.
The initial warm greeting now gone, Faith settled her hands on her hips with a look more terrifying than most matrons. “Where have you been?”
Over her mop of dark curls, he caught his sister-in-law and brother exchange a look. They proved little help as the little girl persisted.
“You arrived yesterday morn and didn’t come to see us.”
Violet held up two fingers. “Not even once.”
Schooling his features into a somber mask, he stretched his arms wide. “I’ve been remiss. I must make amends.” Mindful of Faith’s partial deafness, he leaned down and, in an exaggerated whisper, spoke into her good ear. “Will this suffice?” He fished two small bags of peppermint from his jacket and held them over.
Violet’s eager little fingers instantly grabbed her prize.
Faith stuck up a lone digit, more restrained than her younger sister.
“A ride on my horse?”
She waggled that gloved finger. “That is a little better.”
“A battle in the snow?”
A slow, wide smile turned her lips up. “You are forgiven.”
Frantic footfalls sounded from outside the breakfast room. In a remarkable break with her usual composure and decorum, the dowager marchioness spilled into the room, panting. “There you are,” she gasped, clutching the doorjambs.
As she’d never been a devoted grandmother to Miles and Philippa’s girls, he cast a hopeful glance over at Miles.
Miles shook his head. “Not me,” he mouthed.
“Not him,” their mother narrowed her gaze on Rhys’ untouched plate. She pointed a finger at him. “You. You haven’t concluded breakfast yet.” She beamed; or as much as a ruthless harpie such as the Dowager Marchioness of Guilford could. “Aria and Lady Lovell will be breaking their fast soon.”
Bloody hell.
Rhys pressed a hand to his heart. “Though it grieves me to disappoint you in any way…” Her eyes formed thin slits that swallowed up her irises. “I have a previous commitment.”
Her spine stiffened. “But… who…?” She searched about. Did she think Rhys was hiding a mistress underfoot? “Surely not that—?” Interesting. The great
er question was which lady did his mother so thoroughly disapprove of? It also explained why his mother had begun stalking his every movement since his arrival. “Who. Are. You. Meeting?”
An obedient son wouldn’t take such delight in her tangible vexation. Rhys, however, had never been accused of that tedious trait. “Two someone others,” he amended. Holding his hands out, Faith and Violet instantly slid their fingers into his.
Rhys left his mother sputtering in his wake.
A short while later, bundled with his nieces in tow, he made his way through the snow-covered grounds.
His youngest niece giggled, racing several steps ahead. Faith kept pace at his side.
“Mama and Papa said that Grandmother is going to make you get married.”
“Did they?” he asked, beating his gloved hands together to bring warmth into the chilled digits. His niece had always proven an invaluable spy.
“Mm-hm. And they said Grandmother thinks you have to marry Miss Cunning because Papa married Mama instead.”
Talk of giving up his bachelor state was a topic to avoided with all… chatty young nieces included.
“Well?” Faith persisted, refusing to let the matter go. “Will you marry Miss Cunning to make Grandmother happy?”
Given his niece’s tender years he’d not point out that he hadn’t done anything in the whole of his adult life to earn his mother’s approval and he didn’t intend to begin now.
“I have certain requirements before I make anyone my bride,” he said solemnly.
Eyes a-goggle, Faith looked up.
He ticked off a list. “She must laugh and often.”
Even as he said it, the unrestrained, clear expression of Alice’s merriment echoed around his mind. Hers hadn’t been the cynical laugh of the experienced widows and discontented wives he bedded. Nor a careful tittering, practiced and artificial. It had been real.
“Oh, yes,” Faith said in solemn agreement, bringing him back. “I quite agree. Mama and Papa laugh often.” She inclined her head. “What else?”
“She must be able to throw a flawless snowball.”
Faith nodded. “I certainly agree.”
“Of course, she must also swim,” Rhys went on. “And if she cannot, at least be willing to learn how.”
“And ice skate?” Faith put in, warming to the pretend list he compiled for his future bride.
Rhys stuck his index finger up. “Not simply ice skate, but twirl a perfect circle without even stumbling.”
His eldest niece giggled. “Papa cannot even do that.”
“Then it appears I’m to remain unmarried, despite Grandmother’s wishes.” They shared a smile. Up ahead, Violet stopped to assemble a ball of snow.
Rhys started after the girl… when he registered the uncharacteristic quiet.
He glanced back. A troubled little frown marred his eldest niece’s plump cheeks. Doubling back, he rejoined her. “What is it, moppet?”
Faith kicked the snow with the tip of her boot. “She doesn’t like us.”
He furrowed his brow. “Violet?” he asked quizzically. The little girl didn’t have anything less than a smile for even the most miserable blighters—of which Rhys’ mother was certainly the greatest.
His niece rolled her eyes. “Grandmother.”
“Ahh.” It had been inevitable. One as clever and quick-witted as his niece wouldn’t fail to eventually note the dowager marchioness’ coldness. Rhys shot a quick, longing glance back in the direction of the manor. This wasn’t a matter for an uncle, but rather a devoted mama and papa.
Who would have figured that it would have been safer to remain in the breakfast room with his determined mama and the woman she’d hand-selected as his bride?
He opened his mouth to deliver one of his usual flippant replies, but called the words back. Ultimately, the dowager marchioness didn’t like Miles’ adopted children. She saw them as interlopers and strangers… but neither had she truly liked the children she’d given life to, either. As such, he’d been Faith and Violet, once. A child desperately wanting the approval and affection of one who could never give it. Rhys dropped to his haunches so he was at eye level with his niece.
“Sometimes… people are just miserable. It doesn’t make it easier to forgive them for being such… rotters. Nor should you attempt to be anyone other than who you already are just to please those people.” He paused. “Because they will never be pleased.”
Her lips twitched, and she whispered loudly. “Are you calling Grandmother a rotter?”
He touched a finger to the side of his nose and blinked once.
She giggled.
Abandoning his teasing, Rhys gathered her hands and gave a little squeeze. “What is important is to surround yourself with those who are happy and able to smile.”
“Like you?”
“Like me.” It had ben vastly easier to force joy than give in to the pain of past heartbreak. Until…even he himself had come to believe in that happiness.
She looped her arms around his neck, giving him another hug.
A snowball collided with the back of his head. The frigid projectile dripped over the top of his head, from his brow into his eyes and mouth.
He licked the wet away and then carefully set Faith aside.
They looked to a giggling Violet, already at work on creating a new ball.
“It seems war has been declared.” He let out a battle cry and then threw himself into the fight.
Chapter 8
A thunderous shout shattered the countryside; a booming echo that chased the kestrels from their branches and sent them into a noisy flight.
Seated on the wrought iron bench in the marchioness’ now snow-covered gardens, Alice lowered her book.
She waited, straining her ears for a hint of another sound.
Then giving her head a shake, she returned her attention to her reading. She trailed a single glove-encased digit over the words written there. Rhys’ slight admonishment lingered still.
How dare he presume to pass judgment on the type of works she read? Yes, she no longer read gothic novels and romantic tales but that didn’t mean there wasn’t value in the books on animals that she now devotedly read. The zoology works and talks she’d merely stumbled upon by chance when slipping inside the Royal Society of London to escape the whispers directed her way in the street.
That day, Alice had discovered the scientific disciplines… and, from there, a host of other once-neglected topics.
She’d also come upon Lettie that morning. Lettie, who she’d later learned, took to visiting lecture halls and museums and scholarly venues because she could be certain her matchmaking mama would never come for her, there. And so they, two ladies, avoiding gossip and marriage, had struck a very real friendship. Alice accompanied Lettie to her favorite history talks and Lettie joined Alice everywhere. And along the way, Alice had discovered a world of academia, until then, that she’d not properly explored.
Science and history had proven to be an escape. After all, factual recordings and lectures on natural history had been infinitely safer than talks of Henry’s betrayal and her mistakes and heartache.
Now, with one debate at the breakfast table with Rhys, he’d made her question those topics that had proven such a diversion to her. She chewed at her lower lip. Nay, not question them, as much as consider her motives in abandoning her previous interests. And sitting here, in the privacy of her own thoughts, she could acknowledge the truth—she missed reading romantic novels. She’d been so determined to bury all mention or hint of happily-ever-after and grand love because of the sharp ache left by Henry’s betrayal.
Only… in time, the ache had dulled, but she’d been forever transformed.
Her gaze caught on her book. The winter wind tugged at the pages and she pressed her fingers to the corners, fixed on the words at the very left center page.
Of mollusks, the sepia is the most cunning, and is the only species that employs its dark liquid for the sake of concealment as
well as from fear…
Alice paused.
… the only species that employs its dark liquid for the sake of concealment…
In short, colorless, seeking to escape and avoid notice.
Alice traced that inked text.
It had not always been that way for her. There had been a time when she, to her headmistress’ shame, delighted in speaking freely and living boldly. She hadn’t cared about Society’s opinion or possible whispers. Nor had she deliberately sought to attract scandal as her brother had excelled at over the years. Rather, she’d simply… lived. For herself. For her happiness and freedom. It had been a part of her character born of being the forgotten child of a father who’d rejected her, blaming Alice for killing his wife in childbirth.
And then in one scandalous display, where she’d shamed herself before Henry and Polite Society that day, Alice had attempted to redefine herself… into the colorless figure Rhys had accused her of being.
It’s entirely possible for a person to be both romantic in spirit and practical of mind. To exist, one without the other, leaves for a colorless soul…
In the distance, another shout went up.
Lifting her head, she did another search about.
There it was… again; a guttural cry pealed around the grounds.
Alice closed her book with a firm thwack and hopped up. With the snow crunching under her feet, she hurried out from the now deadened gardens.
She paused, straining her ears.
And this time, on the heels of that loud booming voice, was a flurry of cries. Ones that sounded like… a child’s.
Intrigue sprung her once more into motion. Alice made her way down the path perfectly tended by the dowager marchioness’ diligent servants and she made her way toward the distant shouts.
With each step, the shouts and cries grew louder.
And then, she stopped. The tableau before her, held her immobile.
Two little children ducked and darted around Rhys, hurling snowballs at him as they went.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 176
