“I’m merely thinking of business.” He did have work to attend to. A war was being waged in Greece, and he had been contacted to broker an armed deal for more weaponry.
“You seem troubled.”
A smile tugged at his lips. His mother always did that very strange thing mothers seemed to do—pick up on their children’s disquiet without a word being proffered. “The better question, Mother, is why are you awake?”
“I grew tired of knitting, nor could I sleep.” With a sigh, she moved to sit on the sofa, at the far end. “Then the girls exhausted me with their chatter of this prestigious ball you had gone off to. My curiosity also keeps me from my warm bed. You seemed very perturbed. I’m here if you need a listening ear.”
“I’ve met someone, and I am at a loss as to why thoughts of her haunt me.”
His mother’s breath caught audibly. “That is wonderful, Rhys.”
“Not particularly.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said warmly. “You are an eligible catch, and I am not saying so because you are my son.”
He contained his chuckle. Eligible? With his notoriety and links to the criminal world? Only his mother would believe so.
“Who is it? I thought Miss Helena seemed to be of particular interest.”
Miss Helena? Ah…his lawyer’s daughter. Now that his mother mentioned it, the man’s daughter had been particularly attentive for the past few weeks. He’d recently met Mr. Sharpton when Rhys had retained the man to craft a will that would see his wealth divided equally between his sisters after his mother’s portion had been secured. One of his instructions to his lawyer had been to ensure that even if his sisters married, their wealth would remain their own. Their dowries were generous, thirty thousand pounds each, making them heiresses, but he would protect the rest of their wealth from possible fortune hunters.
“I do believe it’s time for you to take a wife and have a nursery of your own,” his mother continued happily.
A nursery of his own? His heart was at times so blackened by his deeds of the past, he hardly spared any thoughts for the future. Rhys had never really thought about settling down, finding a wife, or filling his house with children. For some reason, he’d simply left those peculiar desires to his sisters. It wasn’t that he had an objection to marriage, Rhys had simply never met a woman who inspired him to want more. “No.”
“Why ever not? Surely there are times you are lonely.”
A man couldn’t tell his mother he tupped women when he felt the need for companionship. “Mother—”
“I’m not talking about a woman you go to assuage those needs,” she said primly. “I am talking about a friend, a companion, someone to have and to hold, someone to love, to support you through the dark times, and to celebrate with you through the good times,” she ended bluntly.
Sometimes he forgot his mother had been there with him and his sisters as they scrabbled and fought for a better life from the gutter. His mother was the daughter of an impoverished viscount who had all about sold her to Mr. John Tremayne, an Irish cloth merchant, who had been a mean drunkard who had beaten his wife fiercely. She had fled with Rhys when he’d only been ten years old, Lydia had been three, and his mother had been pregnant with the twins. The dark memories of those days, and how they had suffered, stirred within him. He ruthlessly suppressed them.
“This woman will never be for me. I am uncertain as to why I even mentioned her to you.”
“Why is she not for you?” she questioned with clear affront.
The sensation of restlessness grew stronger. “She is a duchess, a dowager duchess,” he said, finally shifting to face her.
An acute silence fell in the study.
She slanted him a quick, searching glance. “A real duchess?”
“There are other kinds?”
She scowled. “Are you going to court her?”
An unamused bark of laughter escaped him. “I see you are going to ignore the fact she is a duchess.”
“Your grandfather is a viscount,” his mother said softly. “You do have some ties to the nobility. I…I could reach out to my brother, the current viscount Westcott—”
“No,” Rhys said flatly. His mother had once turned to her brother and begged for his help, and that pompous blackguard had refused to aid his sister, insisting she return to her abusive husband. “We have never lived a noble life.”
“Isn’t that what you have been working for the girls to achieve? Life amongst the aristocracy?”
His sisters had been bred for a much higher position in the social hierarchy than the one in which they existed. In fact, his mother had been engaged to an earl before the greed of her father allowed him to sell her into hell.
“Why not seek a similar connection for yourself?”
“You should know, Mother, of all people, that an unwanted connection to a viscount would not make me suitable for a duchess. I…I’ve done things,” he said gruffly. “I have no aspirations regarding her.” Except wanting her quite desperately in his bed. “Forget I said anything, thinking of her was…an aberration. She is simply a means to an end for the girls.”
Liar. He’d never had an attachment before. He’d also been single-minded in his desire to make a better life for his family. There had never been a moment in time before when he had wished for a permanent lover or a wife. The notion simply had not appealed to him. He’d allowed nothing to distract him from his purpose. It was damn stupid of him to allow a distraction in the form of a woman whose shadow he could hardly stand in. She had effectively disrupted his ordered and driven existence. Instead of feeling frustration at the idea, he was intrigued.
“The duchess is simply another pawn in the game we all play.”
He lied, unless she succumbed to the heat between them and became his lover. Then she would be something more to him, certainly more than a willing body with which to slake his lust. Rhys frowned. Had he ever laughed with a woman, bantered with one, even had dinner with a lady other than his sisters? Hell. His mother looked unconvinced. And he said nothing further, for he wasn’t so convinced, either, and any protestation falling from his lips would be a lie.
…
Georgiana had fled London to Kent as if the devil had been nipping at her heels. And perhaps he had been, in the guise of Mr. Rhys Tremayne. She’d had to escape. Georgiana was thoroughly vexed with herself. Nothing she did would take the flush from her cheeks. She wasn’t a blushing virgin to be so flustered three days after her encounter with that dratted man in the library. Worse, every night she rehashed the encounter in her dreams. She would awaken sweaty, wet and aching, her fingers twisting the sheets in a tight grip. It was appalling that she would lust after a man so unsuitable in such a manner. But something had to be done, and she wanted to dive off that cliff of insanity, and with him, too. So far, no invitation had been delivered inviting her to an illicit meeting at a secret location. One she was now positive she would accept.
“Mamma, he caught it,” her son, Nicolas, cro
wed as their wolfhound puppies, Calliope and Barnaby, ran over to them. Barnaby had a stick in his mouth, and he dropped it, tail thumping and wagging.
With a chortle, her darling boy tipped back his head and laughed, a joyous and full sound that was so uniquely his. She didn’t recall ever being so uninhibited with her laugh as a child. Even in that, she had observed proprieties.
He grabbed the stick and tossed it even farther, to the dogs’ delight. Barnaby and Calliope bounded away, but instead of following, Nicolas turned and flung himself at Georgiana, sprawling against her, his head resting in her lap. She stroked his hair before bending to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Did you receive my letters when you were in town, Mamma?”
“I did, and I was certain I responded to all of them. It is quite strange for you to be in doubt, hmm?” she said, tickling his underarm.
His peal of laughter melted her insides.
They had been outside for an hour already, taking advantage of the pleasant weather. They sat beneath an apple tree by the Southside gardens.
The butler rounded the corner. “Lord Fairfax has come to call, your ladyship. He is breaking his fast.”
It was barely nine in the morning. For Simon to have arrived so early, he would have needed to have traveled for a few hours from town. Only the scandal of her dancing with Mr. Tremayne would have her brother descending on her without the good manners of sending a note. Or perhaps it was something else. It had, after all, been three days, and dear Daphne had sent Georgiana no scandal-sheet clippings.
“Ask Mrs. Huxley to prepare Lord Fairfax’s room. I’ll be there shortly.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
“Are we to read, Mamma?” Her son asked hopefully.
“Yes, we are.” Taking a long walk after breaking their fast was a part of her and Nicolas’s routine. Then she would read a story to him, and they would play for a short while before he would be collected by his nursemaid. He would then be in the schoolroom with his tutor until luncheon. She cherished their times together and missed him dreadfully whenever she traveled to town.