Chapter Seventeen
A week had passed since Georgiana had ended all correspondence with Rhys. Instead of traveling back to town, she had stayed in the country, needing to be away from the watchful eyes of the ton while she figured out what to do. Earlier, she had read with Nicolas and had taken a walk in the park with him. Though it was quite early, she was exhausted and had retired to her chamber for a nap after a light luncheon. Sharp assaults of heartache prevented her slumber.
She tossed aside the covers and donned her peach day dress, which had been casually discarded on the chaise. She exited her room and went to Nicolas’s room. He, too, had been encouraged to nap after his exuberance earlier. He was sleeping peacefully. After brushing a light kiss on his forehead, careful not to disturb him, she slipped quietly down the stairs to the bright and airy music room. She often took refuge in music when she was at the mercy of her emotions, and the room had been her sanctuary of sorts the past few days. Georgiana sat on the well-padded bench, lifted the lid of the pianoforte, and closed her eyes.
Tears burned beneath her lids, and pushing down the riotous uncertainty, she played until her fingers trembled with exhaustion.
“You should treat us to something less mournful,” her mother said from behind her.
Georgiana stiffened and glanced at the clock. She had been playing for over two hours. Her fingers ached, and the empty well inside had not been filled in the slightest. “I cannot, Mamma.”
A peal of laughter echoed close by, and she smiled. Her son had awoken and was once again being boisterous.
The countess drifted closer. “Simon and I are preparing to depart for town, but I wanted to speak with you before we took our leave.”
Her mother and Simon had not left Meadowbrook Park since their arrival before Rhys’s last visit, and her mother had been hovering and casting her curious glances. Georgiana lightly skimmed her fingers over the keys, creating several discordant notes.
“What is it, Mother?”
“Dr. Monroe called upon you yesterday. Are you well?”
Georgiana was not ready to reveal her delicate condition. She doubted she would ever be ready. Dr. Monroe had indeed confirmed she was with child. Though there had been speculation in his gaze, he’d only recommended daily walks and for her to intake more milk, with a promise to visit her often. Georgiana slightly turned to her mother. “I’m quite fine. Just a slight stomach upset.”
Her mother’s mouth flattened into a thin line, and she squared her shoulders. “Georgiana, dear, your skin is paler than normal, you cast up your accounts yesterday at breakfast, and you drank no wine at last night’s dinner.”
A dreadful silence descended. Slowly closing the lid on the pianoforte, she turned around on the bench and faced her mother. “I fail to understand this line of discourse.” Though she knew, God, she knew.
Her mother gave her a sharp, reproving glance. “You are with child,” she said softly. Instead of appearing cold and distant, her mother’s eyes glowed with worry and love.
Georgiana’s throat tightened. “I am.”
Her mother visibly struggled to swallow. “Is it too much to hope the father is the Marquess of Locksley? I am aware you’ve had a few outings with him.”
“He is not the father,” she admitted quietly.
Her mother’s expression grew troubled. “I must then presume you were in liaison with Mr. Tremayne? And that baseless speculation by the newspapers had some merit?”
Georgiana’s blush was enough confirmation for the countess.
She sauntered gracefully to sit in the chaise closest to the windows. “There will be an awful scandal if you marry a man such as Rhys Tremayne. I do hope you are not contemplating such a solution.”
Georgiana stood and made her way to the windows that overlooked the large and beautifully tended gardens. Several birds played amid the artfully scattered flowers and small shrubs, merrily chirping their sweet melodies. A burning need bloomed inside her to lift her dress scandalously above her knees, climb through the open windows, away from this conversation, and join the birds who hardly seemed like they had any cares in the world. She would lie upon the grass, uncaring about the stains that would damage her dress, lift her face to the warm rays of the sun, and pray for guidance.
“My dear, you are well loved by society. You are a great patron of the arts, and where you lead, many ladies and gentlemen follow. Would you throw that away to only be known as the duchess who married a common man? You would tarnish your reputation and the respect and admiration of your acquaintances?”
A mirthless smile crossed Georgiana’s lips. “You were always the anvil to Father’s hammer, Mother. Nothing has ever been more important than our position in society, certainly not my happiness.”
A sound rustled, and she whirled around to see Simon hovering in the doorway, a white-knuckled grip on the knob. He gently closed the door and moved farther into the room. From his pained expression, she surmised he’d heard. “Is it true?”
“Yes.”
He flinched. “I warned you the man was a lion, and you were too naive to listen!”
She heard the ragged edge of guilt. Simon would blame himself for not protecting her. “I assure you, I walked into Mr. Tremyane’s arms with my eyes wide open.”
A shocked gasp came from her mother.
Her brother stared at her as if he did not know her. “There is only one solution to this mess, surely you see that.”
“No, I don’t.” And that was the crux of her pain. She felt lost, uncertain, and she despised the state. She missed Rhys dreadfully. She hurt for him and to be with him. How beautiful the world had been when they had been ensconced within it together.
“Go away, discreetly, perhaps to Paris. Bear your child in secret and give it to a good family. Then return home to Nicolas.”
Pain stabbed through her at the very idea of giving away her child and only watching from a distance. That could never be a choice. “Do not speak such nonsense,” she said hoarsely. “Give away my child? You are heartless to even suggest it. I do not care if that is what most ladies of the aristocracy do. I will not do it, and that suggestion has no place in this conversation.”
She fought back the panic pushing at her, for she still had no notion of what to do. Marrying would certainly solve everything, but that presented another challenge, for she could not deceive any man so cruelly. She would have to be truthful from the onset that she was with child.
“Then marry Lord Locksley and foist the baby on him,” Simon urged, staring at her somberly. “You know this is the only path from scandal and disgrace, Georgiana.”
“Your brother speaks the truth. Those are the only viable options available. I am certain you would prefer to know your child and be a part of its life. Marriage to Lord Locksley will not be unpleasant. He is handsome and quite amiable, and well-thought-of by society.”
“I can see Rhys would never be welcomed by either of you,” Georgiana said softly.
Her mother’s hand fluttered to her throat. “You jest in poor taste. Mr. Tremayne is vulgar in breeding and has little or no connections of consequence,” she said emphatically. “You are the daughter of an earl, you have been the wife of a duke, your son is a duke. I cannot credit how you could even imagine a life with a man as common and uncouth as Mr. Tremayne.”
The tears Georgiana had been fighting since she’d woken spilled over her cheeks in a hot trail. “Mother, Simon, I am dreadfully tried. If you will excuse me, I trust that you will see yourselves out.”
She ignored her mother’s gasp and her brother’s concerned stare and hurried from the music room. With quick steps, she made the way to her lavishly appointed chambers. Thankfully, her maid was not present, and Georgiana closed the door. The beautiful tranquil decor she had personally overseen did little to soothe her ragged nerves. She retreated to her bed, trying to beat into submission the savage pain tearing through her heart. She grieved for Rhys in a manner she had not done when her husband had died. Georgiana choked on a sob, gently caressing her stomach. If she kept their baby and married the marquess, there would be a time Rhys passed her in the street with their son or daughter beside her, and he would be unable to acknowledge them. Dear God, how would they both bear the situation?
Marry me. How she had wanted to say yes. The memory of his contempt burned her with shame and agony. It hurt that he now thought so little of her, and that he would kill whatever love had brewed in his heart. And she deserved this apathy. She had told him she would allow another man to raise his child.
A child.
She closed her eyes thinking about the child nestling safely inside of her. Would it be a girl? A boy? She could imagine a child with Rhys’s features, intelligence, and temperament.
What if I damn everyone and marry Rhys?
How would marrying a man like Rhys affect her son? Nicolas had already developed an admiration for Rhys, and she had not allowed further contact between them, fearing the damage to her son’s heart when she and Rhys parted. He was honorable yet so ruthless, and she knew those were the qualities he would impart to her son. Perhaps they would serve him well, for he would take control of the dukedom at the early age of twenty-one.
Oh, what am I saying? The resulting scandal and stain on their reputations would last for years. There was the strongest possibility she would no longer be welcomed by her set, would perhaps never be invited to court again, and might even find herself out of favor with the king himself, despite his own sexual proclivities and self-indulgence. It was only last month when the family had attended a ball held at the newly and lavishly refurbished Windsor Castle that the king had spoken fondly and admiringly of the Hardcastles’ impeccable reputation and dedication to duty.
Perhaps it would be worth it.
She closed her eyes, thinking of their time together. Memories taunted her. How she had felt at home in his arms, never worrying or being made to feel ashamed of her passions, her reading choices, or the fact she had run barefoot in the sand or danced with such freedom in a gambling hell. He made her feel like a woman, free to live and love with honor and passion. Those times he had simply held her, peace in his expression that she had put there. That man had craved her and had not been ashamed to admit it. She hadn’t been cold, but like living flames that had burned so fiercely whenever she had been with him. And the times that burned the brightest now in her heart were when they had laughed, read together, walked through the streets at St. James’s at the most ungodly hour, because in those moments they had not been slaves to the expectations of society or anyone else. They had simply been Georgiana and Rhys.
She would forever skirt the edge of propriety if she took such a leap.
Dear God in heaven, but she wanted that man.
…
Roughly three weeks had passed since Rhys had departed from the duchess’s chambers at Meadowbrook Park. Pain, unexpected and raw, still scraped at Rhys, shocking him with its intensity. The silence of the library pressed in on him, and a dark feeling of loss rolled though him in chilly waves. She had stolen his heart in a manner to which he’d never thought himself susceptible. How unforgivably idiotic he had been in his declarations. Never once had she intimated she’d wanted more than an affair, and he had been hungering to possess her forever. It hardly mattered to Rhys she was a duchess, and that was the problem. It was the woman he saw, the woman he craved. There had been no give in Georgiana’s heart, and her rejection was a raw, open wound.
What of their child? He knew of the methods women employed to rid their bodies of their babes. A hiss slipped from him at the very idea she would act in such manner when they were more than capable of providing for their child. Rhys dismissed the notion, his…the duchess was kind and a woman of honor.
He was not the type of man to relent when he hungered for something. He had fought for everything he had ever desired—a roof over his head, food in his family’s bellies, land, wealth, their protection. Perhaps he should fight for the woman he loved. He could find ways and means to blackmail the duchess, her brother, or even trade secrets that would see her bend to his will. Rhys was merciless when he chose to be, and he did not retreat from that aspect of his character. It was what had made him the successful man he was today.
And what if the palpable desire she clearly had for him turned to hatred for having trapped her into a life and circumstances she clearly did not want? Hell. If he had to fight dirty for his duchess’s affections, surely it would all be rendered meaningless. If her soul did not cry out for him with a similar intensity, what would be the point of being in such a union? Being able to claim and be a part of his child’s life would be worth his duchess’s bitterness.
His thoughts coldly rushed ahead, plotting how he could bend her to his will. He had the means to see it done, for the dossier Rhys had on her brother held more than one secret the earl would prefer to bury. She would care about the pain of her family.
That was it, he would use her brother to break her resolve. Rhys closed his eyes as his heart rebelled against the idea of hurting her. He wouldn’t be able to endure the pain and accusation in her eyes, or the loneliness that would perhaps return if he trapped her in a life she did not want. Christ. She had effectively weakened him.
Fucking hell, he was turning into a maudlin poet. The plain truth of the matter was Georgiana did not need his wealth, his connections, or even his reputation to protect her from the ton. Georgiana had to want him, and he had not seen that. Had he ever seen it? Had it all been mere lust, a need only for his cock and the pleasures he could give her?
He was a fool, lamenting the loss of her when he’d never really possessed anything of the duchess. The duchess’s rejection had simply been a cumulation of his profound idiocy. Hardening himself against the surge of need and the instinct to fight for her, he knocked back the glass of whiskey he had been nursing, appreciating the burn that traveled to his stomach. He set the glass on the mantle and stalked from the room, calling for his coat and his carriage.
Several minutes later, he was seated in one of the private card rooms in The Asylum, gambling where the takes were much riskier and higher. No one spoke to him, somehow picking up on his dangerous mood. He gambled with large stakes, winning some and losing others. Drinks were provided by attentive ladies hoping to secure a hefty tip and perhaps even supply pleasures. A few hours later, he was tired of gambling, and he pushed from the chair, tucking a ten-pound note into his server’s bosom. Her eyes widened in gratitude and with an open invitation, but Rhys ignored it and left.
He stumbled outside, slightly intoxicated, a virulent curse slipping from his lips. Nothing seemed to be working. Memories of their time together had been keeping him awake until dawn, over and over, with no show of relenting, and tonight would be another hellish night of not escaping those damnable memories.
What in God’s name had happened to him? He could not find his equilibrium. He’d never had cause to think so far ahead before, to plan a life for a wife and a child…a family, but now that they were within his grasp, he wanted it so badly his throat tightened. He scrubbed a hand over his face. Georgiana was a duchess, and at the best of times, he was a merciless criminal.
With a growl of frustration, he slammed his fist into the grimy brick wall, uncaring that he scraped the skin from his knuckles, uncaring that he bled.
How could it hurt so damn much?
A sound rode the air, alerting him to the presence of others. He whirled around, feeling a bit disappointed only three ruffians prowled toward him, with evident criminal intentions.
One held a knife, and the other two had clubs. Violence tore through him in a dark wave, and he welcomed the fire twisting his insides. This was what he needed. A quick, brutal bout of fighting.
They paused, glancing uncertainly at each other when he shrugged from his coat and let it fall casually on the filthy ground. It would be ruined, but he had been in fights for his life in his younger days and knew how easy it was to trip up a man who wore a coat.
“Give over yer money,” the apparent leader growled.
Rhys did not hesitate, rolling forward with a confident stride, the chill of mercilessness invading his soul. On another night, he would have given them the money without resistance or even offered them jobs in one of his factories, simply because he knew how terrible it was to exist in the abject poverty of the slums and how desperate a man could get to provide for those he cherished. After he had indulged in a gritty fight, he would offer them employment.
The scragglier-looking man broke from the trio and rushed forward, club at the ready. Rhys ducked underneath his wild swing and rammed his fist into the man’s gut. Before he could recover, Rhys brought his knee up, slamming it into his chin. With a guttural groan, the man tumbled to the ground.
Rhys’s lips curved into a sneer at the other two, and before they rushed at him, the cocking of a pistol hammer sounded.
“What do we have here?” came the low drawl.
The ruffians spun around, tripping over their explanation. “Mr. O’Malley, sir! We…we…”
“Be gone,” Riordan said, lowering the weapon.
They hurriedly collected their friend and scampered away without looking back.
“I see it is a good thing I followed you,” Riordan said in a neutral tone, propping his shoulder against the grimy alley wall.
“I needed no rescuing.”
“I was actually saving those fools. They clearly did not know who you are.”
Rhys said nothing to that pronouncement, strangely feeling empty he had been robbed of his outlet of violence. “Do you want to take it to the ring in the basement?”
Riordan arched a brow. “You must be more disturbed than I realized to want to go a few rounds with me.”
In the underworld, O’Malley had gained the sobriquet “the hammer” from the relentless way he fought. He had only been defeated once, by Rhys, and they had both been lads of sixteen, and Rhys had only defeated him because Lydia had thrown horse dung in Riordan’s face. The memory had a mirthless chuckle slipping from Rhys. His friend would probably pummel him, but perhaps he needed the blows to his body to keep the ache in his heart at bay.
“What happened?” Riordan demanded softly. “I could see you were distracted at the tables. You never play with such recklessness.”
Rhys grunted noncommittally.
“Is it your mysterious lady?”
He stiffened.
“I have eyes. She has not been to the hell in a couple weeks, and you have been uncommonly on edge,” Riordan drawled.
Rhys grabbed his coat and slung it over his shoulders and walked away. His friend kept pace, and Rhys knew the man would give him no peace.
“She is with child,” he confessed harshly.
Riordan jerked to a stop, and Rhys faced him. Mingled astonishment and wariness settled on his friend’s face.
“You damned fool, you asked her to marry you.”
“I did.” Rhys grimaced. “I wanted her by my side before I knew of her condition. I’d simply hoped the idea would have made ensnaring her easier.”
“She said no.”
“And may perhaps marry a gentleman to avoid society’s speculation.”
“Hell.” Riordan shot him a probing glance. “You are not without connections. Your uncle is the Viscount Westcott, and your wealth is considerable, certainly more than she has access to. Perhaps it is time you tried to leverage your background to her, you have the blood of the nobility running through your veins. Can she really do any better?”
“She is a duchess,” Rhys said flatly. “Above my meager connections.”
“Christ.” Riordan thrust his hand through his hair almost savagely. “A duchess, and you brought her to The Asylum?”
“There are people of her society who are members,” Rhys said tersely.
“The disreputable sorts, and powerful lords who need not be concerned with their reputations. It is a miracle she was not uncovered. There was much curiosity about this masked lady.”
Rhys had been very diligent in protecting her reputation and had even ensured they’d changed carriage, sometimes twice, three times whenever he’d delivered her home. She’d thought it a grand adventure, and he’d just been content to not see the lingering loneliness in her eyes.
“What are you going to do?”
“Forget her.”
“You willfully delude yourself. You are not the type of man who gives up when you want something. Or is she not that precious?”
He dealt Riordan a cool glance at his mocking tone. “I want her every moment of the day,” he admitted gruffly.
“Then fight for her. That is what we do. We are fighters—we do not wait for the things we need to be handed to us. We take them, war for them at all cost. It is how we have carved ourselves into the men we are today.”
“No,” Rhys said coldly. “There is no reward in fighting for a woman who views me…us…all we shared as nothing. That I will not do.”
“She is a goddamned duchess,” Riordan snapped with incredulity. “You did everything to protect her reputation before. Why would you abandon that desire now? And that is what she seeks to protect, yes? Her name?”
The words struck Rhys’s chest like sharpened barbs. Christ. Since their affair, he had done everything to protect her reputation from befalling harm. He had been thinking about his needs, not recognizing all she would be giving up if she had agreed to wed him. Though he would protect her using his wealth and resources, she would still be cut by many from her world and endure ridicule from a society she had belonged to all her life. A society she would have to continue to be a part of because her son was the Duke of Hardcastle. He sent his thoughts in several directions, calculating the odds and drifting through his arsenal of secrets. “I outmatch her in wealth.”
“You have been taking Lydia to high-society events, maybe you can take the opportunity to make yourself more charming and acceptable to the ladies of the ton,” Riordan said with a mocking glint in his eyes.
“I’ll not be unfaithful,” Rhys growled.
“Then woo the lords with your wealth and connections.”
“It still would not be enough.”
“The hell you say!”
“What I need is a title.”
Riordan stiffened, hunger flashing in his eyes before his lids shuttered. Like Rhys, Riordan possessed a similar ambition to penetrate the elite circles of the aristocracy, except his mission was coated with revenge, one Rhys had never been able to have him depart from.
“You’ve unlocked a secret to that?” he drawled, a dark edge to his tone.
“Wars are being fought. I know secrets…those that can topple governments and shift many favors to our shore.”
A calculating glint entered Riordan’s eyes. “It can be done.”
For the first time in weeks, he could breathe fully now that he had a plan of action. It will be done…and Rhys acknowledged, even if he was successful, it might never be enough.