Chapter Sixteen
The case clock at the end of the corridor struck three. Rhiannon lay in the comfortable bed in the green guest chamber and stared at the ceiling where shadows played across the mural of birds and butterflies. The dim light from the fireplace and the candle on her bedside table made it difficult to make out the individual figures. However, as she’d been lying in bed since she’d heard the procession of carriages and baggage carts make its way down the drive, she had most of the mural memorized.
A small part of her wished she’d gone with him. It would not be so terrible to live in London if it meant she might see him every day. Having him in her bed every night might be worth playing the part of the idle duchess, to be trotted out when he needed an ornament on his arm. And to have his child… Even if Endymion became more like his grandfather over the years, she would be there to show her child love, and demonstrate the joy of living life as it came rather than as it was dictated by schedules and rules and the censure of Society over every misstep.
To give her child the life every child deserved, she’d have to fight, and Rhiannon hadn’t the heart to fight Endymion. So much of his life had been an act of survival, the most desperate of fights. In the end, that is why she’d refused him. He held her heart, broken as it was. He’d stolen it, and whilst love mended broken hearts, duty and responsibility tended to cause a heart to whither until there was nothing left but contempt, or worse, indifference.
She pulled the banyan she’d pilfered from his luggage from beneath the pillow she’d retrieved from her bedchamber. ‘Pitiful’ did not begin to describe her actions, but perhaps after all she’d endured these last few days, she was due a bit of the pitiful. Tomorrow, she’d battle Babcock and wrest back control of the estate. Tonight, she’d have a good cry and dream of Endymion in her bed, in her arms, and in her life.
She rolled over and gave the pillow a few punches.
A sudden, loud knock at the chamber door drew her attention.
“Your Grace,” Bea called and then flung the door wide. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but you are needed in the library at once.” She bustled into the room and dragged the covers off the bed. “I’ll help you to dress.”
“Dress? Why do I need to dress to go to the library in the middle of the night?” Rhiannon stumbled from the bed and scooted her feet around in search of her slippers.
Mrs. Davis bustled in with undergarments and a voluminous blue silk dress in her arms. “Get her out of that nightgown. They’re waiting.”
“They? Who is waiting?” Rhiannon was forced to raise her arms over her head as Bea stripped her of her nightgown and Mrs. Davis replaced the nightgown with a chemise and petticoats and front-closing stays. Bea made quick work of the stays and wiggled them into place to show Rhiannon’s bosom to its best advantage.
“This isn’t my gown,” Rhiannon complained as she fought to settle the yards of silk around her.
“A few well-placed pins and it will be fine,” Mrs. Davis assured her. “Miss Smith, do something with her hair.”
Rhiannon nearly pinched herself to ensure she was not dreaming, or having a nightmare. Had her maid and housekeeper gone mad?
After a few swipes of the brush and a few well-placed pins, Bea declared, “That will have to do. Come along, Your Grace.”
They dragged her out of the bedchamber and down the corridor toward the stairs. Every servant in the household stood in the entrance hall in their nightclothes. What on earth were they about?
“Beatrice Smith, if you don’t tell me why I am being dragged to the library in the middle of the night I am going to—”
“Think about it, Your Grace,” Mrs. Davis suggested. “It will come to you.”
Rhiannon began to drag her feet. She stopped before the library doors where Josiah stood waiting.
“A chance to make a choice, my girl. For both of you.”
He opened the double doors to reveal Lord Voil and Achilles, dressed in their finest clothes and grinning like fools. Josiah pulled her arm through his and escorted her into the library. A great deal of scuffling, muttering and shoving ensued as the servants crowded in behind her. It was as if she’d been summoned by her governess for an exam for which she had not studied. Then she saw him.
Standing at the far end of the library before the white Italian marble mantel held up by two carved Pendeen dragons stood Endymion, looking nervous and hopeful and…oh Lord, who was that with him? The rector?
“Josiah?” she whispered out of the side of her mouth as they walked slowly across the Persian carpets.
“Say the word and I’ll take you back to your chamber and bar the door. But His Grace has gone to a great deal of trouble.”
“That, you’ll have to ask him yourself. Here we are.” Josiah kissed her cheek and placed her hand in Endymion’s.
Achilles, dressed in his customary black highwayman garb, stood next to his brother. Lord Voil, dressed in a suit of blue silk breeches, blue silk frock coat, and white shirt with acres of lace at the throat and cuffs swayed slightly on his buckled shoes. Endymion wore similar clothes, save the breeches and frock coat were black. She looked at her own dress and realized she, too, was attired in clothes borrowed from some de Waryn ancestor’s wardrobe. The rector, thank goodness, was spared.
It suddenly occurred to her. This rector was the son of the rector who had married her to Endymion seventeen years ago. He was also the boy whose nose Endymion had broken when he’d insulted her. She had the most awful urge to laugh.
“What did you do to convince him to leave his bed in the middle of the night?” she asked her husband under her breath.
“I threatened to break his nose again.”
“I thought as much.” She patted the rector’s open prayer book. “Excuse us for a moment, rector.”
She dragged Endymion to the window seat in the corner. “What is this about? Why are you not on your way to London?”
“Is that what you want, Rhee? Do you want me to live in London whilst you live on the other side of England?” He held her hands and ran his forefinger over her wedding band.
“It’s what you want. I have no choice in the matter.” Her throat began to tighten.
“And if you did? If you had a choice, would you let me stay here in Cornwall? With you?”
“Let you?” she shrieked softly. “I never asked you to leave.”
“Why did you do it, Rhee? Why did you strike such a bargain to make me your husband?” He needed to stop looking at her like that, as if she were the only woman in the world.
“Why do you think?” She could not breathe, and it had nothing to do with the tightness of her stays.
“I hope I know, but I want you to say it. Please tell me.” He dropped his gaze to her hands once more.
She’d faced angry miners, farmers, murderers and countless other dangers. None so frightening as what she contemplated in this moment.
“I did it because I love you, Dymi. I have loved you since you broke my fall from that tree and cut your thumb. I loved you the night we married, and I love you now. Everything I have done, good and bad, I have done because I love you.”
He caught her face between his hands and kissed her. “Thank God for that,” he breathed against her lips. “I’d hate to think what you’d do to me if you hated me.”
“What is all of this, Dymi? I don’t understand.”
“Neither of us had a choice, Rhee. Not really. Your father was determined you be a duchess. He would not have let you refuse. Tonight, we have a choice. Will you marry me?”
“You’ve kept my secrets, saved my life, run my estate, and put up with me being a complete arse.” He touched his forehead to hers. “I married you. I abandoned you. I broke my marriage vows to you, kept my marriage vows to you, and never, ever thought of any other woman more worthy or more desirable to be my duchess. I had no idea why until today. I love you, Rhiannon Harvey de Waryn. Cornwall broke my heart seventeen years ago. This place took everything from me. And you have given it all back. Let me stay here with you. Help me chase away the ghosts. I am the Duke of Pendeen. I am begging you, my love, be my duchess. Marry me. Again.”
He gazed at her, his green eyes bright and clear. Here was the boy she’d married. Here was the man she loved. Endymion had made her cry once when they were children. She’d asked his mother what love was because she didn’t think love was supposed to hurt. His mother had hugged her tight and smiled.
“Love is a thief, Rhiannon. If you allow a man to steal your heart, rest assured he will break it, and probably more than once. You just make certain the thief is man enough to mend it.”
As she stood before the rector in her itchy, borrowed clothes and spoke the vows she now understood with so much more clarity, she realized his mother was right. And no matter the reason all those years ago, Rhiannon had married the only man for her, the only man who could mend her broken heart. And if it took a lifetime, she vowed to be the woman to mend his.
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