It was madness.
It was the height of foolishness in those romantic tales she’d once read—and had, of late, with Rhys’ encouragement, begun reading again.
It was folly at every level.
Alice beat a frantic path back and forth over the Aubusson carpet.
Outside, the earlier calm of the weather had given way to great winds that howled forlornly over the countryside. Those gusts battered the windowpanes as if Mother Nature herself sought to beat down the door and shake sense into Alice’s head. To remind her of the great folly she’d made before… over another man.
And yet—
Alice jerked to a stop, her night skirts tangling about her legs. She forced herself to confront head on the realization she’d fought.
“I love him,” she whispered the truth aloud, lending it a reality that sent panic through her. “I love Rhys Brookfield.” Notorious rogue and wicked charmer. Her heart thudded hard against her ribcage. And yet, he was so much more than the world saw; so much more than he let the world see of him.
He possessed a clever humor that unfailingly brought her to laughter, but was also a scholar who could debate legal texts and romantic literature with equal acumen. Unlike her former betrothed, who’d turned his nose up at pleasurable pursuits, Rhys reveled in them and had reminded Alice herself of the joy to be found around her.
He was both a devoted brother and a loving uncle who played child’s games with his young nieces.
And God save her, in the short time Alice had been here with Rhys, she’d fallen hopelessly and helplessly in love with him.
Alice’s legs gave out and she caught the back of the caned vanity chair to keep from falling. Her mind railed against the very thought that had been rolling terrifyingly around her thoughts that day. She’d loved and lost in the most spectacularly humiliating way with Henry, and had vowed to never be made the fool again.
Alice slid into the folds of the white painted seat and stared blankly ahead.
These feelings, however, stirring deep inside her breast defied pride and past mistakes. What had come before with Henry she could readily acknowledge now had not truly been love, but rather the dream of being in love.
And this, paralyzing, terror-inducing sentiment was anything but the grandiose portrait she’d painted in her mind two years ago.
Alice sucked a breath in slowly through her clenched teeth. “He doesn’t want to marry,” she directed that at her pale visage reflected back in the Moorish side vanity cabinet. “This has all been a pretense and nothing more.” Except, even as that utterance slid from her lips, the inherent lie echoed back at her.
From her and Rhys’ first meeting, there had been a charged awareness between them. She might be a virgin still at nine and ten, but there could be no mistaking the burn in his eyes each time she entered a room or the passion spilling from his frame as he’d embraced her. No, those sentiments were real—in every way. She’d tasted enough bliss in Rhys’ arms to recognize a mutual desire in his eyes.
Alice chewed at the tip of her index finger, shredding the nail. But what did that truly mean? He lusted after her. The ease of his smile and laughter bespoke a man who very much enjoyed her company.
Was that enough for a man such as Rhys, however? Could he set aside past heartbreaks and trust himself to love again, more specifically—to love her?
Alice dropped her head onto the vanity. “You are assuming he could love you,” she muttered, lightly knocking her forehead against the wood. Rogues and rakes did not marry. Alice knew that well. Yes, her brother had… but that was one gentleman in a sea of other scoundrels.
A light rapping sounded at the front of the room.
Her eyes sought the Boulle mantel clock.
Twenty minutes after eleven o’clock.
It had been inevitable. With the guests since retired for the evening, Lettie would seek her out now. She groaned. It had been too much to hope her friend would have let the matter of Alice and Rhys’ pretend courtship rest. Another knock filled the room, this one louder, more determined. “I am sleeping,” she called out.
Silence fell, and then—
“I would be remiss if I did not point out that by your answer alone, you are still very much awake.” The unexpected, muffled tones of Lady Guilford faintly penetrated the oak panel.
Alice’s stomach lurched. “Oh, bloody hell,” she whispered, her horrified gaze locked on the mirror and that panel reflected over her shoulder.
What could the marchioness want with her and at this hour, no less?
Lady Guilford again scratched at the panel.
Alice shoved to her feet, sending the legs of her chair scraping the hardwood floor. Lurching across the room, she grabbed the handle.
Alice drew in a deep breath and opened the door.
The marchioness stared back, a kindly smile wreathing her delicate features. “Alice,” she greeted with a warm familiarity of one who’d forever called her friend and not just met at the house party hosted by Lady Guilford.
“My lady,” she said belatedly, dropping a curtsy. Still attired in a deep purple satin gown, the other woman evinced regal grace and elegance. Alice gripped the closures at the front of her wrapper. “Won’t you please come in?”
Lettie’s sister-in-law waved her hand. “Please, just Philippa,” she murmured, closing the heavy panel behind them. “I hope you’re enjoying your time here.”
“Oh, immensely. Very much so.” While those words held truth now, that hadn’t been the case before Rhys’ arrival. Before then, she’d been downtrodden and pitiable. Rhys had opened her eyes to the person she’d allowed herself to become and she never again wanted to be that pathetic creature she was before he entered her life.
They stared at one another through a stilted silence.
“My mother-in-law has not been overly kind to you,” the marchioness blurted.
Of all the statements, questions, or pleasantries to come, that had certainly been the least of which Alice expected from her hostess. “My lady?” she asked, carefully. After all, what in blazes did one say to that?
“Philippa,” the other woman corrected. “Please, sit,” she motioned to the nearby Rococo floral upholstered chair. “Mine was not so much a question as an observation,” she continued after Alice had settled herself onto the edge of her seat with her hands primly folded. Lady Guilford sank unceremoniously onto the needlepoint stool.
Alice weighed her words before replying. “Her Ladyship has not said anything to make me feel unwelcome,” she reassured. There. That was at the very least true as a formality. The cold glances and scowls directed Alice’s way, however, had spoken volumes about the woman’s opinion.
Lettie’s sister-in-law shook her head. “There are other ways to make a person feel unwanted,” she said, unerringly accurate in the path Alice’s thoughts had wandered. “I came from the billiards room where my husband and his brother were playing.” She collected her hands and gave them a slight squeeze. “I have never seen Rhys as happy as he has been this past fortnight with you.”
This is why she’d come. Just like Lettie, Philippa, the Marchioness of Guilford, had believed the lie. “I’m sure you are mistaken,” she said softly, wishing the other women were correct. All the while, knowing Rhys had been ready with a smile from when they’d first met. The memory of their first exchange in The Copse slipped in and a smile pulled at her lips. Well… not at first. “Rhys…” Her cheeks warmed. “Lord Rhys, he is always cheerful.”
“Not like this,” Philippa protested. “He cares about you. It is there in the way he watches your every movement and the way you two are around one another. As though the world has fallen away but for you two.”
Alice’s heart did a somersault. “Truly?”
The marchioness grinned. “Truly.” Her smile quickly faded. “My husband and I are both aware of my mother-in-law’s… expectations for Rhys.”
Miss Cunning.
“Miss Cunning,” Philippa murmured.
She’d spoken aloud.
Alice’s gut clenched.
“My mother-in-law believes she knows what is best for her children, and attempts to guide them toward that which she thinks is right…” She wrinkled her nose. “Including their spouses. But she loves her children and, as a mother myself, I appreciate that means she is not altogether bad.”
Alice stared quizzically at the other woman. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked slowly.
“I expect the dowager marchioness will eventually interfere.”
“You speak as one who knows,” she observed.
“She came to me and called into question my worth as a woman and mother.” A fierce glint lit the marchioness’ eyes. “I’ll not allow her to do that to anyone else, and certainly not a guest in my household.” Philippa sank onto the stool. “She will not be content until Rhys weds Miss Cunning.” Not unless. Rather, until. One word and yet it clawed at her insides. “But no one has the place to interfere in matters of the heart.” Using the footstool to push herself upright, the marchioness stood. “Forgive me for intruding so late on your sleep. With the house party ending soon, I thought it essential I not wait any longer for us to speak.”
“Oh, I was not sleeping.” Alice jumped up. “I was—”
Philippa winked.
“You were jesting,” she said with a smile, recalling the lie she’d called out.
“I was.” She started for the doorway.
“My lady… Philippa,” she called after her.
Lettie’s sister-in-law glanced back.
“Thank you,” Alice said.
“It was my pleasure. Oh, and Alice? My husband was planning to take his leave a short while ago of Rhys. He most definitely left him in the Billiards Room… alone.” She winked. And with that, the other woman took her leave.
In the silence, with only herself once more for company, the marchioness’ words and warning played around her mind. As did the encouragement she’d sent Alice with that wink.
He cares about you. It is there in the way he watches your every movement and the way you two are around one another. As though the world has fallen away but for you two…
Alice fisted the sides of her wrapper. Perhaps, Philippa was correct. Or perhaps, Alice merely wished her to be correct. Regardless, Alice had never been a coward.
“I love him,” she repeated. This time, that utterance didn’t usher in terror but rather a thrill that set her heart into a double-time rhythm. And she’d not forgive herself if she did not tell him.
The Billiards Room.
Grabbing the door handle, Alice sprinted from the room. With determination fueling her steps, she rushed through Lord Guilford’s quiet household. The periodic groan of an aged floorboard pierced the silence. Gone was the fear that had dogged her this day. In its place was a giddiness… a thrilling anticipation at what might be with him.
Alice raced around the corner—and collided with a tall, solidly built gentleman.
Strong hands instantly caught Alice, steadying her before she tumbled on her buttocks. “Forgive m…” That breathless apology died a swift death. “Oh.”
Her former betrothed adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Allice,” he greeted, a slight slur to his speech.
There had been a time, not so very long ago, when the mere sight of this man had filled her with sadness. Now, she accepted that she’d merely mourned the future she wanted—love, a family, a doting husband. Henry had represented the vehicle with which to obtain those dreams. Now, she saw that if they had married, how unfair it would have been to the both of them.
“If you’ll excuse me?” She made to step around him, but he matched her movements.
His gaze, always deferential and direct now moved up and down her person, lingering on her bare feet and then settling on her slightly gaping wrapper.
Gasping, Alice clutched the garment closed.
“You shouldn’t be wandering the halls… as you are.”
The initial shock of running into him abated. Now, Alice noted the details that had previously escaped her: the rumpled, slightly out of mode green jacket, the heavy scent of spirits wafting from his person, his bloodshot eyes.
“You’re foxed,” she blurted. Henry, who’d never even danced a waltz with her because of the immodesty of that set, now stood before her ape-drunk.
He took an uneven step forward and Alice easily moved from his path.
“You are off to seeeee himmm, aren’t you?” Her former betrothed stumbled, knocking into the wall.
Alice stole a frantic glance about. The last thing she needed was being caught alone, in discussion with her former intended—her now drunken former betrothed. “I don’t answer to you, Henry,” she said tightly. How had she ever imagined a future with a man who’d be so controlling of her actions? Again, Alice made to leave but he blocked her retreat.
Henry leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Do youuuu love himmmm?”
The last person deserving of that admission from her lips was the one before her now. No, when she uttered those three words they would be for Rhys.
“You are drunk,” she said. “It is late and it would be scandalous if we were discovered toget—eek.”
Henry took her arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “You doooo,” he whispered. “Or you thiiiink you doooo, anyway. But you don’t.” He pitched forward, propelling Alice against the wall, crushing her with his body. His hand tightened about her forearm.
Alice tightened her mouth. “Unhand me.”
His once-beloved features contorted into a paroxysm of anguish. “I love you.”
She blanched. “For the love of all that is holy, you are married.”
He rested his brow against hers. “It shooould have been you. It wasss a mistake.”
Unease swirled inside her. This was Pup Pratt, harmless as a dove. And yet stinking of spirits and unrelenting with his touch. “You made your decision,” she said calmly, in a bid to reason with him. Logic had always ruled his existence. “You have a wife.”
“Was thiisss to make me jealous,” he breathed against her ear. “Because if it was, Alice, it worked outrageously wellll.”
The irony was not lost on her that of all the people who’d believed Alice and Rhys’ pretend courtship was, in fact, the one person the ruse had been for. And he had seen it for what it was. “You presume much,” she bit out. Alice gave a hard shove, but he pressed his body to hers.
Panic roared to life.
“I missss you. So very much,” he groaned and Alice recoiled.
“Henry, do not—”
His mouth slammed down on hers obliterating that demand, overwhelming her with the heavy scent of brandy. She angled her head sideways, attempting to escape him. He thrust his tongue inside her mouth.
Rage blotted out all her panic. Gripping him by his shirtfront she raised her knee, but he caught her movement, caressing her leg through her skirts.
“My goodness. You shameful wanton.” That outraged cry broke through Henry’s liquor-soaked brain. Panting, he jumped back…
And coward that he’d proven himself to be on numerous scores, Henry fled, tripping over himself with the speed by which he made his escape.
Alice’s heart fell, sliding to her belly and then sinking all the way to her toes as she faced their audience. Alone.
“Shameful. Utterly shameful.” The seething dowager marchioness glowered at Alice.
Ignoring the stinging diatribe the older woman proceeded to unleash, she trained her attention not on the Marquess of Guilford who flanked her right side but the other gentleman.
Silent.
Immobile.
Grey-faced.
“Rhys,” Alice whispered.
He opened and closed his mouth several times, no words coming out.
Alice stared riveted, horror lancing through her, as a memory tripped in. She touched her fingers to lips still swollen from Henry’s assault.
A loud buzzing filled her ears.
It was just a kiss. But it didn’t matter. It was what that kiss represented. Betrayal. The end of a dream. The death of a friendship…
Footsteps sounded from a nearby corridor, jolting Alice and the Brookfields from their dazed state.
“I suggest you take yourself off, Lady Alice, before you earn yourself any more attention this evening.” Rhys’ mother glanced pointedly at Alice’s gaping wrapper.
Alice clenched the sides of the modest article, gripping the fabric tight for the weak lifeline it was. “It was not how it looked,” she said, proud of that even deliverance, one she offered not for this harpie’s benefit but for the stone-faced man beside her.
“Oh, and how did it look?” the dowager marchioness snapped. “As though you were shamefully pressed against the wall by your former betrothed.” Her voice rose. “The same man you threw yourself at on the steps of St. George’s Church?”
Rhys’ body jerked.
Alice locked her gaze on him. “I can explain—”
“My son has heard that before, haven’t you, Rhys?” his mother snapped.
“Mother,” the marquess quietly admonished, whatever other words he uttered were lost in his hushed tones.
All the while, Alice’s eyes remained fixed on Rhys.
Rhys, who may as well have been carved of granite.
Say something. She silently pleaded with him. Say you know I’d never give myself in any way to Henry Pratt. That you know I love you…
Only, why should he know that? She’d never told him. And he believed that everything that had come to pass was nothing more than pretend. Yet, if that were the case, why should he feel anything at discovering Alice with Henry?
Too late. She’d been too late.
Lord Lovell turned the corner and abruptly stopped. “I do say,” he squinted, “is that you Rhys Brookfield?” the wizened viscount boomed, loud enough to bring the entire household awake. “And Miles and…?” His brown eyes widened on Alice. “Oh,” he blurted, scratching at his cravat.
“Lord Archibald,” Rhys’ brother greeted with the aplomb only a powerful marquess could manage.
Viscount Lovell blinked slowly. “Highly unusual… this…” He gestured to Alice’s wrapper.
Bile climbed up the back of her throat. Could the gentleman see her swollen lips, too, in this instance? She briefly closed her eyes as horror assaulted her senses.
“Indeed, it is,” Rhys’ mother seethed.
Another scandal… over the same man, and yet entirely wrong in how it now appeared to the world.
She peeked over at Rhys and her heart stumbled. The sharp, chiseled planes of his face were an immobile mask, bearing no hint of the teasing gentleman who’d reminded her what it was to feel and laugh… and love. Look at me, she silently implored. Look at me and know I am not like that woman who hurt you…
Instead, his stare remained on Lord Lovell.
“Peculiar night this one is,” the viscount puzzled aloud. “A moment ago, I saw my Sybil’s brother-in-law running down the hall. Nearly knocked me down, he did. I wouldn’t take the youngest Pratt do be racing about.” He chuckled, his gaunt frame shaking with mirth. “Now my son-in-law, Nolan? I trust he’d be one to do so.”
Through his prattling, Alice stood frozen, feeling like an actor in a play who hadn’t the benefit of her lines.
The night could not very well get any worse.
“Lord Lovell, where are you?” The leading Societal hostess rounded the corner.
Alice’s face crumpled as she was, yet again, proven wrong.
The viscountess slapped a hand to her breast as her gaze went from Alice to Rhys. “Oh… my. My.”
“It is not how it looks, Lady Lovell,” Rhys’ mother snapped. “It was this one,” she whipped a hand in Alice’s direction. Panic threatened to drag her down and she braced for the revelation that would thoroughly destroy her. Nor did she give a jot about what the ton said. Only Rhys mattered. “And M—”
“Miles, who was good enough to help the lady when she became lost.” Rhys’ quiet interruption managed the seemingly impossible—it silenced the greatest gossip in London.
Her heart soared at that defense and Rhys briefly looked to her.
And all the hope she’d foolishly allowed herself at that gesture was dashed by the glint of indifference in his gaze; that sentiment all the more painful than had his eyes brimmed with rage and hurt.
Lady Lovell tipped her head. “Oh?”
The marquess cleared his throat. “Might I suggest we adjourn for the evening?” he offered, pulling Alice back from the brink of madness.
“Thank you for your assistance… my lord,” Alice managed and, bringing her shoulders back, started the long, painful trek to her rooms.
As soon as she reached the next corridor and found herself alone, Alice took flight.
A sheen of tears blurred her vision and she damned those useless drops as in her mind she relived Rhys’ response. Suspicion and anger had darkened his eyes and then… an absolute nothingness. His mistrust had been as palpable as if he’d condemned her with the same harsh words his mother had.
He’d been too jaded by his former betrothed’s betrayal to see that which had been before him and the truth of that left her bereft inside.
A short while later, attired in a proper gown, ensconced in one of Lord Guilford’s carriages, Alice continued her flight home… and away from Rhys Brookfield.