Lord Rhys Brookfield, brother to the Marquess of Guilford, and bane of his proper mother’s existence, had not balked at much in the course of his eight and twenty years.
He’d outraced, outdrank, and outwagered some of London’s most wicked scoundrels.
Rhys had deservedly earned a reputation as a rogue, who’d never met a widow or scandalous lady he could not charm.
For all his moral failings, however, he did draw the proverbial line somewhere.
Leave it to his pinch-mouthed, propriety-loving mother to find it.
Standing in the doorway of his brother’s parlor, he briefly contemplated the path to escape over his shoulder. Perhaps he’d heard her wrong?
“Don’t you dare think of leaving this room, Rhys Winston Grayson Brookfield,” his mother snapped from her spot in the upholstered King Louis XIV chair where she sat like the Queen of Sheba upon her throne.
Oh, he’d heard her, all right. Even as he wished he hadn’t…. or that he’d misheard or mistaken her. Dragging his heels, he forced himself to enter the rooms.
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m pleased that you’ll join me and—”
“That is certainly not what I was ‘absolutely-notting’. Rather, the first part,” he said tightly, plopping down on the seat opposite hers. “The…” He tried to force the word out. “The…” He strangled on it. By God, he couldn’t.
“Marriage, Rhys,” his mother scolded. “The word is marriage.”
And not just any marriage at that, but rather the talk of a possible and proposed match between Rhys… and a child. That was the line that he’d never even toe, let alone cross.
Not picking her head up from her embroidering, the Dowager Marchioness Guilford directed her reply to that small wood frame between her fingers, never missing a stride. “The Cunnings will be arriving tomorrow and the expectation is clear.” She pierced the needle through with such ferocity, there could be no doubting Rhys had gotten under his mother’s skin—as he’d always invariably managed to do. And this time, I did not even have to try… There was some solace in that. “You have responsibilities to this family, now.” Now. “As such, I’m not begging, Rhys. Why, I am not even politely asking because, frankly, that is far beneath me. I am—”
“Oh, yes,” he drawled, interrupting her. “Politely asking is the stuff of the masses and hardly the distinguished dowager marchioness.”
She gave a pleased nod. “Precisely.” God, was a person born this insolent? Or was it something learned? Fortunately, where the Brookfields were concerned, it was not a trait that traveled through their blood. “As such,” she patted her greying chignon. “I am telling you.”
“You are telling me?” he asked dryly. “How positively medieval of you.” Ironically, with the marriage of his eldest brother, the Marquess of Guilford, to a young widow with two children, Rhys should have been absolved of further expectations where responsibility was concerned. Alas, that union had brought about an even more tenacious urgency on his mother’s part.
“Medieval,” she snapped, surging forward in a shocking break in her usual composure. “Is it medieval that two centuries worth of properties, history, and legacy have not been, as of yet, preserved?” It was a sorry day, indeed, when a married son, and a nearly thirty-year old spare were not enough for one’s mama. “If something were to happen to you and Miles together—”
“That would be deuced unfortunate timing.” He yawned and belatedly covered that show of his fatigue.
Too late.
His mother sharpened her gaze on his person and, if looks could burn, the thick snow lining the Brookfield estates would have been reduced to nothing more than a melted puddle. Rhys attempted to reason with her. “It is hard to imagine how such a tragic event would come about. We do not take the same carriages and, generally, if we ride, we do so beside one another.” He winked once. “Certainly never on the same horse.”
“Oh, you are incorrigible,” she cried, tossing her hands up in maternal vexation.
“Very well. I would ride with him, were we in a situation where we happened to be together, stranded with the one mount—”
A shriek strangled in the dowager marchioness’ throat.
A more honorable gent would have taken mercy. He’d long been without where his mother was concerned. If one wished to be truly precise… with any person, really. “I suppose there might be a freakish accident in which—”
“I am glad you find amusement in all this,” she barked.
He inclined his head in silent acknowledgement.
“But if something were to happen to the both of you, I and your sisters will be at the mercy of a distant relative. Vile Mr. Pritchard.”
He made a pitying sound. “Poor Mr. Pritchard.” A distant cousin nearly ten years older than Rhys, he’d found the only thing vile about the man was his dreadful fascination with an intricately folded cravat.
“Poor Mr. Pritchard?” she squawked. “Poor me? I have not one, but two sons. And neither of you has produced any male offspring.”
“Well, in fairness,” he pointed out, lifting a finger. “If I had produced a male offspring in my current state, he would hardly qualify as a rightful heir given the rules of inheritance.”
She slapped her palms over her face.
Ice-tinged snowflakes pinged the window at a steady little staccato, and he glanced over to the frosted panes.
A gust of wind stirred those flakes in a swirling blanket of white. Rhys stared longingly out. He’d take that cold. He’d relish a ride through the snow-clogged grounds of the Somerset countryside to an infernal lecturing on his wedded state. And as a rule, he avoided the blasted cold at any cost. Which gent truly wished to suffer through the blistering winds and pelting rains or snows?
But then, focusing on frigid weather was a good deal safer than the topic his mother had insisted on unearthing—
“I canna live in poverty. I want more for not only us… but for you…”
As if that Scottish beauty had truly wanted the best for him. He grimaced. Bloody hell. It had been years—many of them since he’d thought of her—Miss Lillian Hart. A flirtatious actress, she’d been as coy as she’d been stunning. And he, at the age of eight and ten had made the mistake of hopelessly falling for a pretty face, and venturing down the path to marriage.
Well, very nearly venturing down.
Miss Hart had proven to be an even more credible actress in real life than she’d been on the stage. When he’d been threatened with disinheritance by his late father if they wed, she’d made clear just what Rhys’ value was—nothing. His friend, Lord Anthony Fielding, the Earl of Montgomery, however, had been plump enough in the pockets.
And one afternoon visit to the Earl of Montgomery’s residence had ripped apart Rhys’ very existence: he’d entered Anthony’s study and found his loyal friend locked in an embrace with none other than Rhys’ betrothed.
Rhys had turned and walked out of that townhouse sans one betrothed and one friend, and Rhys’ heart shredded. That had been the last he’d ever seen either of them.
And years later, having seen himself saved from a miserable fate to a schemer, he was quite content to live the happy, carefree existence of a rogue.
And that existence most assuredly did not include any wife—particularly not a seven and ten-year-old child.
Glancing at his mother, still buried away behind her palms, Rhys drummed his fingertips on the wood arms of his chair.
With a slow, steady exhalation of air, the dowager marchioness matched his pose. “You need to marry her.”
“Aria?”
“Of course, Aria,” Mother said crisply. “She is Lady Lovell’s only unwed daughter.”
“She is a child,” he said flatly. Surely with her devotion to logic over emotion, she could see the odiousness in a match between Rhys and that tender-yeared miss?
“Oh, hush. I was quickening with your brother when I was Aria’s age.”
He cringed. Who’d have imagined that a discussion that sought to provide a death knell to his bachelor state could possibly worsen? And yet, mention of his late father and mother’s young marriage and pregnant state had taken their discourse from distasteful to repugnant. Rhys tried again. “She is a seven and ten years old girl. I am—”
“You are just eleven years her senior. There are hardly a great many years between you, at all.”
“Actually there is,” he insisted. When Aria had been crawling about Rhys’ then two- and-ten-year-old feet, he’d been stepping over her, racing from the room so he could fish and ride. “When I was at Eton she was just born. When I was at Oxford, she was in nappies. When I was—”
“You have made your point, Rhys.” Fire flashed in his mother’s eyes.
“As I was saying… at least eight years too many between us.” It was an arbitrary number, fished from his mind, meant to stop the tide of his mother’s questioning…. and had the desired effect.
“Pfft.”
One pence. It had long been a game he’d silently played with himself; earning an imagined pence for each one of those “pffts” of hers, to determine just the sizeable fortune he’d earn.
“Regardless, it is about more than the eleven years between us.” Lie. “And more the fact that she’s just recently left the school room,” he attempted in a bid to reason with the reasonable-about-all dowager—except the marital fate and future of her children. As such, even his mother could not refute that.
“Two years ago,” she countered, dragging her needle through the frame once more. “I’d have you know this is all your brother’s fault. Marrying that woman,” she muttered under her breath. “Pfft.”
Two pence.
“What was that?”
“Nothing at all,” he demurred, having long been riddled with the troublesome habit of speaking to himself.
At last, she set aside that tedious frame, resting it on the mahogany inlaid table beside her. “Furthermore, if you are upset with your current circumstances, you’ve no one to blame except your brother.”
Well, that was a recent and unexpected shift. Since his marriage to a woman who was not Lady Lovell’s eldest unwed daughter, Miles had gone from the long-favored, agreeable son to… “Your brother”, in discussions.
Most days, Rhys wasn’t sure which had grated his mother more: the proper, dutiful son Miles had always been, tossing aside their mother’s wishes and making the ultimate decision of his marital fate for his own. Or the woman Miles had made his bride.
“Ohh,” he stretched out that utterance, deliberately needling. “I am content with my current circumstances as they are. Quite so.” Very much. His greatest responsibilities were related to his business ventures. The latest, a partnership in steel with Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort… and if he were being truthful with himself—to the mistress whom he sponsored in a given moment. Of which, he had been a deuced long in between. He’d rectify that soon enough. As a rogue, however, he’d draw the moral line at scandalous affairs during family house parties hosted by his sister-in-law, with young children in attendance.
“Well,” she said cheerfully, gathering the teapot. “Then I suggest you become discontent very soon,” she paused mid-pour. “Aria will be spending the fortnight.”
He choked on his swallow.
Ambushed. Just like that.
Invited for the annual winter house party by Miles and Philippa, the last thing he’d ever expected was a happy celebration between the Brookfields and the Cunnings. For the plain truth was since the two mothers angling for marriage between their eldest children: Miles and Sybil—now married to other parties—there’d been only stilted tension between the leading matrons of Society. “But… but…”
His mother widened a triumphant grin. “Tea?” she offered, holding up a cup.
“Y-You are not even speaking to Lady Cunnings,” he stammered.
Her lips formed a moue of displeasure. “Hush. Viscountess Lovell and I are as friendly as we’ve ever been.”
Which might not be an untruth. Shrew-tongued harpies, they’d gotten on famously over the years. The fact that after a lifetime of friendship they still referred to one another by their titles was pointed proof of it.
Ignoring that offering, Rhys stood and walked over to the window. He contemplated the doorway and then the snow-covered grounds below. Which escape would be quickest? He was one for risk taking and, yet, he’d not wager his very life that the snow below was enough to break his significant jump.
Glancing about the White Parlor, he searched for a hint of a liquor cabinet.
Bloody hell, he needed a brandy.
Desperately.
It was going to be a long fortnight.