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“I forgot the aristocracy believe that being well-read is only for their lot,” he said flatly, a bit startled that her perceived judgment rankled.
She flushed. “I believe nothing of the sort.”
“Perhaps you should direct your thoughts to my apology.”
Without making a reply, she wheeled her horse around and urged the exquisite mare a few paces forward. She turned her face toward him, and a slow smile curved her beautiful mouth. “I will admit I was lost in my thoughts. I do not mind your company—that is, if you are of a mind to ride with me.”
Surprise jolted through him. He nodded and urged his horse to ride beside hers. Of course, he spent an inordinate amount of time discreetly observing her. She had a small mole on the left side of her chin, a few strands of her raven-black hair had slipped from its chignon and curled becomingly against her cheek, and there was the smallest of overlap with two of her bottom teeth. The pulse at her throat fluttered visibly, and at times, when she thought she examined him covertly, there was a wary attraction in her gaze. Dear God, every detail of her, no matter how small, was imprinted on his mind. He savored the feel of her presence so close to his and the fact that he could want another with such intensity.
He wondered if she would have been so at ease in his presence if they had been amongst her set. They cantered in silence, and he found he did not want to ruin the serenity with chatter. She seemed like-minded, and they simply rode, enjoying each other’s presence before they would return to their respective worlds.
…
The Earl of Mansfield owed Rhys, and he would collect tonight. He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if he was losing his senses. The earl had been in his debt for a little over a year, and he had not made use of the man before now. The earl was powerful, a pawn Rhys had not wanted to relinquish so easily. He’d not even used the man’s influence to help launch his sister into society…but he was now thinking to call in the earl’s debt for an invitation to his countess’s ball, simply because he wanted to see her—the duchess.
He took a deep restorative breath at the shocking realization. There could be no doubt he was losing his goddamned mind. A duchess was on the highest rung of the social ladder, even a dowager duchess. She had influence and knowledge he needed access to. That was all that should matter. His family’s wants must always come before his—they had always been his priority. But the ease at which his errant thoughts and behavior had betrayed the vows he’d made to them and himself was infuriating.
Powerful men, not all of them lords, ruled the underworld of London with ruthlessness, each man controlling their respective territories and investments. And then there were men like him, who owed their allegiance to no one. But his services were coveted by everyone because he understood loyalty and he produced results. His business was not only in the brokerage of information. Rhys was much smarter than that and had made the realization years ago when he had only been fourteen. His sisters needed him to be more than a trafficker for the dregs or even for the high society of London. He had plotted long and hard while other men had been asleep, or racing, or gambling, on how to conquer the world for his family.
He’d become a legitimate businessman with stakes in property and land, shipping, and even a factory that manufactured muskets, rifles, and pistols. Still, it was not enough. His sisters had been grounded to their lowest, and he wanted the highest life had to offer. Rhys would not stop until their happiness had been secured. All of them deserved to be treated as ladies. Titles bought respectability, security, and in their own way, unmatched power. He wanted to see them permanently well-connected. The duchess could be his means to achieve this, and his unruly and vulgar tongue had made her slip through his grasp. Their meeting in the park had shown her to be less haughty and perhaps open to more. Tonight, he would assess how best to sway her to his side.
He surged to his feet and with rapid strides left his study and walked down the hall to the drawing room. Wrenching the door open, he spilled into the room and faltered. There it was…the warmth, the pleasure that burst inside his chest whenever he looked upon his family. In so many ways they had been his salvation, his reason to fight, to push, to conquer.
Instead of being seated on the sofa, his sisters were sprawled on the carpet, without an ounce of decorum, playing cards, talking, and giggling softly. It pleased him to see them so joyful. These were the moments that reminded him that everything he did was worth it.
His sisters had proved themselves resilient, enduring one hardship after another without complaint. They had done all they could to make everything more bearable. He had worked hard to provide them with a comfortable living, and then a luxurious one. His mother had done her part, but she had been so gentle, still a gentleman’s daughter throughout their disgrace. She had kept her former life alive for the girls, regaling them with grand tales of society seasons, the finery and wonderful glitter of high society. And he had watched as the hunger for that elusive life grew in their eyes. Then the words had spilled from Lydia’s fingers a few years past—wouldn’t it be grand if we could be a part of the ton?
It had struck him that being a part of the aristocracy was truly their right. Rhys knew what his sisters dreamed of in their quiet moments. Twenty-three-year-old Lydia, with her deafness, wanted a man who would love her despite her disability. She had a romantic soul that he should have made some effort to curb, for it would not serve her well. The twins, Joanna and Grace, had only attained their twentieth birthday a month past. Joanna wanted to open a bookshop and had no thought for marriage, though at times he believed she removed the desire from her heart for fear of disappointment. How many gentlemen would want a young woman with scars on her face for all society to see? It was a question she had asked him dozens of times. She had an elegance of mind and sweetness of character that shouldn’t be trampled upon. Grace, the hellion of the family, was the antithesis of her name.
Lydia said something too low for him to discern, but they all laughed, their joy and merriment pulling a smile to his lips. They were filled with such bubbling hope that he never wanted to see it crushed. He cleared his throat, and their heads snapped up, Lydia following the movement of her sisters. There was such genuine welcome suffusing their features when they recognized him.
“Oh, brother, do join us, we are playing a quite rousing game of whist.”
He strolled closer. “I fear I must decline. I have urgent business to attend to.”
“You do?” Grace asked with an elegant arch of her brow, no doubt perfected from secretly watching the women of society when they’d held balls. Of all his sisters, she was the one most enthralled by the nobility. Many nights he had stood in the shadows, a discreet, protective force, following her as she crept about the west end, spying on their so-called betters. No doubt she would be mortified if she knew he was aware of her midnight adventures. Her wistful sighs always pierced him and pushed him to work harder.
“Wait…why are you dressed so smartly?” Grace demanded, her spine snapping straight. “I’ve never seen you looking so handsome and elegant before.”
“I’m off to a ball,” he said, tugging at his silken cravat.
She gasped in delight. “How positively divine. I do so wish we could all come with you.”
“Another ball,” Lydia signed. “How unprecedented but quite exciting. I wish I could attend, as well.”
“Not I,” said Joanna, sniffing in apparent distaste, but he spied the vulnerability in her eyes, and he did not miss the way her fingers lightly touched the scar marring her right cheek down to her chin.
That wound was a reminder of how he had failed to protect his sisters. Joanna’s facial scars, Lydia’s deafness, and Grace’s untamed wildness. Every day he looked upon their faces and swore he would improve their lives so they would never want or suffer again.
“I’ll be sure to be observant so I can regale you with tales of the aristocracy,” he said gruffly.
“We’ll wait up,” Grace
chimed in, giggling.
“We are waiting on Mamma to return from her book club,” Joanna said. “Take pity on us and return at a good hour, for they’ll not sleep a wink until they hear about your night.”
Rhys chuckled and hauled himself to his feet. He had to depart the drawing room before he gave in to the urge to simply spend the night with them. He collected his coat and hat and headed for his waiting carriage. After settling himself against the squabs, he rapped the roof. Then he turned his thoughts inward and plotted his next move. Less than half an hour later he was politely ushered through the townhouse door of Lord Mansfield. Several curious glances were directed Rhys’s way. However, most of the illustrious guests ignored his presence.
He strolled through the throng, surprised at how many people were crammed in the earl’s townhouse. A few faces recognized him, namely the prime minister, Lord Liverpool, and Viscount Sheffield. While both managed to mask their surprise, none greeted him, not even with a simple nod of acknowledgment.
Amusement rushed through him, for just three nights ago at The Asylum, they had all played faro together. He understood and did not judge them for their actions. Over the years, he’d learned to cloak himself in a mask of civility, some semblance of breeding, and eloquence. But he knew it for what it was…a sham, and at times it seemed all of society knew just from looking at him. There had been a time in his life when their judgment had seared him, but not anymore. Now all he cared about was the happiness of his sisters. And perhaps, the baffling attraction he felt for the duchess? Truly, what was it about her?
Rhys placed himself strategically beside a Grecian column atop the landing overlooking the wide and elegant ballroom.
“Are we looking for someone?” a voice drawled to his left.
“Mansfield,” Rhys greeted as the earl halted beside him.
“I wouldn’t think your society was here tonight,” the earl mused, shooting him a side-eyed glance.
Rhys allowed his gaze to scan the room. London’s wealthiest and most powerful seemed packed into the earl’s townhouse. Despite the crowd, he effortlessly recognized the duchess. From the young bucks and debutantes surrounding her, she was evidently being fawned and preened over. A mane of the blackest hair he’d ever beheld was piled high atop her head in intricate curls. A blue gown sheathed her frame, daring and provocative, for it was cut so low her décolletage was delightfully displayed. Rhys faltered momentarily but caught himself, though not soon enough.
