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Chapter Twelve
The palm of his hand tingled and burned. The cut had opened twice in the morning, but each time he’d cared for it and the bleeding had stopped.
His morning meal had not gone well. The rasher of bacon left a tallow coating in his mouth and he’d had to wash it away with a drink of chocolate—even that had not been quite right. He’d almost sent to have the cook try again, but he just was not hungry. Eating with his left hand made everything taste off.
The day’s lashing rain splattered against the window and Rhys only had the ledger books in front of him so he could look busy if someone walked in. The sums were not terrible, but rather the way he’d hoped them to be. Everything soured before his eyes because of his thoughts concerning Bellona. The woman had injured him and he had fallen at her feet. If his mother had known how simple it could be, she would have been arming all the ladies of the ton with knives in their reticules.
This morning, he did not expect to see Bellona moving about the house. She wouldn’t be going out to practise archery because of the weather and she’d not slept much.
The decision to leave for London had been taken out of his hands. The roads from his home would be difficult for a carriage and the trip wasn’t a good idea. He would get stuck. But he was already mired.
How many times must he go wrong in order to recognise the right path?
His proximity to Bellona had merely misled him. Misdirected him. Natural enough.
He’d relived a certain kiss a thousand times and cursed himself a thousand-and-one times. What if he’d only kissed her because he’d been so long without a woman’s touch? Or worse, what if he had kissed her because she was like a meandering stream, winding and winding and seeming to be just a trickle until it pooled into something so wondrous the eyes could not believe it?
He could not do this to her.
His father would have counselled him. He would have shaken his head and closeted himself in a room with his son. They would have discussed the events. Or rather his father would have guided Rhys.
His father’s main responses would have been, ‘I see. That sounds interesting. I hadn’t thought of it that way. What of the other people involved? Your future children? What kind of mother will best raise your son to be a duke? Help your daughters to make the best marriages? This is not a decision for you. It is a decision for your future heirs. And what of Bellona? What is right for her?’
He forced the thoughts away, determined to make the best decision for everyone.
His sister, his father and Geoff’s deaths had pounded his heart into dust. He could not resurrect it and expect to have the strength to carry on with his father’s legacy. To let the lands and the estate go to a cousin, while the remains of all those he’d loved would reside here for eternity, was something he could not risk.
He had no choice but to marry a suitable woman, and he had no true heart left to give her. Perhaps that was why Louisa was the perfect wife. He’d not seen any real affection for him in her eyes.
If Louisa died in childbed, and left a child behind, he would be able to care for it and continue on.
He had courted her quietly while his brother was alive, knowing that his brother wanted Louisa—and why not, she was the perfect duchess. Geoff was no fool. Louisa’s head wasn’t easily swayed. Her thoughts were not altered by a duke pulling her one direction or his brother tugging her another, determined, on this one thing, to win.
When Geoff had died, the letters Louisa sent Rhys had been written in almost the same tone he would have expected from his man of affairs and he had responded similarly. Letter after letter exchanged—with little more personal nature than those he might have sent to Simpson. He’d saved every letter. Every one, and read them over and over, and each one convinced him even more of her suitability. The guilt he felt at courting the woman Geoff had planned to wed only flared occasionally. Now he wanted her for another reason. After he observed the mourning period, he had told himself, he would ask her to marry him.
Rhys had once believed his heart was in the right place. Perhaps. He no longer needed to think about that or question himself. He needed to go forward. Perhaps putting his body in the right place would cause his heart to produce the right response. Louisa knew what was expected of her in the role of duchess. Knew the ways of society. She was pleasant. Kind. Thoughtful. Perfect.
He didn’t love her. To love someone else—to release his heart to them, was impossible. He could not give what he no longer had.
* * *
‘Rhys.’ His mother stood in the doorway, whispering loudly. Rhys jolted as if caught in an illicit embrace.
He collected his ducal mien and with his left hand scratched a jagged figure on the page before him. His mother had not entered the library in a long time. ‘Yes, Mother?’
