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‘I doubt I would let my child meet you. Rhys is not going to be in my life again so you must pick out someone else to breed the next heir.’
The duchess chuckled. She examined Bellona toe to head.
Fingers splayed, the duchess put her palms together and then she interlaced her fingers. ‘The butler did the unthinkable. He started a betting book with the staff concerning Rhys and you. Even taking in the possibility of an heir. I am not supposed to know of it, but my maid understands the importance of her duties.’ She extended her forefingers towards Bellona. ‘All sorts of wagers are being bandied about. I plan for my maid to do quite well. The maid has been informed that she is to wager on you marrying Rhys inside the month and that the first child will be a daughter, because I know you will do that just to spite me.’
‘I liked you better when you were crying,’ Bellona said.
‘Well, child, you should have thought of that earlier. You should have thought about the consequences when you...bathed with my son. The butler has not yet recovered his senses or he would not have started the betting book.’
‘You have no say in this.’
‘Fine. But you need to alert Rhys that you mean nothing to him.’ Unclasping her hands, she stood.
‘I have.’
‘You have not convinced him.’
‘He’s a grown man. He can do as he pleases.’
‘Oh, he is,’ the duchess said. She smiled. ‘I have it on good authority—since the staff in London knows I must be informed of events—that an interesting tale could be bandied about at any day.’
‘What about?’ Bellona couldn’t help herself.
The older woman’s lips turned up. Bellona thought of Gigia.
‘I shall win that wager,’ the duchess said.
She didn’t walk to the door like a woman with a sore knee. She looked back. ‘My son has to have some tenderness for you or he would not be so bound on destroying your father.’
* * *
Bellona paused two steps from the room’s entrance, listening as she brushed the black veil from her face. A murmuring voice, a male, answered Rhys’s bursts of command.
She took a deep breath, moved to the doorway and saw Rhys and a smaller fellow. The diminutive man, face wan, needed a razor, although he had been near one much more recently than Rhys.
‘Your Grace,’ Bellona spoke, pulling Rhys’s eyes to her.
His eyes showed no reaction to her presence. He stood. ‘I beg forgiveness that I cannot entertain you. But as you can see we have much to finish.’ Papers mounded his desk and a small stack rested on the rug.
She tossed her reticule into the empty chair. ‘So no shop owner may dare exhibit any of my father’s paintings or they will have the Duke of Rolleston’s wrath visited upon them. Even the tradesmen are afraid to sell any artist’s supplies to him, for fear of reprisal. His every step outside his house is noted, and should anyone extend any favourable notice to his art they are warned away.’
This time, his face turned directly towards her and his eyes sparked an inferno. Then he switched his attention to Simpson and the man jumped back in his chair. Even Bellona could see the guilt in the face of the man of affairs.
‘Rolleston.’ She snapped the word out, pulling his gaze. Even though she did not fear him, she didn’t like the look he gave her—the calmness a bit too scorching.
‘My dear. I am impressed.’ Then he pointed a pen to his man of affairs. ‘Simpson. For your tale-bearing you are let go without a reference.’
The man’s jaw dropped and he gathered his papers as he stood.
She stepped back into the doorway, feet firm. ‘Stop,’ she commanded Simpson.
‘Oh, I could not, miss.’ He caught a paper that had slid from his fingers, grasping it before it hit the floor.
She put a hand out, palm against the wood. No one could move through the doorway without pushing her aside.
Simpson stood, looking at her, eyes wavering but feet immobile. ‘Pardon, miss?’ His eyes begged.
‘Tell him,’ she commanded the duke. ‘Tell him there will be no repercussions for his actions.’
Words knifed the air. ‘There will be.’
‘Then he may wed me for my proika, my dowry.’
Rhys coughed. ‘His wife will object.’
She shook her head in frustration. ‘You cannot blame this man for his concern—if he did write to Harling House to mention your behaviour towards my father. You have a houseful of servants here and I have noticed that your staff at Harling House cares for you. Or perhaps they just fear the duchess and only pretend affection for you.’
‘I am quite well, thank you.’
Her eyes raked over him, and she pressed her palm tightly against the door frame.
