His Grace, a duke, and not a wealthy gentleman with a comfortable income, but a peer of the realm. One of the most powerful men in England, if wealth and title were the measures of power.
She thought back over everything she had learned about him. Everything he had told her, and everything he had carefully not told her.
He had introduced himself as Mr. Langford. He had presented himself as a benefactor, then admitted to being the children’s father. He had shared his guilt, his grief, his struggle to be present. He had asked her to call him Rhys.
But he had never mentioned a title. Never hinted at a position in society that would have changed everything she understood about this situation.
Why would a duke hide his identity from his children’s governess?
The answer, when it came to her, was obvious and infuriating.
Because he was hiding his children from society. Because illegitimate daughters of a duke would face scrutiny that illegitimate daughters of a gentleman would not. Because the higher the father’s position, the greater the scandal, and the greater the scrutiny that would be directed at anyone associated with that scandal.
Including the governess.
She had been kept ignorant to protect the secret and to ensure that if she ever left this position, if she ever spoke to anyone about her time at Hartfell, she would not have information damaging enough to matter.
She had been a potential liability, managed through careful deception.
The realisation burned.
After the children were asleep, their breathing settled into the rhythms of peaceful slumber, Mel made her way to the study as she knew he would be there. He was always there in the evenings, waiting for their conversations, waiting for her.
She had looked forward to these conversations because she had allowed herself to believe they meant something.
Now she wondered what else had been a performance.
She knocked once, sharply, and entered without waiting for permission.
Rhys was seated by the fire with a book in his hands, looking for all the world like the gentleman she had believed him to be. He looked up at her entrance, and something in his expression shifted when he saw her face.
He knew. She could see it in the way his posture changed, the way his hands tightened on the book. He knew that she knew, and he was preparing himself for what came next.
“You’re not Mr. Langford.”
She said it flatly, without the question mark that might have softened it. She was not asking. She was stating.
Rhys set down his book. His movements were careful, deliberate, the movements of a man who understood that sudden gestures would be unwelcome.
“Your housekeeper called youHis Grace.” Mel remained standing near the door, keeping distance between them.
“You’re not a gentleman with a comfortable income. You’re a duke.”
“I am the Duke of Trevane.”
The room went very quiet. Outside, the wind moved through the garden, rustling leaves and carrying the scent of approaching autumn. Inside, two people stood on opposite sides of a truth that changed everything.
“London’s most notorious rake.” Mel heard her own voice as though from a great distance, steady and cold.
“I have read about you. Everyone has read about you. The gambling, the women, the scandals that fill the gossip sheets every season.”
“Among other things.”
“The man who wagered five hundred pounds on a horse race while drunk and won.”
“It was a thousand.” Something flashed across his face that might have been dark humour. “And I wasn’t that drunk.”
“This is not amusing.”
