Rhys was sitting at his desk, an untouched cup of coffee growing cold beside him, his head pounding with the particular misery of a hangover he entirely deserved. He did not look up when Benedict entered.
“You look terrible,” Benedict said.
“I feel worse.”
“Excellent! You should.” Benedict settled into the chair across from the desk, his expression caught between sympathy and frustration.
“You were doing so well.”
“I was hiding in Cornwall.” Rhys finally raised his head, meeting his friend’s eyes.
“That’s not ‘doing well.’ That’s avoidance with better scenery.”
“And last night was?”
“Avoidance with worse scenery.”
Benedict was quiet for a moment. “What happened with Mrs. Hartington?”
“Nothing. I escorted her to her carriage and went home alone.”
“That’s not what it looked like.”
“No. It’s not.” Rhys laughed, though there was no humour in it.
“The gossip sheets will find this a most delicious feast. The Duke of Trevane, finally returning to his scandalous ways after his mysterious Cornish sojourn. They’ll imply all sorts of things that didn’t happen, and everyone will believe them because why wouldn’t they? It’s exactly what they expect of me.”
“And you let them see you leaving with her because…?”
“Because I was drunk and a complete fool and it was easier than facing the truth.”
“Which is?”
Rhys did not answer immediately. He looked at the stack of papers on his desk, the estate business that had brought him back to London, the responsibilities he had been avoiding for weeks. None of it mattered. None of it had ever mattered the way the things he had left behind in Cornwall mattered.
“My affections have unhappily settled upon the governess, and I am quite at a loss to master them.” he said finally.
Benedict stared at him.
“I know how that sounds. I know it’s impossible and inappropriate and exactly the sort of complication I should have avoided.” Rhys ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it further.
“But I couldn’t avoid it. She’s extraordinary. She’s honest in ways that make most people uncomfortable. She sees me clearly, and she stays anyway, and she cherishes those children as though they were her own and I have surrendered my heart entirely to her keeping.”
“Does she know?”
“She knows. We had a moment. In the garden. I almost…” He stopped, unable to complete the sentence.
“She stopped it. She reminded me of the impossibility of the situation, and she walked away, and she’s been maintaining professional distance ever since.”
“And you came back to London and got drunk and let Mrs. Hartington drape herself on your arm because…?”
“Because it was easier than being in that house with her and not being able to have her.” The words came out harsh, honest.
“Because the duke is comfortable and the man I’m trying to become is hard. Because she told me I hide behind my worst self, and she was right, and I don’t know how to stop.”
Benedict was quiet steadily. When he spoke, his voice was careful.
“The gossip sheets will reach Cornwall.”
