Rhys rose from his chair when she entered, a gesture of courtesy that had become automatic over the months of his extended visits. He looked better than he had this morning, having bathed and changed and eaten the breakfast that Cook had prepared with pointed comments about people who caused commotions before dawn. But the exhaustion was still visible in the lines around his eyes, in the careful way he held himself, as though he was uncertain of his welcome.
“That took longer than usual,” he said.
“They had questions.” Mel moved into the room, not quite approaching him, maintaining the careful distance that had become habit over the past week.
“Thistle wanted to know if you would be moving into the nursery. Anna wanted to discuss the logistics of adding another desk to the schoolroom for when you inevitably decide to join their lessons. Viola wanted to know if she could call me something other than Miss Grace.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told Thistle that you would be keeping your own room. I told Anna that we would discuss any changes to the schoolroom arrangement at a later date. I told Viola that she could call me whatever she liked, but that any decisions about names should wait until there were actual decisions to announce.”
“Very diplomatic.”
“I’ve had practice.”
She crossed to the window, looking out at the darkness beyond. The garden was invisible in the night, the roses dormant and the paths empty. But she could see it in her memory: the moonlight, the gravel crunching beneath their feet, the moment when everything had shifted between them.
“We need to talk,” she said, not turning from the window. “Really talk. Now that we do not have the children to bear witness to everything we say.”
“I know.”
“There are things I need to understand. Things I need you to explain. And there are things I need to say that I couldn’t say with an audience.”
“I’m listening.”
She turned then, facing him across the room that had become so familiar over the past months. He stood by his chair, not sitting, not approaching, simply waiting with the patience she had never expected from a man of his reputation.
“Tell me about London,” she said. “All of it. Not the summary you gave this morning, but the whole truth. I need to understand what happened.”
Rhys nodded slowly, as though he had been expecting this request.
“I went back because Grieves insisted the estate matters were urgent. They weren’t, particularly, but I had been ignoring my responsibilities for weeks, and he was not wrong that some things required my personal attention.” He paused, gathering his thoughts.
“I didn’t intend to stay more than a few days. I certainly didn’t intend to attend Lady Dearborn’s ball or spend an evening drinking too much champagne and letting Mrs. Hartington flirt with me in plain view of everyone who mattered.”
“But you did.”
“I did.” He met her eyes, unflinching. “I told myself it was because the old life was easier. Because being the duke was comfortable in ways that being the man I’m trying to become is not. And that’s true, as far as it goes. But it’s not the whole truth.”
“What’s the whole truth?”
“The whole truth is that I was running away from you.” The words came out heavy, weighted with an honesty that seemed to cost him.
“From what you said in the garden. From what you saw in me. You told me I was hiding behind my worst self, and you were right, and I didn’t know how to face you after that.”
Mel absorbed this, turning it over in her mind. It was not an excuse. It was barely even an explanation. The words possessed a certain starkness of sincerity, and she had ever preferred the bracing air of reality to the stifling warmth of a convenient deception.
“So you went back to London and became exactly what I said you were.”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs. Hartington?”
“Was beautiful and available and entirely uncomplicated. She wanted the duke. She wanted the scandal. She wanted whatever temporary pleasure my attention could provide.” He paused. “She was nothing like you. Which was, I think, part of the appeal. Being with someone who wanted the performance meant I didn’t have to face the reality.”
“But you didn’t actually do anything.”
“No. I escorted her to her carriage and went home alone. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about you, thinking about the children, thinking about all the ways I was failing to be the man any of you deserved.” His voice dropped.
