“Benedict found me the next morning, hungover and furious with myself. He told me to come back. To face the consequences and try to make it right.”
“And the conversation I overheard?”
Rhys closed his eyes briefly, as though steeling himself for something difficult.
“That conversation happened the evening I returned. Benedict had accompanied me from London. He wanted to make sure I actually followed through, I think, rather than losing my nerve somewhere along the road.” He opened his eyes again.
“We were in the drawing room, and I was trying to explain why pursuing you was impossible. Why the scandal would be too great, the social consequences too severe. Why my daughters would suffer for my choices.”
“You said you couldn’t enter into matrimony with a governess.”
“I said many things. Most of them were arguments against the very thing I wanted most.” He took a step toward her, then stopped, as though uncertain whether the approach would be welcome.
“What you didn’t hear was what came after, me telling Benedict that none of the arguments mattered, that I held you in my highest esteem and that I would rather face every scandal in England than spend another day pretending I didn’t want to spend my life with you.”
Mel felt her breath catch. She had suspected, after his declaration in the entrance hall, that there had been more to the conversation than she had heard. But hearing it confirmed, hearing the words he had spoken when he thought no one was listening, was different.
“Why didn’t you tell me immediately? When I refused to let you explain at dinner, when I was treating you like a stranger, why didn’t you make me listen?”
“Because you had every right to be angry. Because the gossip sheets had already convinced you of what I was, and nothing I said that evening would have changed your mind.” He paused. “Because I was still trying to find the courage to tell you the truth, and that took longer than it should have.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly, the night pressing against the windows. Mel could feel the weight of everything that had passed between them, every conversation and confession and careful silence.
“I need to tell you something,” she said finally.
“Something I should have said this morning but couldn’t, not with the children there.”
“Tell me.”
“I cannot be your anchor.”
The words landed in the quiet room, their meaning not immediately clear. Rhys frowned, confusion flickering across his features.
“I don’t understand.”
“In the garden, you told me that I was the only person who saw all of you. The rake, the father and the man you’re trying to become. You said that everyone else sees a version, but I see everything.” She held his gaze steadily.
“That may be true. But it cannot be the reason you stay good.”
“Mel…”
“Let me finish.” She held up a hand, forestalling his interruption.
“I watched you in London. Not directly, but through the gossip sheets and through the evidence of what you did when I wasn’t there to hold you accountable. The moment you left Cornwall, the moment you were away from me and the children, you went back to being the duke. The rake. The man who drinks too much and gambles too much and lets beautiful widows drape themselves on his arm.”
“I know. I’ve already admitted…”
“I’m not blaming you. I’m telling you what I observed. And what I observed tells me something important… I cannot be thething that keeps you from falling apart.” Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it, something that sounded almost like fear.
“If my presence is the only thing that makes you a good man, then my absence will always make you a bad one, and I cannot build a life on that foundation.”
Rhys was silent, absorbing her words with the focused attention he gave to things that mattered.
“You’re right,” he said finally.
“I know I’m right.”
“No, I mean…” He stopped, visibly struggling to articulate something complex.
