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Chapter Fifteen
“Accidents will happen.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“What say your paramours when they uncover your chest?” Rhys queried with a scowl. “It possesses more holes than the plot of a Covent Garden play.”
His heir winced as Rhys unwrapped the blood-soaked bandage, for the bashing at the tower door had re-opened the wound.
“Too enraptured in ardour to notice, I’d say.” Hugh prodded at the inflamed skin.
Night had fallen, the earlier skies having given way to blustery scuds of rain and low rumbles of thunder, so they stood by the study fire for the best light. Rhys felt out of sorts in tandem with this sudden tempest – a relentless weight that pressed to his shoulders.
Once the picnic had disbanded, the guests had variously amused themselves with billiards, charades and another crate of champagne before wearing themselves out and retiring early – the previous night’s ball abruptly causing somnolent eyes and nodding heads. Rhys, meanwhile, had attempted to put a dent in his ducal paperwork. “You ought to give this lark up,” he groused.
“Is that what you think it is?” Blue eyes stared with seriousness for once. “A lark?”
“No, Hugh.” He rinsed the cloth, watching as the water in the pewter bowl bled to blush. “I do not.” Hell, he wasn’t fit for conversation this night. “But I do not understand what constantly pushes you towards danger either.”
Hugh shrugged. Then winced. “Likewise, I don’t understand what constantly pushes you to work all hours. You look damn tired.”
“I enjoy it.” Rhys poked at the wound. It was clean but not healing well as the bullet had torn a gash and the skin refused to knit. He splashed on the concoction from Hugh’s housekeeper, the mild sage scent reminding him of Miss Beaujeu the night of the ball, her silken nape and–
“Bloody hell!” yelled Hugh. “Have a care. That hurt.”
Her quiet strength.
“Do you reckon the wind could have slammed that storeroom door, Hugh?”
A scratch of blond stubbled chin. “Perhaps. Those sea gusts can whip up from nowhere.”
“Hmm.” In the moments before Mari had come to find him, solely Elen had been at his side, the young ladies and their entourages scattered hither and thither.
“If you think otherwise,” said Hugh with a purse of lips, “I could attempt to discover everyone’s whereabouts, using my own infallible methods.”
Rhys raised his brow. “Swives and knives?”
“Stealth and…” Hugh cocked his head to the ajar door. “Miss Beaujeu, is that you?”
“No,” a female voice called. “Er, I mean, yes. I was partaking of a chocolate nightcap with Mrs Pugh and am returning to my room. Good night.”
Rhys stalked to the study door and flung it wide.
Just to ensure she was well.
Her hair lay in that plait, drifting to the small of her back, curling and damp because he’d earlier ordered a bath to be sent to her chambers. She wore a gown he’d never seen before – a deep grey the hue of the local slate, and she held a brass chamberstick, the light of the flame flickering upon her skin.
“How are you feeling?” He knew his voice was gruff. Perhaps this was a mistake as his mood was ill. “You’re a little flushed. Are you well?”
“I’ve discovered,” interrupted bloody Hugh from behind him, “that Mrs Pugh adds a good slug of the cellar’s premium brandy to that chocolate.”
“Oh.” She blinked and attempted to peer past Rhys’ frame to his heir but he shifted to block her view, so they danced back and forth in a shuffle before she ceased and he didn’t, hence displaying the entire study to her eyes anyhow. “I did wonder.”
Rhys grimaced as she stared owlishly at Hugh’s naked chest.
“Cover yourself, you lackwit,” he groused.
