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She scooped Millicent up and cradled her comfortably on her lap while rocking her to sleep and singing her a lullaby her mother used to sing to her.
* * *
Please, return home. The matter is of utmost importance.
Those cryptic words flashed before Rhys’s eyes as he galloped home at a breakneck pace. What could have been so important he must return, yet could not be disclosed in a note?
Of course, his first thought was that something had happened to Millie. Was she ill? Was she hurt?
Rhys cursed the messenger, who did not find him till the morning. He cursed the horse that it couldn’t gallop faster. He cursed the sun and the moon and everything in between that he could not be home, holding his little girl close to his heart.
When he finally reached home, he threw his reins at the approaching groom and rushed up the steps taking them two at a time. The butler barely opened his mouth when Rhys passed him.
“Where’s Millie? Where’s my wife?”
“Lady Isabel is in the breakfast room, and Lady Millicent is still sleeping.”
“Good.” Rhys hurried his steps and dashed into the breakfast room.
Isabel instantly stood and took a step toward him.
“What happened? Is Millie well?”
“All is well. She is sleeping.”
Rhys expelled a breath of relief. “What was so urgent?”
Isabel swallowed.
Rhys waited impatiently as she chewed on her bottom lip. “What happened? Tell me?”
She finally raised her eyes to his. “I let Mrs. Pemberley go.”
“Mrs. Pember—The governess?” A dark suspicion settled deep in his chest. Rhys lowered his voice. “Why?”
Isabel swallowed again. “She… She caned Millicent.”
Rhys winced, his heart sinking. “I trusted you,” he growled.
“I know, and as soon as—”
“No!” Rhys roared. “I trusted you to pick a nurturing governess. I trusted your judgment. But I also left my daughter—the only thing that matters in my world—to your care! Where the devil have you been?”
Isabel looked around the room uncomfortably. The footmen stood, lining the wall, pretending not to hear anything.
“Leave us!” Rhys roared, and the servants scurried away.
He started pacing the floor, unwilling to go to Millicent just yet because he knew he would frighten her in his current disposition.
Isabel stood still, following him with her gaze. “Don’t you think I blame myself?” she asked quietly.
“Not enough,” Rhys growled.
He was being cruel and insensitive. But deep down, he knew that all his rage was not directed at his wife. Instead, it was directed at himself.
He was the one who had the final say in the matter of a governess. He was the one who left his daughter at the manor as he went to another estate. He was the one who had failed his daughter yet again.
With a roar, he swept the dishes from the table. Isabel squeaked and jumped away from him. Her eyes were filled with terror.
