Love With a Scandalous Lord (3 page)

“Little chit. The servants Rhys brought here know nothing of discipline. He does not rule this dominion. I do. As for you, you bastard—”

“You will stop insulting my husband—”

“Abbie,” her stepfather interrupted quietly, shaking his head.

“Quite so. He understands his place, and it is not within my house,” the Duchess said. “Now out with you, out with you all, before I set the hounds on you!”

Her tirade continued, her voice growing louder with each unkind word she threw out.

Lydia had expected elegant behavior from a noblewoman, not screeching like the fishmongers she’d seen on the wharves when they’d arrived in Liverpool.

“Lyd, you’re hurting my hand,” Sabrina said softly.

Lydia loosened her hold, while her heart ached at the spectacle taking place before her.

How humiliating for her stepfather. How devastating for his younger, impressionable children. Based on the immense size of the house, Lydia assumed it would take Mary several minutes to locate
His Lordship
, longer for him to make his way there. She wanted to stand her ground, but she couldn’t allow her brother and sister to witness the degradation of their father any longer.

She wasn’t retreating. She was protecting.

Quickly she glanced around. Darting into another room was out of the question. She had no idea what
she’d find inside. Besides, she didn’t think a door or four walls would block out the Duchess’s ranting.

“Come on,” she whispered. Tugging on Sabrina’s hand and prodding Colton’s shoulder, she guided them back the way they’d come.

Ushering her charges down the flight of stairs, she simply couldn’t believe this woman’s anger over her stepfather’s arrival. They’d sent for him, for pity’s sake.

She stopped when she noticed three men rushing toward them. The man in the lead radiated power and grace, his fluid movements tightening his gray trousers around his thighs. His dark blue coat sat well on his broad shoulders. His white shirt, waistcoat, and cravat indicated he was a man who clearly recognized his own worth—dressing in his finery despite the lack of a special occasion.

She had little doubt he was her stepfather’s brother. Rhys. The Marquess of Blackhurst. Although he looked nothing like Grayson Rhodes. He was dark, foreboding. His silvery-gray eyes reflected the fury of the storms that often whipped along the Texas coast. She was caught in the tempest of his gaze, unable, unwilling to move beyond him.

As though suddenly and equally stunned by her presence, he came to an abrupt halt. The servants behind him promptly stopped as well.

Lydia’s heart hammered rapidly against her ribs with the intensity of his stare. Ensnared by his commanding presence, she was acutely aware of his nearness, his harsh breathing. His hair, the black of midnight, had fallen across his brow. She desperately wanted to reach up and brush it back into place.

A high-pitched shriek shattered the moment. Rage, fast and furious, flashed in his eyes. At that moment, Lydia thought she should have feared him, and yet she felt completely and absolutely safe. Surely he was here to rescue her stepfather from the abusive woman at the top of the stairs. A woman protected by the privilege of her rank.

Although the staircase was wide enough for anyone to have passed by them, Lydia grabbed her siblings. She pressed them and herself against the wall, giving the man ample room to charge past them and put an immediate end to the shrew’s shrieking.

“No need to run away,” he said with a voice as warm and soothing as the nectar of honey beneath a Texas sky.

“I wasn’t running.” But her unexpected breathlessness belied her statement.

He arched a dark brow in skepticism. Then he continued up the stairs, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. His servants quickly followed.

As did Lydia, with her brother and sister in tow. She had a feeling the Duchess was about to get her comeuppance, and she wanted to be near enough to witness it.

When she reached the landing, only a step or two behind the others, she pulled Sabrina and Colton off to the side so they’d be out of harm’s way, but she’d have a clear view of the Marquess. The Duchess had yet to notice him, and yet to Lydia his presence dominated the hallway.

“Mother.” His Lordship’s deep voice echoed around them, carrying a hint of warning.

The Duchess swung around. “You! You sent for him!”

“Yes.” The single word made no apology for what she obviously viewed as an unforgivable betrayal.

“You’re a worthless excuse for a son. As long as your father breathes, your title is nothing more than a courtesy.”

“As long as Father is alive, I am obligated to carry out his wishes. He wants to see the son he loves, and you
will
allow it.”

She thrust up a chin supported by layers of fat. “I will not.”

“You will.” He made a waving motion to the two young men who had accompanied him. “Escort Her Grace to her chambers.”

Her Grace shook her fist in the air. “I shan’t go!”

“You may either leave with a measure of decorum and respectability, or you will leave flung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but one way or another, Your
Grace
, you will leave so Father may visit with his son in peace. The choice is yours, but make no mistake, you have all of two seconds to render a decision.”

Fury contorted her features. “I wish to God it had been you who had drowned.”

Sadness touched his gray eyes as he said with a wealth of compassion, “I know.”

He angled his head slightly, and the servants stepped toward the Duchess. She cast one last scathing look at Lydia’s stepfather and then at her son before lifting her skirts, tromping to the stairs, and going down them. Not soon enough, as far as Lydia was concerned.

The Marquess turned to her stepfather. “My apologies. I hope you’ll forgive the Duchess’s unpleasant behavior. The past few months have been exceedingly
difficult for her, and she is a bit overwrought.”

On the stairs, he’d impressed Lydia as a man filled with conviction and passion. She could hardly reconcile that image with the frigid greeting he’d bestowed on her stepfather. Nearly fifteen years had passed since Grayson Rhodes had left his home and traveled to Texas. Fifteen years, and he was not greeted with smiles or hugs of welcome. Instead he was spoken to as though he was an unwelcome stranger, his presence barely tolerated.

However, her stepfather, true to his nature, more than made up for the lack of hospitality. He smiled broadly. “It’s good to see you, Rhys.”

The Marquess looked as though he’d been slapped. “It’s Blackhurst now.”

“Of course. My apologies for the slight. I was sorry to hear about Quentin.”

The Marquess nodded slightly. “As we all were. I trust your journey was a pleasant one until you arrived at our hallowed halls.”

Lydia knew little about the Marquess because her stepfather rarely mentioned the family he’d left in England. After witnessing the encounter with the Duchess and now listening to this uncomfortable exchange, she certainly understood the reason he’d been reluctant to speak of them.

With his blue eyes twinkling, her stepfather seemed unaffected by all the rudeness that had come before. “Actually I have the misfortune of suffering from seasickness.”

“I regret hearing that. It will, however, make your willingness to travel much more meaningful to Father. He awaits you.” He stepped back as though he fully intended to leave without another word.

“How is he?” her stepfather asked quickly.

The Marquess halted, seeming to hesitate, apparently unsure of how he should respond. “Not well at all, I’m afraid. He shan’t be with us much longer. I think he’s only been holding on because he wished so desperately to see you.”

“I’d hoped for a more optimistic outlook.”

“Perhaps I’m mistaken, and your arrival will turn the tide for him. By the way, on the off chance that no one explained to you before Mother flew into her tirade, you are welcome to use any of the rooms in this hallway, while you are here. I’ve assigned my personal servants to this wing and given them specific instructions to tend to all your needs. They will be most honored to do so.”

“That’s very generous,” her stepfather said solemnly, as though he’d suddenly realized they were all in a play and expected to perform certain roles. “May I present my family?”

“Certainly.”

While her stepfather introduced her mother and the two children she’d had by him, everyone was formal, stiff, and somber.

Awaiting her introduction, Lydia heard a roaring as though she held seashells to her ears. She was in desperate need of air, but her chest was constricted so tightly, she could scarcely draw in a breath. An eternity seemed to pass before she heard her stepfather finally say, “Allow me to introduce Lydia, our other daughter.”

“
Your
daughter?” the Marquess questioned.

Something—she couldn’t quite determine if it was admiration or disgust—flashed in his eyes. She sensed that his earlier impression of her taken on the stairs had suddenly shifted and tilted for him. Now he was taking a new measure of her.

“My stepdaughter, Lydia
Westland
, to be precise,” her stepfather said.

“There is much to be said for precision,” the Marquess murmured.

She’d feared he would find her lacking in some regard, but with his attention riveted on her, she felt confident in her desire to fit into this society. She lifted her hand.

He looked momentarily startled. Then he took her hand with fingers that contained no calluses, abrasions, or scars from years of picking cotton. Fingers that despite a lifetime of leisure managed to reveal strength.

He bowed slightly, and his warm breath wafted over her wrist. Her knees weakened, while he did nothing more than leave the shadow of a kiss against her skin.

“A pleasure, Miss Westland,” he said solemnly.

“The pleasure is mine, Your Grace,” she rushed to assure him, her voice almost as unsteady as her legs.

He released her hand and straightened. “
My lord
. You should not address me as Your Grace until after my father has drawn his last breath.”

“Oh, yes, of course, I knew that. Really I did. I apologize for the blunder.”

“No need to apologize. We learn more from our mistakes than we do from our successes, do we not?”

She blinked back the sudden sting of tears threatening to mortify her further. She’d expected so much of her first encounter with an English lord. As much as she’d wanted to impress him, she’d wanted him to see—wanted them all to see—how very well her stepfather had done for himself. That his family was equal to theirs.

The Marquess turned to her stepfather, his dismissal hurting far more than she wanted to admit.

“I’ll be in the library,” the Marquess said. “When
you’ve finished visiting with Father, you’re welcome to join me there. Do you remember how to find it?”

“I have forgotten very little about this place,” her stepfather said.

“Hell does have a way of leaving an indelible mark on our souls, doesn’t it?”

With a curt bow, the Marquess left them to the purpose of their visit.

“Lydia,” her mother said, “will you please see to our things while your father and I visit with the Duke alone?”

Lydia tore her gaze from the stairs down which the Marquess had disappeared. She nodded, trying not to be disappointed that her first encounter with the aristocracy had not gone at all well.

R
hys abhorred weeping women. He stood within his mother’s bedchamber, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently while she drenched one handkerchief after another.

“Stabbed me in the back,” she muttered. “You might as well have stabbed me in the back.”

“You would be wise not to fill my head with tempting notions, Mother,” he murmured.

She snapped up her head, her flow of tears abruptly stopped as though she’d quite quickly and efficiently erected a dam. With her lips compressed into a tight line, she rose gracefully—always gracefully—from the sofa before the fireplace and paced. “I can’t possibly stay here.”

“Grayson and his family will reside in Father’s wing of the house while they are here. You should seldom see them.”

“I shall go to the seaside—”

“I should think that would be entirely inappropriate in light of the fact that your husband of almost forty years lies upon his deathbed.”

“My husband,” she spat. “My husband, who never let a day pass without reminding me that his true love was some scandalous actress. You cannot imagine the agony of knowing you can never hold a favored spot within the heart of someone you love.”

Oh, he could well imagine it, but he was attempting to ease her pain, not his own.

“If you love Father as you claim, then you must know in his final hours he would desperately want to see Grayson. Nearly fifteen years have come and gone since Father sent him away, Mother, sent him away in an effort to appease you.”

Tears spilled over onto her cheeks, while she dropped back onto the sofa. “Quentin wouldn’t have allowed the bastard to step foot in this house.”

He decided his best course of action was to hold his tongue regarding the brother he had despised and stand his ground for the brother he had loved.

“Father pleaded with me to send for Grayson. I could not deny him so compelling a request.”

Although even if he had been uncaring enough to ignore his father’s appeal, he wouldn’t have. He’d wanted to see for himself how Grayson had fared in Texas.

By all appearances, he’d done rather nicely for himself. His wife had looked on the verge of rushing into battle to defend her husband when Rhys had first ascended the stairs.

But it was Grayson’s older daughter—his
step-
daughter—who’d initially captured his attention and nearly distracted Rhys from his purpose in flying up the
stairs to begin with.

That he’d terrified her had been evident in the widening of her violet eyes, eyes that held far more innocence than he’d seen in any woman’s in a good long while. He’d wanted to untie the ribbon holding her hair in place and comb his fingers through her long, blond tresses simply to determine if they felt as silky as they looked.

That she’d sensed a need to pull her brother and sister aside had taken him momentarily aback. He’d not meant to be frightening, but he’d berated himself as he strode through the manor and up the stairs, while his mother’s shrieking pierced his ears. He’d scolded himself for not warning her that he’d sent for Grayson, chided himself for not handling the matter in a more satisfactory manner.

He’d put off what he’d known would be an unpleasant confrontation and, in so doing, had merely exacerbated the uncomfortable situation. His father would no doubt be seriously disappointed in his handling of the matter.

As a result, he’d ascended the stairs with his anger threatening to escape the boundaries he’d placed on it. It had ignited his fury further to see Miss Westland’s reaction to his appearance and to know she’d accurately read the rage he’d tried unsuccessfully to conceal.

He remembered reading a letter Grayson had written to his father years ago describing his new family. How old would the girl be now? Twenty? Twenty-one?

A child really. Rhys would be wise to remember that and to forget the slight trembling in her fingers as he’d held her hand, the scent of her warm skin at her wrist, and the completely inappropriate flaring of desire in his own body at her nearness.

“Please send them away, Rhys,” his mother begged once more, bringing him back to his current dilemma. “Please.”

“The best I can offer is to ensure they are not in the west wing of the manor when you visit with Father. I’ll speak with Grayson and make arrangements for him and his family to take an outing each afternoon between the hours of two and five. You may visit with Father during that time, knowing you will not cross their paths.”

She sniffed. “I shan’t dine with them.”

“I hardly expected that you would. I shall have your meals delivered to your chambers as always.”

She stared at the empty hearth, suddenly appearing defeated and vulnerable. “Why couldn’t he have loved me?”

“Once again, I must apologize for Mother’s rather unpleasant behavior earlier this afternoon,” Rhys said as he poured port into two glasses.

Only moments before, Grayson had joined him in the library, appearing more haggard and weary than he had upon his arrival. It could not be easy for him to see the deteriorating condition of the father who’d adored him.

“I should have expected her outburst,” Grayson murmured. “I had assumed the respect I’ve earned in Texas would be evident in my bearing.”

“It is,” Rhys assured him as he handed him a glass.

He walked to the window and gazed out on the garden where Grayson’s wife and daughters were taking afternoon tea. If the rapid movement of her mouth was any indication, the younger one was talking excitedly, while the elder one gazed dreamily at something. The petals of a rose, perhaps, or the garden as a whole.
Maybe in Texas they didn’t have gardens with no purpose other than to bring pleasure.

Miss Westland’s delicate profile should be immortalized in marble. Her hair, the soft shade of a full moon on a winter’s night, was still held in place with a ribbon fashioned into a bow. Such a simple arrangement. Yet he found it incredibly enticing. The lure of innocence.

He sipped his port before commenting. “You’ve a lovely family.”

Coming to stand beside him, Grayson leaned against the wall and also gazed out. “Indeed, I’ve been most fortunate. Fate seems to have smiled upon you as well.”

“It is a grim smile, if it is there at all.”

“You may not believe this, but I was sorry to hear about Quentin’s death. Drowning cannot be an easy way to go.”

“He was so far into his cups, he obviously didn’t notice. Apparently he had a nasty habit of drinking himself into oblivion. Had he fallen but two steps sooner, he would have missed the pond completely. Mother, of course, was devastated. Shortly afterward, Father became ill. As I mentioned earlier, it’s been a trying few months.”

“I can’t imagine it has been easy for you, either. The responsibilities involved in the managing of Harrington and Blackhurst are many. Although I have the utmost confidence in your ability to handle them.”

“Speaking of responsibilities, I would ask that you take your family on an outing each afternoon from two until five. I’ll have a carriage readied for your convenience. Mother will visit with Father during that time. The less often your paths cross, the better.”

“You didn’t tell her that you’d sent for me.”

It was a statement, not a question. Rhys shrugged.
He’d informed various servants that guests would be arriving because rooms needed to readied and the coach sent for them. “I had planned to inform her this evening. I misjudged how soon you would arrive.”

“I’m grateful you sent for me.”

“It was Father’s wish.”

“But not yours,” Grayson said.

“I’m pleased to see you’ve done remarkably well for yourself.” He stepped away from the window. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have pressing matters to which I must attend. I will dine with you and your family this evening.”

He sat at the desk and began arranging papers as though they were of great importance, hoping Grayson would understand without being told that he was being summarily dismissed.

“He forbade me to take you with me,” Grayson said quietly.

Rhys lifted his gaze, allowing his resentment to surface. “Remarkably convenient—how you chose to disobey him in all matters save that one.”

“You are his son.”

“As are you.”

“Your place was here.”

“My
place
has been in hell.”