Love With a Scandalous Lord (9 page)

T
he shrieking began at precisely four o’clock.

Rhys was absolutely certain of the time, because he’d just returned from his afternoon ride and was striding toward his chambers when he passed the large clock in the hallway, and the ear-splitting crescendo reverberated throughout the manor.

The last time his mother had issued such a shrill cry, she’d spotted a mouse hovering in fear beneath her vanity table. Fortunately William had an uncanny talent when it came to catching rodents—a skill he’d mastered during his time in the London streets—and he’d managed to capture the errant creature and remove it from the premises.

Or so he claimed. Rhys suspected William had made a pet of it.

William was already on his way up the stairs when Rhys reached them.

“I’m bettin’ it’s another mouse, Guv’ner,” William
tossed over his shoulder, slowing his steps so Rhys could catch up.

“
My lord
,” Rhys corrected him.

“No need to be prayin’ about it, Guv. I can catch the fella right quick.”

Rhys repressed a groan. “I wasn’t praying. I was indicating how you are to address me now that we are in residence here.”

“Ah, right, right. I keep forgettin’.”

Before Quentin had taken his unfortunate spill into the family pond, Rhys had distanced himself from his family to such a degree that only a few people had known of his noble heritage. Certainly none of his ladies had known.

They much preferred thinking he was some coarse commoner trained in the art of seduction by Lady Sachse. Lady Sachse whom Rhys had never kissed, much less bedded.

He’d never understood why she took such an interest in other ladies’ affairs—so to speak—when she was as celibate as a nun.

All thoughts of Lady Sachse flew from his mind when his flight up the stairs came to an abrupt halt at the top. William, obviously quickly deducing a rodent wasn’t the cause of the commotion, was gingerly backing down the stairs in an effort not to be noticed.

Rhys scarcely blamed him for his cowardly retreat.

It was not often in this household that two furious women faced off. He would have given the upper hand to his mother, whose voice was causing the walls to reverberate, but for the fire in Lydia’s eyes as she stood between his mother and her brother—the fire, the passion, the warning.

Good Lord, she was a tigress defending her cub.
Waiting, waiting for the battle to shift from verbal to physical, at which point, God help his mother.

“Mother?” he dared to utter into the fray.

She spun around, her palm connecting with his cheek, resulting in an echoing crack that caused an unnatural stillness to descend over the hallway. Her eyes flooded with tears. Tears for him that made his own eyes sting. He took a step toward her, fully intending to wrap his arms around her—

“You promised!” she retorted. “Promised to keep them at bay. And now that wretched, horrible boy—”

“Did nothing more than step into the hallway,” Lydia protested, her voice seething.

“I was looking for Lyd,” the lad said, stepping out from behind his sister, who quickly moved in front of him.

At any other moment, Rhys might have thought their actions amusing. Right now, however, his cheek, mouth, and heart still smarted.

“You promised!” his mother reiterated.

“I know I did,” he said quietly. “I shall rectify the situation posthaste.”

“I want them out of my house!”

“That wish I cannot grant.”

“I want the bastard’s boy flogged!”

“Over my dead body,” Lydia snarled.

“That can be arranged,” his mother said haughtily.

“Mother, is anyone with Father?” he asked in an effort to distract her from the problem at hand. Anything to diffuse the escalating tempers.

She snapped her gaze to his, horror clearly etched across her aging face. “Do you suppose he heard?”

Surely she was joking. His father would have heard
even if he were already lying in his grave. Still, Rhys shook his head. “Hopefully not, but if he did, tell him you saw a mouse.”

“Yes, yes,” she murmured absently before turning toward the door. “He knows I’m frightfully terrified of the vile creatures.”

She entered the Duke’s bedchamber, and Rhys shifted his attention to Lydia and Colton. He did not welcome the unpleasant task that awaited him, but order needed to be maintained. “We shall discuss this unfortunate matter in my study.”

“Colton did nothing wrong,” Lydia insisted.

Rhys narrowed his gaze. “I am in no mood to be corrected or questioned at the moment. And considering the fireworks shooting from your eyes, I would think you would appreciate a few moments to calm yourself, before we discuss why
you and
your brother are in this hallway when I specifically requested that Grayson and his brood vacate the premises each afternoon between the hours of two and five.”

His comment only served to ruffle her feathers more if her deepening glare was any indication. She opened her mouth. He held up a finger to silence her. “In my study.”

She snapped her mouth closed, squared her shoulders, bunched up her skirt with tightened fists, and marched down the stairs. Her brother started to follow and then halted, glancing up at Rhys.

“You really don’t want to get on Lyd’s bad side,” he warned before traipsing after his sister.

On the contrary. Rhys was definitely looking forward to the encounter. Perhaps afterward she would demand he rescind his offer to help her practice her
etiquette. Based on what he’d just witnessed, she did indeed need a tutor when it came to learning about the proper way to handle unpleasant situations.

Removing a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed it to his mouth, disappointed to discover blood. He didn’t fancy being a wounded warrior, he mused as he followed them down the stairs. In the entrance hall, Lydia had already turned to the right.

“To my study,” he called after them.

She spun around, her brow furrowing, her gaze quickly darting around the foyer. She pointed over her shoulder. “The library—”

“Is not my study,” he interrupted. “If you will be so kind as to follow me?”

He knew by the mutinous set of her mouth that she preferred to be the one leading. How different she was when someone she loved was threatened. He’d perceived her to be young, sweet, and innocent. At this precise moment, she looked as though she wished to scratch out his eyes. He couldn’t determine why he found that aspect of her character appealing.

He led the way along the wide hallway and entered a room that, like the library, looked out on the garden. But here no books for pleasure were housed on the shelves behind his desk. Here, there was little more than ledgers and books designed to help run massive estates. Here, he could not escape his obligations. Nor, in this smaller room, could they escape him.

He crossed the room, turned, leaned his hips against his desk, and curled his fingers around its polished edge. He did not invite his belligerent guests to sit. What he had to say was better received standing.

“Did your father not inform you that you were to vacate the premises during the afternoon?” he asked.

“He did,” Lydia replied succinctly, “but—”

“I didn’t want to go for a carriage ride,” Colton finished.

Lydia turned to him. “I’ll handle this.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Rhys recognized the battle raging within Lydia. The older sister wanting to protect the younger brother who wished to prove himself a man. Rhys was captivated by the various emotions sweeping across her face, and yet within each one was shadowed the depth of her love for the boy.

She gave the barest of nods, and the boy stepped forward, his mouth set in a grim line.

“It’s more boring than a month of Sundays to sit in a carriage, doing nothing. Pa said I could stay here as long as I stayed in my room. I was looking out the window and saw you riding in. I wanted to find Lydia to see if I could borrow a horse and go riding. I stepped into the hallway about the same time the Duchess came up the stairs.” He shrugged. “Bad timing.”

“I daresay that’s an understatement,” Rhys mused aloud.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lydia’s mouth twitch. He leaned forward slightly, and all the humor fled from her face. She took an almost imperceptible step toward him and closer to the lad. He eased back. She retreated.

Fascinating
.

“How is it you don’t find riding a horse, looking out over the countryside, as boring as a…what was it? A month of Sundays?”

“You’re not doing anything while you’re sitting in a carriage. Riding a horse”—an excitement came into the boy’s eyes—“you’re the master.”

“Don’t you think your father would object to your riding alone about a countryside which is so decidedly foreign to you?”

“Nope. I ride to town by myself or go in search of stray cattle on my lonesome.”

“Quite so. But in Texas you are familiar with the area. Here you could quite easily get lost.”

“I know how to mark a trail and look for landmarks. I could always find my way back. Even at night, I’m bettin’.”

“Could you now?” Rhys asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

“Yes, he could,” Lydia said.

Her voice carried no reservations, dared Rhys to doubt her or to question her brother’s claims any further.

“I see. I’ll take the matter up with your father. If he’s in agreement, then I’ll arrange for a horse to be made available for your use while you’re here.”

Colton’s eyes lit up. “Thanks.”

“Are you as skilled at telling time as you are at marking a trail?” Rhys asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then explain to me how it is that you were out and about in the hallway during the forbidden time.”

“I don’t have a watch. Felt like I’d been sitting there forever.”

Rhys straightened his stance, easing away from his desk slightly, noticing at the same time that Lydia inched closer to her brother. He pitied the man who harmed a hair on the lad’s head.

Reaching into a pocket on his vest, he removed his watch and unlatched the chain. He rubbed his thumb over the ducal coat of arms etched in the heavy gold
cover.

“This watch belonged to my father,” he said quietly. “Given to him by his father.”

He extended it toward the lad. It pleased him no end to see the boy take it with the reverence it deserved.

“Wow! It’s fancy,” he said in awe. “Look at it, Lyd.”

Easing closer, she murmured her agreement.

“It’s yours,” Rhys said.

Colton and Lydia looked at him as though he’d clearly lost his mind. Perhaps he had. He knew tradition dictated that the watch follow the line of legitimate sons.

“You mean you want me to use it while I’m here?” Colton asked.

“I mean it’s yours to treasure forever. It was my father’s intention to pass it down to his firstborn son…which is your father.
He
would in turn pass it down to his firstborn son. That happens to be you. I seem to recall the Duke giving your father a watch when he left for Texas. Therefore your father has no need of a watch, and this one rightfully belongs to you.”

The lad beamed up at him. “I’ll take real good care of it. Thanks, Uncle Rhys.”

Rhys felt his heart lurch at the familiarity that had no place in this house. He cleared his throat. “See that you do. You’re dismissed.”

Lydia placed a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Go wait for me in the hallway.”

She watched the boy until he walked out of the room, then she turned to Rhys. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“The gift is of no consequence. I have another watch which I prefer.”

Shaking her head, she stepped closer to him. “I
wasn’t thanking you for the watch. I was thanking you for not correcting him when he called you uncle. I overheard my father explaining the way of things to my mother once. I know under English law, as a bastard, he’s considered a nonperson. Certainly not your real relation. That you treat him with dignity is a credit to you.”

“You’re making much of nothing.”

“I don’t think so. Lauren explained to me that even if I do make it to London for part of the Season, I won’t receive the welcome she did, won’t be sought after like she is. Her stepfather is a peer. Mine is nothing under the law.”

Strange how she’d managed to impart that
nothing
was something of great importance to her, held dear and loved.

“I assure you, Lydia, you would be sought after, regardless of Grayson’s standing within the law. Now if you’ll leave me—”

“Your lip’s bleeding again.”

Gingerly he touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth and tasted the rusty flavor of blood. “It’s nothing to be concerned over.”

Still, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his handkerchief again. As he lifted his hand, hers closed around his, her pale fingers against his tanned ones, delicate against strong.

“Let me,” she offered with a sultry voice that should accompany moonlight laced over a bed of satin sheets.

He was fairly certain she had not meant to sound seductive. Although he did not move while she took the linen from him and gently dabbed at the bruised corner of his mouth, his mind played all sorts of havoc with his imagination, imagining her touch not just against his
lips, but over every inch of his flesh.

Her delicate brows knitting together, she angled her head slightly and looked more closely at his mouth. When was the last time anyone had shown concern for him? He could have sworn his lips tingled, swelled from wanting to press against hers. Was she remembering the kiss they’d shared?

She wrapped a corner of his handkerchief around her finger and touched it to her tongue before bringing the damp cloth back to his face. “Some of the blood has dried,” she explained.

He swallowed hard, trying not to envy a scrap of linen, because it now held the taste of her, the scent of her, and the warmth of her.

“I can’t believe she slapped you,” she said with a wealth of sympathy.

“It was not on purpose, I assure you. She’s simply overwrought and reacted without thinking.”

She ceased giving her tender ministrations to his mouth and lifted her gaze to his. “You spoil her.”