Love With a Scandalous Lord (11 page)

“He never shared specifics with me, but it doesn’t take a wise man to know a child born so soon after his parents have wed seldom survives unless he was conceived long before the vows were exchanged.”

She nodded. Her guilt at revealing the situation was eased by the knowledge he’d already suspected the truth. Besides, he was family, in a manner of speaking.

“When my father realized my mother was with child, he became ugly, hideous. I remember he yelled, called my mother a whore—”

“Your father? You mean Grayson?”

She shook her head, her stomach roiling with the memories she’d fought for so long to suppress. But they refused to be cast aside as worthless. They were like a toothache, worsened by the constant attention paid to it.

“My real father,” she rasped. “John Westland.”

Although to say he was her
real
father didn’t accurately describe him, either. She had no memories of him before the war. His return had brought only sadness and tears.

Confusion filled his eyes. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning.”

“We thought my father died during the war. Soldiers were returning home. When my Uncle James came back, everyone was happy. It wasn’t that way with my father. One day he simply showed up in the fields. I didn’t know who he was at first. I simply thought he looked lost. Someone trying to find his home, but he couldn’t remember where he left it.

“Grayson had been living in our barn. He moved into town once Mama told us the man in the field was her husband, our father. A few days later Father was yelling at Mama. Calling her a whore. Calling Grayson a bastard. Calling the baby she was carrying a bastard.

“Most of what he said didn’t make any sense to me at the time. I was young. Mostly I remember the way his rage contorted his face. It was frightening. And the loud voices when Grayson confronted him. The way people in town looked at Mama. Even after my father died, after Mama married Grayson, some women still stared at her like she was beneath them, something to be scraped off their shoe.

“I’ve always tried to be above reproach. To be a good daughter. A woman to be admired for her principles. I never want people to look at me the way they did my mother. As though they could carve my sins into my forehead.”

Rhys studied her. The determination in the set of her jaw. The plea for understanding in her eyes. She loved all three of those people, and yet they’d managed to betray her with circumstances beyond her control. Perhaps even beyond theirs.

“Then you place respectability above love,” he murmured.

Even in the firelight dancing around the room, he could see her blush, could see the discomfiture in her eyes. For all her musings about love and her apparent disregard for strictures that applied to marriage between those of rank, she was hardly any different.

“I suppose I do,” she said softly. “I mean I’d never marry an outlaw or a criminal, even if I loved him. Although I can’t imagine placing myself in a situation where I’d even have the opportunity to fall in love with someone I couldn’t respect.”

She angled her chin with resolve. “I’m certain I’d never have to choose between respectability and love.”

“In his youth, I imagine my father thought much the same thing,” he said quietly.

She snapped her gaze to the bed. “Would it have been so awful for him to have married an actress?”

“Scandalous at the time. Perhaps more acceptable now. Who is to say? I, for one, believe we should not judge the past by the present.”

She turned her attention back to him. “But the past is what leads us to the present. How can you separate
them? My life would be completely different if your father had married his actress lover.
Your
life would be different.”

“I would not exist.”

“Exactly,” she said, as though she found philosophical discussions in the middle of the night fascinating. She brought her legs up to the chair and tucked them beneath her. “So how can you discount the importance of the past?”

“I did not say I discount it. Rather I do not judge past actions by today’s acceptance of what is correct.”

“So you don’t look harshly upon those who waited to begin eating until everyone was served—when it was in vogue to do so. But you do look down on someone who waits now.”

“Exactly.”

She leaned toward him, bringing her sweet fragrance with her. He wondered if she’d applied a bit more perfume to her throat before her foray into the hallway.

“Why do you suppose there are so damned many rules?”

God help him. He laughed, a soft chuckle that was as inappropriate at this time and place as the young woman perched in the chair beside him. She smiled softly, somehow shifting the mood in the room, and he found himself incredibly grateful she was here.

“As your tutor, I should instruct you that a lady does not use profanity.”

“But it caught your attention, didn’t it?”

“Indeed.”
She
caught his attention, caught it and held it until he almost forgot that anyone else existed in the world.

R
hys meticulously calculated the sum of the numbers written on the paper resting on his desk. He cleared his throat. “You’ve made a mistake on this one.”

“What difference does it make?”

He brought his head up sharply and glared at William as he stood in front of the window, staring out at only God knew what. Did the majority of those who resided in this household spend their time gazing out and wishing they were somewhere else?

“The difference, William, is that one way is correct, and all the other ways are distressingly wrong.”

William spun around, his black hair falling into his eyes. He brushed it back with obvious impatience. “I only need to understand how one and two work.
One
cravat.
Two
gloves. Or
one
pair of gloves. Which is really
two
gloves. A pair of trousers. Why is it called a pair when there’s really only one?”

With a sigh, Rhys leaned back in his chair. Of late, he’d been trying to engage William in philosophical discussions in order to expand his mind. Deciphering the absurd particulars of garments was not what he had envisioned.

“What’s bothering you, lad? Are you not content being within my employ?”

“Aye, I’m content.”

He hardly sounded it. William turned back to the window.

“You mustn’t take my correcting you as a poor reflection upon you,” Rhys said. “We must view our mistakes as an opportunity to learn.”

“I’m learning, all right,” William mumbled.

“Did someone take you to task?”

“Nope. She walloped me upside the head.”

“Who?” Rhys asked, his voice sounding dangerously close to a snarl.

A corner of William’s mouth quirked up. “Not literally. Metavically.”

“Metaphorically?”

“Aye, Guv. That’s it. What you taught me the other day.”

“So that lesson wasn’t totally wasted. And here I’d thought you hadn’t been paying attention.”

Numbers gave William a fit, but words were another matter entirely. Unfortunately, the lad refused to infuse his speech with what his mind could comprehend. A sort of rebelliousness. But what was one to expect of a fourteen-year-old?

“Mr. Rhodes’s daughter. Is she a commoner?” William asked.

“Quite so.”

“So she won’t be expected to marry no lord?”

Nor, he suspected, would she be in favor of William. His sympathies went out to the lad. He’d tried to instill in him that nothing was beyond his grasp. Yet, in truth, many things would be. Especially when it came to women.

“She isn’t the one who walloped you upside the head, is she?” Even from where he sat, even though William stood in profile to him, he could see William’s cheek turning red.

“I think she’s ’bout the loveliest thing I’ve had pass my way,” William admitted.

Ah. Hence the reason for his melancholy, no doubt. Rhys stood and walked to the window. Gazing out on the garden, he realized immediately what had captured William’s attention.

Lydia. Lovely Lydia. Her hair, caught up in a chignon, looked thick and heavy, and he expected at any moment the delicate threads holding it captive would break from the weight and send the strands cascading along her back.

She held a croquet mallet and appeared to be listening to her sister, whose mouth was once again moving at incredible speed. A little chatterbox. He shifted his gaze back to Lydia. She wore an indulgent smile.

“She is indeed lovely,” Rhys said quietly. “But a good five years older than you.”

“Caw! Blimey, Guv! She can’t be! She ain’t even got breasts yet.”

“What are you on about? Of course she does. I’ll grant you that they aren’t as large as some, but I’ve no doubt they’d fit quite nicely within a man’s palm. And her waist. My hands can span its width. Her hips have yet to expand from childbirth, and yet…” His voice trailed away, as he realized where his thoughts were
leading, and how quickly his body wished to follow.

He cleared his throat. “That lesson was an example of what a gentleman should not discuss. Even with another gentleman.”

He shifted his gaze to William. When the lad put his mind to it, he was sharper than most.

“You’ve set your eye on the older one, then?” he asked.

“Don’t be absurd.” Then he realized what William had revealed with what he hadn’t said. “Is she not the one you were inquiring about?”

William grinned. “No, Guv. It’s the younger one that’s caught me fancy.”

“Good Lord, lad. You’re twice her age.”

William wrinkled his brow. “So then when she’s fifty, I’ll be a hundred?”

He shook his head. “No, as you get older the disparity between your ages will become less.”

“Makes no sense.”

“It would if you’d work to master your numbers.” But conquering mathematics suddenly seemed less important. “William, she’s a child.”

“I’ve got no plans to take advantage of her,” he responded hotly.

“I didn’t think you did, but any sort of
courtship
at this time is entirely out of the question.”

“Wasn’t even plannin’ on any courtship. She just smells so bloody clean, and when she looks at me, she makes me feel like a king instead of what I am.”

“Which would be what?”

“A bastard, like her father.”

Rhys gave a brusque nod and turned his attention back to the window. He often wondered if bringing the lad here had been poor judgment. His mother made no
secret of her intolerance for the illegitimate.

“That boy, her brother, he showed me the watch his
uncle
give him.”

Rhys stiffened. “What of it?” he finally managed in a neutral voice.

“It bore the Duke’s coat of arms.”

He shifted his eyes toward the lad, whose head was now even with Rhys’s shoulder. Soon he would be a man to be reckoned with. “Yes.”

“You gave it to him.”

“Yes.”

“How come he has the right to call you uncle when his father is a bastard? A bastard has no family, belongs to nobody.” With a look, William challenged him to deny the charges.

“According to the law, yes. But what a man feels in his heart goes beyond the law.”

He wondered when he’d come to believe that statement. In his youth, he’d often pretended he was illegitimate, that his parents had never married. He’d wanted to have something in common with Grayson. Grayson, whom the Duke adored. Grayson, who’d always had a ready smile for Rhys, always acknowledged him, always listened to him when no one else seemed to. He’d have been content to spend his life standing in Grayson’s shadow—rather than Quentin’s.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Rhys pressed his shoulder against the window casing. “Did you wish to address me as uncle?”

He could see William mulling over the possibilities.

William squinted up at him. “Nah, you ain’t no relation, at all. It’s just sometimes I wish I belonged to somebody.”

“You mean a great deal to me, William.”

The boy shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

As though uncomfortable with the sentiment he’d been seeking, William glanced back at the garden. “They’re not very good at that game.”

“It seems a lesson is in order. Shall we take a break from your studies and join them?”

Standing on the croquet lawn, Lydia was well aware that Rhys had been watching her long before he stepped through the glass doors of his study to join her. His gaze had settled on her as though it was a physical caress. She tried not to stare at him, while he strode across the lawn with William in tow, but she could not help but be pleased he would soon be close enough that she could gaze into his eyes, hear his voice, and bask in his attention.

She had a feeling he’d decided to teach her how to play croquet, but she was well versed in the rules. She’d been purposefully awkward so Sabrina could take delight in feeling more skillful.

Lydia also understood the purpose of croquet was to provide an opportunity for innocent flirtation. She could hardly wait to put her knowledge into practice.

“Hey, Lyd!”

She forced her attention away from Rhys and gave it to Colton as he raced toward her.

“They’ve got dogs!” he said excitedly, breathlessly, stopping beside her.

“Dogs!” Sabrina shouted, dropping her mallet before rushing up to Colton.

“They’re fenced in,” Colton explained. “Can we take them for a run?”

She shifted her gaze to Rhys. His mouth had curled up slightly in amusement. She enjoyed even the barest hint of his smiles.

“Are the dogs tamed?” she asked Rhys.

“They’re hounds. Used for fox hunting.”

“Will they harm the children if they play around them?”

“No.” He turned to William. “Why don’t you oversee things? Tell Mr. Burrow I’ve given my permission for all of you to take the hounds out.”

“Aye, Guv, I’ll take care of it.”

He shook his head while William, Colton, and Sabrina dashed off.

“Why did he call you Guv?” Lydia asked.

“He’s having a difficult time adjusting to my new status.”

“I don’t understand. I thought as a second son, you would have been accorded the respect of being addressed as my lord.”

He seemed to hesitate, his gaze sweeping over her, and in his eyes, she thought she detected loss and acceptance.

“For a time, I’d distanced myself from the family. I did not acknowledge them, nor did they acknowledge me. Therefore my servants merely assumed I had no connection with the peerage, but simply possessed some magical means to provide for them if they served me well.”

She wondered how much more he’d reveal if she prodded gently, wondered if she had any right to. “What happened to cause the rift between you?”

“I did something they found quite unforgivable. Do you understand how to play croquet?”

With grace, she accepted his determination not to
discuss the past any more than he already had.

She held up her mallet. “I can’t quite figure out how to hold the blasted thing.”

He grinned, his eyes twinkling, and she felt as though she’d touched the stars. Strange how a mere glimmer of happiness in him could make her almost giddy with joy.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” he offered.

He moved behind her, circled his arms around her, and placed his hands over hers where they gripped the mallet.

“What is the scent you wear?” he asked.

His breath skimmed along the sensitive skin below her ear. She would have expected it to tickle, not send delightful shivers through her.

“Rose.”

“It smells sweeter on you than on any bud I’ve ever encountered.”

She angled her head slightly, giving his breath more area to travel over. Although she looked ahead, she very much sensed his head was bent close to hers. “You spend a great deal of time sniffing rosebuds, do you?”

“When a gentleman compliments you, my dear Miss Westland, you should blush becomingly and thank him.”

She felt her face growing warm and responded, “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome.”

She waited patiently, not daring to move, her breathing shallow, while she was acutely aware of his nearness, the curving of his shoulders almost cradling her back. Then she felt his lips, soft and warm, touching the side of her neck. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she found herself leaning against him.

“The lesson here, Lydia,” he whispered seductively against her ear, “is to never let a man distract you from your purpose.”

“My purpose?” she asked breathlessly.

“To learn to play croquet.”

“Oh, yes. What are the rules of croquet, then?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

Laughing, she spun away from him. “You scoundrel!”

He was smiling broadly, actually smiling, and he was transformed into the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on. All along, she’d considered him handsome, but with a smile gracing his face, he stole her breath away.

“You asked me to teach you what you would not find in the books.”

“So I did.” She placed the mallet against her shoulder, holding it as though it were a parasol.

He grew serious. “A gentleman will always take advantage.”

“So what is a lady to do?”

“Always remain watchful, alert, and aware of a man’s intentions.”

“And if she doesn’t mind him taking advantage?” she dared to ask.

“Then she ceases to be a lady.”

She lowered the mallet. “And yet a gentleman, while taking advantage, continues to be a gentleman?”

“There’s anger in your voice.”

“There’s anger in my entire body!” The unfairness of his rules was preposterous.

He slowly raked his gaze over her, which only served to further agitate her. She was contemplating where best to apply the mallet: against his head or his
shin.

“That, my dear Miss Westland, is the point of this entire lesson. Anger is not to be displayed under any circumstances.”

“I take it your mother never learned that lesson.”

She saw his tongue gingerly working the corner of his mouth. Although no evidence of his mother’s slap remained, Lydia didn’t think it was easily forgotten.

“Obviously not,” he murmured.

Suddenly feeling deflated, she marched up to him and glared at him. “Do you know what I think? I don’t think you meant to give me a lesson at all. I think you found yourself having fun, and for some reason, you don’t think
joy
should be displayed under any circumstances. I’m tempted to use your head as a croquet ball.”

He looked so surprised that she might have laughed under different circumstances. Instead she put the mallet away and went in search of Colton and Sabrina.

The Marquess of Blackhurst was as infuriating as he was handsome. She was of a mind to teach him a few lessons of her own.