Stormswept (13 page)

Papa paled and, for a moment, actually looked vulnerable. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, love?”

Something twisted inside her heart. He never called her “love” unless he wanted something from her. “I don’t want a scandal any more than you do, Papa. I wouldn’t want to bring shame on the family, or on Rhys. But I am his wife.”

Darcy came from behind the desk, his expression calculating. “What if Vaughan doesn’t return? What if we never hear from him again? What if, God forbid, he dies
at sea? You’d likely never know it. You’d live your whole life in some half state between widow and wife, never having a family or a husband.”

She fought to ignore that harsh truth.

Darcy shot their father a glance. “I have a proposal that might settle this to everyone’s satisfaction. If Juliana doesn’t wish an annulment, she doesn’t have to get one. We can ask the bishop to keep silent about the marriage, under the circumstances. I’m sure he’ll agree. As for anyone else who knows about it—like the innkeeper—I’ve already ensured that they’ll keep quiet.”

She eyed her brother warily.

“Why don’t you also keep quiet for now, Juliana?” he went on. “Take time to consider what you wish to do. There’s no hurry. You may decide you’re unwilling to sacrifice your future for the memory of one Welshman.”

She surveyed the expectant faces of her family. In truth, she wasn’t up to facing people right now, to telling them about her marriage when she had only sorrow in her heart.

Still . . . “What if I find myself with child?”

“Oh, mercy,” her mother squeaked, and her father looked ill.

Although Darcy’s expression grew more stony, he held her gaze. “Then we’ll announce the marriage, of course. Still, it’s unlikely. You only spent one night together, didn’t you?”

Turning crimson, she nodded.

“So what do you think?” Darcy prodded. “Why don’t we give it a little time and keep it quiet until you make up your mind?”

As Juliana stared at him, a great weariness stole over her. It had been a long day and night. Darcy’s words held too much logic for her to ignore. Yet wouldn’t she be betraying Rhys if she did as Darcy asked?

She sighed. Yes. But she had few other choices. And Darcy’s proposal did have merit. It would give her time to explore possibilities, to determine if she could buy out Rhys’s service or something. As soon as Rhys wrote to say which ship he was on, she could take care of it.

But if she stayed here with the family, they’d try to change her mind and get an annulment. She thought of all the plans she’d made with Rhys. Then her brow cleared. “All right, I’ll consider it.” The group breathed a collective sigh until she added, “But only under one condition.”

“Condition?” her father growled.

“That I live at Llynwydd in the meantime.”

“Llynwydd?” her mother protested. “Alone?”

“Yes.” Juliana cast them a defiant glance. “It belongs to me, after all.”

“I should never have given it to you,” her father grumbled. “Perhaps if I hadn’t, none of this would have happened.”

“But you did, and I won’t give it back. It belongs to me and Rhys. And until he returns, I want to live there and make certain it’s cared for properly.”

“Of all the stupid ideas—” her father began.

“If you don’t allow it, Papa, I’ll trumpet my marriage to the rooftops. I’ll tell everyone I know, and devil take the scandal.”

She stared at her father with a resolute expression. He
scowled, but the fight seemed to have gone out of him. For the first time in her life, she realized he was looking terribly old. And worn down.

She softened her voice. “Please, Papa?”

Anger flickered in his eyes, but he quelled it. “Very well, girl, as you wish.” He stiffened. “But I tell you this: If I ever get my hands on that scoundrel Welshman, I’ll wring his bloody neck, I will.”

She was too relieved by his acquiescence to protest.

Her heart wrenched in her chest. She had a home of her own now, even if she had no husband to share it with. Rhys was gone, and it might be years before he returned.

Nonetheless, having Llynwydd to care for was something. All she could do was hope that fortune would smile on her, and bring Rhys back to her soon.

Carmarthen, Wales

June 1783

Hard blow, why care where’s my home,

You broke faith, and it grieves me.

—LLYWELYN GOCH AP MEURIG HEN, “LAMENT FOR LLEUCU LLWYD”

O, when you eye all Christendom’s

Loveliest cheek—this girl will bring

Annihilation upon me . . .

—DAFYDD AP GWILYM, “THE SEAGULL”

T
he harsh smell of vinegar roused Juliana, but it took the sound of arguing voices to drag her fully from her faint. She caught snatches of words—“liar,” “crazy Welshman,” and “my wife.”

She forced her eyes open to find her mother holding a ghastly bottle to her nose. Brushing it away, she attempted to sit up, but Overton said, “Don’t rush it, love.”

He looked so pitying that she turned to him and not her mother, who was near hysterics. “Is Rhys truly here?”

With a nod, Overton moved to let her see across the room. Stephen stood silent and angry at the window, the very picture of the haughty lord, and beside him stood Darcy, his face red. The object of both men’s fury was the man she still could hardly recognize. Rhys Vaughan.

Ignoring Overton, she sat up. They were no longer in the
ballroom, surrounded by guests. Her family had whisked her into the drawing room, for which she was grateful, although they’d done it only to minimize the scandal.

But none of that concerned her as much as Rhys’s miraculous appearance.

The three men on the other end of the room hadn’t yet realized that she’d awakened. They were busy bandying forth phrases about “rights” and “betrayal” and “honor,” which gave her a chance to study the husband she hadn’t seen in six years.

Such a long time. Had Rhys really been so tall? Or so handsome? To be sure, his finely tailored clothing made him look more imposing and sophisticated than before, but there was something else, too. Years ago he’d emanated an enticing blend of flame and raw energy, but she could tell by how he parried her brother’s verbal thrusts that the flame and energy had been banked into a furnace that burned even hotter. His obvious control frightened her as his unstudied fervor never had.

And he seemed determined to pick up their lives as if nothing had happened. Her temper flared. Six years without a single letter; no message of any kind to tell her he’d survived the navy. The investigator Darcy had helped her hire had turned up nothing until a year ago, when he’d found a mention of Rhys’s death in a ship’s log.

Yet Rhys had obviously not died. In fact, while she’d struggled to bring Llynwydd into its glory, waiting for him, fearing for him, and finally mourning him, he’d been off somewhere prospering, judging from his fine clothing. And he was obviously here to stay.

I’ve come to reclaim my lands . . . my inheritance . . . and you. I’ve come to take you home.

He meant to continue as if the years of silence were nothing. He wanted to take ownership of the estate she’d nurtured, to benefit from the work she’d performed, when he’d apparently not cared enough even to let her know he was alive.

If he thought she’d simply acquiesce to his plans, he could rot in hell. Six years was a long time to be silent, blast him.

Six years is an eternity
, Rhys thought as his attention was caught by a movement on the other end of the room. He turned to see Juliana rise from the settee, her face set stubbornly.

“I’d like to participate in this discussion,” she said in a surprisingly steely voice.

Lord Devon and her brother, the new Earl of Northcliffe, pivoted toward her, breaking off their argument. With everyone’s attention on her, she marched forward.

Despite his attempt to quell it, the vise about Rhys’s chest that had been tightening ever since he’d first seen Juliana this evening became painful. Dressed in a golden satin gown that showed her assets to their best advantage, she’d come down the stairs to that English lord with her face alight, and he’d wanted to roar his protest. That had been a surprise.

He’d expected to feel elation as he’d stood before them and made his announcement, watching Juliana’s face spread o’er with alarm. But he hadn’t expected the hard clutch of memory about his chest.

No matter what he told himself about her character, he couldn’t forget that she was his wife, that those soft, red lips had once parted beneath his kisses.

At twenty-one she’d been pretty, her green eyes bright with the promise of youth and her full figure a lusty young man’s dream. But now . . .

Now she was beautiful. She was damned exquisite, with a lush form and a lovely face. In the years he’d spent wishing he could make her feel a tenth of his tortures, he’d forgotten about the pleasures of her, the way her hair flashed copper in the candlelight, the quick turn of her hand when she spoke.

Tonight he’d had ample time to watch and remember.

Cursing himself for falling once more under her spell, he rubbed the scars on his wrist to remind him of his purpose. “I see my wife has finally chosen to join us.”

“You keep referring to her as your ‘wife,’ ” Northcliffe cut in. “You have no proof of any wedding.”

Under other circumstances, Rhys would have been amused by Northcliffe’s petty attempt to put a good face on things in front of Lord Devon. But he was not amused now. “I suppose a marriage certificate won’t suffice?”

Everyone gave a collective gasp. Except Juliana.

Northcliffe turned on her. “A marriage certificate? Does he have a marriage certificate?”

She nodded stiffly.

Rhys drew it from his pocket and waved it at her. “This should serve to jog your memory about our marriage—the one you conveniently forgot.”

“If I’d wanted to forget our marriage,” she said, her voice full of dignity, “I’d have had it annulled.”

“Not having the marriage certificate might have made that difficult.” Rhys slid the certificate back in his pocket. “And I’m sure my godfather, the bishop, wouldn’t have agreed to such a scheme. So you just waited until he and his wife died. Then there were no more witnesses and no need for an annulment. No need for a public scandal.”

“But there will be an annulment now,” Northcliffe put in.

“Now that you’re acknowledging the marriage?” Rhys quipped, with a knowing glance in Lord Devon’s direction. The man had gone pale.

“Yes,” Northcliffe bit out.

“No. There will be no annulment,” Rhys said savagely.

“Why not?” Juliana asked.

Rhys leveled a withering glance on her. To her credit, although she colored, she didn’t flinch from his gaze.

“Have you forgotten,” he said in a silky voice, “that our marriage was consummated? Or will you pretend it wasn’t?”

“Consummated?” Lord Devon broke in bitterly. “Is that true, Juliana?”

Rhys watched with pleasure as her mouth trembled and her confidence faltered. His puny taunts scarcely repaid her for the loss of his illusions, but they did give him a certain hollow satisfaction.

“You don’t have to answer,” Northcliffe warned.

“But if you don’t,” Rhys told her, “I’ll be forced to give
your betrothed a detailed account of our joyous wedding night . . . how you cried out my name as I—”

“That’s enough, Rhys.” Juliana’s face was deathly pale, emphasizing the fragility of her slender throat. Her lovely, silken throat. He cursed inwardly. Why did he notice such things now, knowing what she was?

She turned to her betrothed. “I’m so sorry, Stephen. I never thought this would happen. I thought—”

“Is he telling the truth?” Lord Devon demanded.

“Yes, he is.”

“Oh dear, now you’ve gone and done it! ” exclaimed her mother as she collapsed onto the settee.

Lord Devon looked shattered, the very picture of a cuckolded husband.

Poor sot, Rhys thought. A cuckold and not even married yet. Still, a few weeks more and the marquess would have been full owner of Llynwydd. Rhys’s tone hardened as he faced his wife. “Now that we all agree, there will be no more talk of an annulment.”