* * *
Rhys was bigger than she had remembered. More solid. More...male as he loomed in the doorway in his shirtsleeves, his chin darkened by his morning beard, the black hair that came from his Welsh mother in his eyes, that blue gaze blurred by drink and lack of sleep. A dangerous stranger. And then she blinked and remembered that it was six years since she had seen him close to. Of course he had changed.
‘Thea?’ He stalked across the room and took her by the shoulders, his focus sharp now, despite the smell of brandy on his breath. ‘What the blazes are you doing here? And dressed like that.’ He reached round and pulled the plait of mouse-brown hair out of the back of her coat. ‘Who were you attempting to fool, you little idiot? Have you run away from home?’
Rhys was thin lipped with anger. Thea stepped back out of his grip, which made it easier to breathe, although it did nothing for her knocking knees. ‘I am dressed like this because on a stagecoach in the dark it is enough to deceive lecherous men. I am perfectly aware that I do not pass muster as a youth in good light. And I have left home, I am not running away.’
Rhys’s lips moved. He was silently counting up to ten in Welsh, she could tell. When he had been a boy he would say it out loud and she had learned the numbers. Un, dau, tri... ‘Griffin. More brandy. Tea and something to eat for Lady Althea. Who is not, of course, here.’
Thea allowed herself to be shepherded into the study. Rhys dumped her bags on the hearthrug and pushed an ugly ginger cat off one of the chairs that flanked the fire. ‘Sit. The cat hairs can’t make that suit any worse than it is.’ The cat swore at both of them, battered ears flat to its skull.
When she clicked her fingers, it curled its tail into a question mark and stalked off. Hopefully this was not an omen for how her reception was going to be. ‘Is it your pet?’
Rhys narrowed his eyes at her. ‘It is the kitchen cat and appears to think it owns the place.’ He dropped into the opposite chair and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Tell me this is not about a man. Please. I am leaving for Dover at seven o’clock and I would prefer not to postpone it in order to fight a duel with some scoundrel you fancy yourself in love with.’
If he was sober, it would help. As for duelling, she wondered if he was capable of hitting a barn door with a blunderbuss in this state. ‘Of course it is not a man.’ Of course it is, but if I tell you the details we’ll never get anywhere. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. And why would you be fighting duels on my behalf, pray?’ It was surprising how difficult it was to keep her voice steady. She must be more tired than she had realised.
‘I always used to be,’ Rhys said with a sudden grin and drew his index finger down the line of his nose. Its perfect Grecian profile had been lost in a scrap with some village boys who had called her names when she was six and he was twelve. The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. ‘So if it isn’t a man...’
‘It is, in a way.’ She had rehearsed all this in the smelly darkness of the stagecoach through the long hours on the road. Not quite lies, not quite the truth. ‘You recall I have had three Seasons. No, of course you do not—our paths never crossed in town. You weren’t attending all the Marriage Mart ghastliness that I was expected to.’
His jaw set hard and she bit her lower lip. Stupid, tactless, to mention marriage. He still cares; it must still hurt. ‘Anyway, Papa said I was wasting money and another Season with all the other girls so much younger would be even worse. So he sent me back to Longley Park and set about finding me a husband locally.’
‘Do you mean you didn’t have any offers—?’ Rhys broke off as Griffin brought in a tray, then waved a hand for her to help herself as he sloshed dark liquid into his glass. ‘I mean, I know that with your mother...’
‘Oh, yes, several very eligible younger sons offered. My dowry is respectable and there’s my trust fund, of course.’ Both were considerable inducements to make up for the other things—her plain speaking, her intellectual enthusiasms, her very average looks. Not to mention a mother who had been an actress and her father’s mistress before their impetuous marriage and her tragic death in childbirth. ‘I turned them all down.’
‘Why?’ Rhys squinted at her over his glass, apparently in an effort to bring her into focus.
‘I didn’t love any of them.’ They didn’t love me.... None of them. ‘Papa has settled upon Sir Anthony Meldreth.’ Would Rhys understand if she explained why she felt so betrayed now? Why she had to leave? The old Rhys would have done, but this man, in this condition? No, better to fudge. ‘We did not suit, but Papa says that either I marry Anthony or I must remain at Longley and be a companion for Stepmama for the rest of my days.’
‘Hell.’ Rhys obviously recalled her stepmother’s capacity for hypochondria, vapours and utterly selfish behaviour all too well. He rubbed long fingers against his forehead as though to push away a headache, or perhaps push coherent thought in. ‘I understand your problem.’
Does he understand? Probably not, a man like Rhys couldn’t be expected to comprehend the sheer mind-numbing dullness a spinster daughter was supposed to dwindle into. It would be like being buried alive. Nor could she expect him to comprehend the horrors of finding herself married to a man she did not like or trust or have a thing in common with.
‘I can see it would be tiresome,’ he continued, confirming her belief in his lack of understanding. ‘But running away...’ He frowned at her. ‘I do not have time to deal with this now. I am about to leave for a Continental tour.’
‘I know, Papa told me. He considers it shows a commendable enthusiasm for culture he had hitherto not recognised in you. Please listen, Rhys. I am twenty-two and of age. I am not running away, I am taking control of my life.’
‘Twenty-two? Rubbish. You don’t look it.’ It was not a compliment.
Thea gritted her teeth and ploughed on. ‘All I need is the approval of two of my three trustees in order to take control of my money and be independent.’ It wasn’t a fortune, but it would give her freedom, give her choice. ‘If I do not get consent, then I will receive nothing unless Papa approves my marriage.’
‘One of the trustees is your father, I presume.’ Rhys picked up the decanter, studied it for a moment then put it down. ‘Tempting as complete oblivion is at this moment—’
‘He is,’ she interrupted. ‘And Grandmother was quite well aware of what he is like.’ There was no point in feigning filial piety. Her father had been a distant, shadowy figure throughout her childhood, only taking any notice when she was of an age where she could not be relegated to the nursery. A girl was bad enough. A girl without a glimmer of her mother’s legendary beauty and charm was worthless unless she made a useful marriage. Thea felt she hardly knew him, and, regrettably, felt no desire to do so.
If this stratagem failed and Papa realised what she was about and put pressure on the third trustee, Mr Heale, then she was trapped. She shivered at the memory of her cold, loveless childhood home. The Season had been an escape, but now that had been snatched away the walls were closing in.
‘Grandmother had to name Papa as a trustee, for it would have seemed very strange if she had not, but she put in the clause about me only needing the permission of two of them for major decisions in order to get around him.’
She poured another cup of tea, ravenous and thirsty now that her immediate worries about finding Rhys at home were laid to rest. ‘One of the others is the younger Mr Heale, the son of Grandmother’s solicitor. I have spoken to him and he is perfectly agreeable to my taking control. I have his letter to that effect. So long as Papa does not realise exactly what I am about and try to influence him...’ She touched the packet over her heart and felt the crisp, reassuring