But now, Miranda—his Miranda, who knew how to bring him to his knees with a mere laugh or smile—had thrown him over. There was no doubt in his mind as to the reason either. Her lover, the insufferably smug Marquess of Waring, had returned from America.
And she had gone straight back into that bastard’s arms. He should have known yesterday when he had arrived at her house and found them together and then later, when she had sent round a note crying off their customary tryst for the night. At the time, Rhys had put it down to her ire with him, which had been evident when she had dismissed him at tea after he had traded barbs with Waring. He had expected it would fade by today. How wrong he had been.
Such a cozy vignette Miranda and Waring had made, he thought bitterly now, enjoying tea together. He had known, of course, that Waring was the lover who had enabled her to achieve her divorce from Ammondale. But what he hadn’texpected was that the bastard would return unannounced from America and lay claim to Rhys’s woman.
The realization was akin to a knife to the gut, the betrayal so bitter and vicious that he could taste it on his tongue along with the whisky he’d been pouring down his throat. He wanted to tear the Marquess of bloody Waring limb from limb. To pull down the walls of this blasted study. To smash everything in his sight that was glass. To go directly to Miranda’s tiny rooms and demand that she look him in the eye and tell him she truly wanted to end their affair instead of sending him some cowardly goddamned note.
With a roar, he picked up a crystal inkwell and hurled it into the fireplace, the resulting crash failing to feed the blood lust raging within him.
A knock sounded at his study door.
“Rhys?”
His sister’s voice.
With a heavy sigh, he passed a hand over his face. “Come.”
The door opened, and Rhiannon peered around the edge. “Is it safe?”
“I suppose you heard that.”
She nodded, somber. “What did you break?”
He gestured to the silver writing set on his desk, now bereft of half its contents. “An inkwell.”
Cautiously, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “Something has you overset?”
An understatement of vast proportions, that.
He grimaced. “One could say so.”
Belatedly, he realized he ought to stand in deference and shot to his feet, prowling around his desk with the energy of a caged lion as he began to pace the Axminster. His sister watched him in the manner he imagined she might observe a poisonous snake, wondering if it would strike.
“What do you want, Rhiannon?” he asked curtly, his mood hardly improved by her presence.
It still nettled that he had yet to ferret out what had happened during her supposed trip to Great-Aunt Bitsy. Thus far, that august woman had yet to respond to his letter of inquiry. And short of venturing to her himself, he wasn’t likely to have his answer.
“I intended to speak with you about something,” Rhiannon said hesitantly, “but perhaps it can wait for a more opportune time.”
He sighed again. “Has it anything to do with your visit to Great-Aunt Bitsy?”
She looked hastily away, but he didn’t miss the guilt in her countenance. “No, of course not. Why would you ask?”
“Because I know you’re lying about your supposed stay with her.”
Whisky and frayed emotions had loosened his tongue.
Rhiannon’s head swiveled back in his direction, her look startled. “I’m not lying. We have been over this before.”
“Yes, we have. And I’m not any more inclined to believe you now than I was nearly a month ago.” He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated and furious and all but crawling out of his bloody skin. “Just so you are aware, when I find out who he is, I’m going to take great pleasure in killing him. Slowly.”
Rhiannon blanched. “Rhys.”
Rhys was being beastly and he knew it, but damn it, Miranda had thrown him over. He was furious with himself. With her. With Waring. He wanted to burn the world to the ground. To claw the sun from the sky. To blot out the stars and the fucking moon.
“Sister,” he countered grimly. “I warn you, I’m in no mood to speak gently. But my response remains the same. If I shoulddiscover some scurrilous rogue had the temerity to ruin you, I’ll flay him alive.”
He meant those words to his soul. By God, he was meant to protect his sister. He hated that he had failed her. Hated that Mater had been so absorbed in her own diversions that she had failed to notice Rhiannon was missing until it had been far too late.
