He also hated the Marquess of Waring.
But that was a matter that would need to be settled later. With his fists.
“No one ruined me,” Rhiannon said, frowning at him. “I am a woman grown, and I make my own choices.”
He didn’t like the sound of that.
“Apparently, poor ones.”
She jolted as if he had slapped her, and he regretted the harshness of his words, though not the emotion behind them.
“You are being cruel.”
“I am being pragmatic. The world is a vile swamp rife with betrayals and disappointments, and there is nothing polite society loves better than the downfall of one of its own.” He thought of Miranda again, and something inside him seized.
Was it fear that had made her turn away from him? Did she fret over her reputation? Was there something Waring could offer her that Rhys had not? Worse—his gut clenched—did she love Waring?
“Speaking of such matters,” Rhiannon interrupted gently, moving toward him and holding out what appeared to be a copy of a gossip rag. “There is something that I thought perhaps you would wish to see.”
He had eschewed the morning’s paper and breakfast after receiving Miranda’s note. Instead, he had retreated to the haven of his study, where, curtains tightly closed from the outside world, he had drowned himself in the paltry comfort of a bottleof spirits. The last thing he wanted was to sit and read the goddamned scandal broth in the mood he was in.
“I can assure you that there is presently nothing I would like to see at all,” he snarled. “If you’ve naught to offer other than mawkish nonsense, you may as well go. I’m not fit company for anyone at the moment.”
His bloody stubborn sister would not be deterred. She followed him across the room to the mantel over the fireplace, which currently possessed several items that seemed to call for a fate similar to the inkwell. Smashing things didn’t solve any problems, but ye gods, it felt satisfying.
Not nearly as satisfying as smashing the Marquess of Waring’s self-righteous face. But that would be remedied soon enough.
“I do think you may wish to read a certain article, brother,” Rhiannon told him gently, thrusting the newspaper toward him. “It appears to concern you and someone referred to as the Fallen Countess.”
The blood felt as if it leached from him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I do believe you are the Duke of W. in question,” his sister said, giving him a look of tender sympathy.
He snatched the paper from her. “Where?”
“Page three,” Rhiannon told him.
Rhys practically tore the newspaper in half as he turned to the page, his eyes instantly falling upon the article in question. He read hastily, stopping before he had even finished, having seen quite enough.
“Bloody hell,” he swore viciously, tossing the filth into the fireplace where it belonged.
“Just so.” Rhiannon patted him on the back. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
He stiffened in shock. “In love?”
Rhys wasn’t in love.
He didn’t fall in love.
He was the Duke of Whitby, conscienceless rakehell, careless rogue, unrepentant voluptuary. He damn well didn’thavea fucking heart. Such maudlin tripe was for females. It only existed in fanciful books that were written for wide-eyed virgins who weren’t yet jaded enough to realize that love was naught but a fiction.
“Yes.” His sister was solemn as she looked up at him, her blue eyes so like his, far too knowing for a young woman of her tender years. “You’ve fallen in love with her, haven’t you?”
He stared at Rhiannon, aghast, unable to speak.
Because she was right, curse her. Hehadfallen in love with Miranda Lenox. That was this feeling, this weight in his chest, this deep and abiding rightness he felt whenever she was in his arms.
