The problem was that it involved exchanging one kind of hell for another.
I kept my end of the bargain marrying you, you Oriental bitch.
His father’s venom reached through the years, dragging him back into the darkness of his mama’s wardrobe, the hiding place he’d found in a panic. He wasn’t supposed to be there: the duke had made it clear that his mama’s suite was off-limits.
At twelve, however, Rhys was starting to resent His Grace’s cruel and autocratic ways. Yesterday, the duke had sacked Miss Yardley, Rhys’s most recent governess; when Rhys had protested, his sire had turned on him.
You’re already weak, boy,His Grace hissed.I won’t have you turn into a needy milksop. Let this be a lesson to you: a true man doesn’t need others.
A lesson His Grace had inflicted on Rhys countless times. Yet this time, Rhys had rebelled, some instinct leading him to search out his mother. In those rare, brief times he’d been allowed to see her, she never spoke, at least not in a language he understood. But she would sometimes smile, and he thought her beautiful with her hair as smooth as black glass and eyes of translucent amber.
He didn’t know why he’d come. Why he thought that seeing her might make things better.
Now you will keep your end and provide me my spare,his sire raged.
His mama’s weeping seemed to fill the wardrobe. His insides turned to ice as she made a sound like that of a fatally injured animal…like Bailey’s last whimper.
Spread your legs, you stupid cunt,his father roared.Spread them, I say—
Rhys locked away the memory. He knew how the scene ended.
The notion of domestic life—of allowing anyone too close—chilled him. Yet he’d come to grips with the reality that he might have to marry for money. If he was forced to wed, he’d vowed not to be the kind of husband and father his own had been.
But now he had another option. He had the inheritance from his uncle—and with Maggie’s help, his hope of finding it soared. Even though theirs was just an affair, she distracted him from his woes. He enjoyed her company as much as her luscious body.
With her, he didn’t feel as…alone.
While he wanted to tell Newton to forgo the whole heiress business, he knew he couldn’t. He had to prepare for the possibility that he might not find the treasure. Or what if he did, but the treasure’s worth wasn’t as impressive as Horatio claimed it was? Miss Sharpe’s dowry might be Rhys’s last hope, the only thing standing between him and two murderous moneylenders.
Rhys believed in hedging his bets. Especially when he was betting on himself.
Thus, he settled for a compromise: in his reply to Newton, he instructed the other to delay the Sharpes for a fortnight. If he hadn’t made progress on the treasure hunt by then, then he probably never would. He’d give himself two weeks, then he would reassess and do what needed to be done.
Two weeks of freedom. Two weeks to find those legendary jewels.
Two weeks to be with Maggie.
He’d just finished sealing the missive with wax when he heard voices in the hallway. He rose as Maggie followed in Quince’s tow like spring on the heels of a bleak winter. It mattered naught that her hair was once again restrained in a prim knot or that she wore drab widow’s weeds or that a battered leather tool bag was slung across her body: her radiant sensuality halted his breath.
By Jove, it had only been a day since he’d had her, and he wanted her again. Right here. Now.
Chiding his own lack of self-discipline, he dismissed Quince and bowed to her. “You are a vision of loveliness.”
She flushed, looking uncomfortable—as if gallantry of any kind was alien to her. It made him want to shower her with compliments and gewgaws, the things ladies took for granted. He realized that he hadn’t given Maggie any gifts…unless one counted the damnable fifty-pound note he’d once carelessly left her.
The memory made him cringe. With increasing discomfiture, he recognized that he was in no position to give her diamond necklaces or carte blanche at the modiste, the kind of presents he’d given lovers in the past. Nonetheless, he made note to get her some token of his esteem, even if a trinket was all he could afford at present.
“Thank you.” Her smile was shy as she set her lumpy tool bag down by the desk. “Your home is very grand.”
Thisplace, grand? It was a dump. He thought of his family seat in Northumberland, a sprawling estate of several hundred acres. His sire had run the place into the ground, and Rhys hadn’t the means to restore the once gracious country house or its surrounding lands.
A startling, unbidden image flashed in his head: Maggie standing amidst the flourishing gardens of his renovated estate, dressed in a stylish gown. She wore the prior duchess’s exotic jewels; they were the only things he had left of his mama, and out of stupid sentiment, he couldn’t bring himself to sell them. A strange, wild sensation thumped in his chest—before he firmly suppressed it.
“Uncle Horatio wasn’t much for domestic matters,” he said. “Runs in the family.”
Her head tipped to one side. “Do you have an estate of your own?”
He was treading on thin ice, yet he didn’t want to lie to her. “There’s a family property in Northumberland. My parents lived there when they were alive.”
