Really, there was but one word that fit this feeling inside him.
He wasn’t feeling piqued or swindled.
Bereft.
That was the only word for this feeling channeling through and hollowing him out.
Utterly, completely, irretrievably bereft.
14
Ashburn Hall, Hampshire, Three days later
Rhys urged his horse through the familiar gargoyle-topped, wrought iron gate that opened onto the ancestral lands of the Earls of Ashburn.
He was home.
But as he made his way up the long gravel drive with stout oak trees to either side and onto Ashburn Hall’s wide forecourt, it felt little like a homecoming.
“Lord Rhys,” said Letlow, Ashburn’s long-time butler, hurrying down the front steps, as Rhys dismounted and handed the reins to a lad, “we weren’t expecting you until Christmas Eve.”
The servants were all regarding him in the way they used to—doubtfully, as if he were likely too drunk to know that Christmas Eve was four days hence.
But Rhys wasn’t drunk.
He hadn’t had a drop, though he’d been properly tempted when Whitty had rolled off his sofa three days ago and pulled a flask from some inner pocket. When his friend had offered him a swig, Rhys had known no greater temptation in his entire life. After all, he’d been utterly bereft, and one drank whisky in utterly bereft times.
Who would’ve blamed him for taking a swig?
It was what one did.
Yet, somehow, Rhys had dug deep into inner reserves and resisted.
And he’d continued to resist in all the seconds…minutes…hours…and trio of days since.
So, now, he was able to look Letlow in the eye and say, soberly, “Is the earl about?”
The butler nodded. “Of course, Lord Rhys.”
A few minutes later, Rhys was following Letlow into the study, where Papa stood before a large rectangular table with his estate manager, Landry. While his presence yet remained unregistered, Rhys felt remnants of childhood memory slip through him, brought on by the familiar scent of leather, books, and tobacco specific to this room. As a boy, of all the thirty or so rooms in Ashburn Hall, this one had been his favorite.
“Lord Rhys, milord,” intoned Letlow.
Papa’s head lifted. It wasn’t a smile of welcome that greeted Rhys, but a subtle creasing of the brow.
Wariness.
And hadn’t Rhys spent a dozen wastrel years earning that cool, wary smile from his father?
“Have I caught you at an inconvenient time?” he asked.
“Landry and I were just finishing up.”
Rhys took a step forward. “What are those? Land surveys?”
“A neighboring baron has offered us the purchase of the fifty acres abutting our northern boundary. We’re deciding on a fair offer.”
Fairness—another memory from childhood.
