LITMIR.BIZ

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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 crackle of parchment. Surely her father’s bullying could not negate that letter? ‘My other trustee is Godmama Agnes.’

      ‘Godmama. Now, she would approve of you having control of your fortune.’ The brandy seemed to be having no serious effect on Rhys’s understanding, or perhaps the fumes were clearing. ‘Although what you’ll do with it at your age…’

      He was paying attention, even if he still seemed to believe she was sixteen, or incapable of making decisions. Thea took a sustaining gulp of tea, then reached for another scone. It had been a long time since breakfast at Longley Park and a snatched bun at the midafternoon change of horses.

      ‘Has it ever occurred to you how fortunate we have been in our godmother?’ Rhys asked. The thought of Lady Hughson was enough to curve his lips into a smile.

      ‘Daily,’ Thea agreed fervently. ‘When we were all children I never gave it a thought, but now I see how lucky we were that she turned her unhappiness into pleasure in caring for her godchildren.’ Godmama’s home had been the only place she had experienced love and warmth.

      ‘The fifteen little lambs in Agnes’s personal flock?’

      ‘Exactly. She must have loved her husband very much, then she lost him so young, before they could have children.’

      Rhys gave a grunt of agreement. ‘But that is history and if you ran, sorry, left, home to go to her, she’s not in London. Have you just discovered that? Is that why you came to me?’ The sleepy blue eyes studied her over the rim of his glass.

      ‘I knew she was not in town and I dared not write and risk her reply falling into Papa’s hands. She’s in Venice. That is why I came straight here. As soon as I discovered where she was and what you were planning…’ This was the tricky part. Would it help that Rhys was castaway?

      He was not drunk enough to miss her meaning or perhaps he just knew her too well. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no. You are not coming with me to the Continent. It is impossible, impractical, outrageous.’

      ‘Have you become such a conventional prude that you cannot help an old friend?’ she demanded. The old Rhys would rise to that lure.

      ‘I am not conventional.’ Rightly taking her words as an insult, Rhys banged the glass down, slopping brandy onto the highly polished mahogany. The smell was a physical reminder of what she was dealing with. ‘Nor am I a prude. Revolting word. Like prunes and…’ He shook his head as though to jerk his thoughts back on course. ‘You cannot go gallivanting about Europe with a man you are not married to. Think of the scandal.’

      ‘A scandal only if I am recognised, and who is going to do that? I will be veiled and anyone who sees us will assume I am your mistress.’ He rolled his eyes, as well he might. She was hardly mistress material, veil or no veil. ‘Frankly, I do not care if I am ruined. It can’t make things any worse. Rhys, I am not asking to be taken about as though I was on an expedition of pleasure, merely to be transported. I cannot go by myself, not easily, although if you do not help me then I will hire a courier and a maid and attempt it.’

      ‘Using what for money?’ he demanded. ‘Or do you expect me to lend you the funds to ruin yourself with?’

      ‘Certainly not. But my life will be wrecked if I have to stay.’ He looked decidedly unconvinced. ‘I have eighteen months’ allowance with me.’ The bundles of notes and the coins sewn into her underwear had kept her warm and comforted her with their solid presence throughout the long journey.

      ‘I suppose your father handed it over without question?’ There was the faintest hint of a twitch at the corner of his mouth. It gave her some hope that the old Rhys, the carefree, reckless boy who was up for any lark, was still lurking somewhere inside this rather formidable man.

      ‘Of course not. I have not spent more than a few pounds of my allowance for three months. The rest I took from the money box in Papa’s study.

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