Pain stabbed through her at the very idea of giving away her child and only watching from a distance. That could never be a choice. “Do not speak such nonsense,” she said hoarsely. “Give away my child? You are heartless to even suggest it. I do not care if that is what most ladies of the aristocracy do. I will not do it, and that suggestion has no place in this conversation.”
She fought back the panic pushing at her, for she still had no notion of what to do. Marrying would certainly solve everything, but that presented another challenge, for she could not deceive any man so cruelly. She would have to be truthful from the onset that she was with child.
“Then marry Lord Locksley and foist the baby on him,” Simon urged, staring at her somberly. “You know this is the only path from scandal and disgrace, Georgiana.”
“Your brother speaks the truth. Those are the only viable options available. I am certain you would prefer to know your child and be a part of its life. Marriage to Lord Locksley will not be unpleasant. He is handsome and quite amiable, and well-thought-of by society.”
“I can see Rhys would never be welcomed by either of you,” Georgiana said softly.
Her mother’s hand fluttered to her throat. “You jest in poor taste. Mr. Tremayne is vulgar in breeding and has little or no connections of consequence,” she said emphatically. “You are the daughter of an earl, you have been the wife of a duke, your son is a duke. I cannot credit how you could even imagine a life with a man as common and uncouth as Mr. Tremayne.”
The tears Georgiana had been fighting since she’d woken spilled over her cheeks in a hot trail. “Mother, Simon, I am dreadfully tried. If you will excuse me, I trust that you will see yourselves out.”
She ignored her mother’s gasp and her brother’s concerned stare and hurried from the music room. With quick steps, she made the way to her lavishly appointed chambers. Thankfully, her maid was not present, and Georgiana closed the door. The beautiful tranquil decor she had personally overseen did little to soothe her ragged nerves. She retreated to her bed, trying to beat into submission the savage pain tearing through her heart. She grieved for Rhys in a manner she had not done when her husband had died. Georgiana choked on a sob, gently caressing her stomach. If she kept their baby and married the marquess, there would be a time Rhys passed her in the street with their son or daughter beside her, and he would be unable to acknowledge them. Dear God, how would they both bear the situation?
Marry me. How she had wanted to say yes. The memory of his contempt burned her with shame and agony. It hurt that he now thought so little of her, and that he would kill whatever love had brewed in his heart. And she deserved this apathy. She had told him she would allow another man to raise his child.
A child.
She closed her eyes thinking about the child nestling safely inside of her. Would it be a girl? A boy? She could imagine a child with Rhys’s features, intelligence, and temperament.
What if I damn everyone and marry Rhys?
How would marrying a man like Rhys affect her son? Nicolas had already developed an admiration for Rhys, and she had not allowed further contact between them, fearing the damage to her son’s heart when she and Rhys parted. He was honorable yet so ruthless, and she knew those were the qualities he would impart to her son. Perhaps they would serve him well, for he would take control of the dukedom at the early age of twenty-one.
Oh, what am I saying? The resulting scandal and stain on their reputations would last for years. There was the strongest possibility she would no longer be welcomed by her set, would perhaps never be invited to court again, and might even find herself out of favor with the king himself, despite his own sexual proclivities and self-indulgence. It was only last month when the family had attended a ball held at the newly and lavishly refurbished Windsor Castle that the king had spoken fondly and admiringly of the Hardcastles’ impeccable reputation and dedication to duty.
Perhaps it would be worth it.
She closed her eyes, thinking of their time together. Memories taunted her. How she had felt at home in his arms, never worrying or being made to feel ashamed of her passions, her reading choices, or the fact she had run barefoot in the sand or danced with such freedom in a gambling hell. He made her feel like a woman, free to live and love with honor and passion. Those times he had simply held her, peace in his expression that she had put there. That man had craved her and had not been ashamed to admit it. She hadn’t been cold, but like living flames that had burned so fiercely whenever she had been with him. And the times that burned the brightest now in her heart were when they had laughed, read together, walked through the streets at St. James’s at the most ungodly hour, because in those moments they had not been slaves to the expectations of society or anyone else. They had simply been Georgiana and Rhys.
She would forever skirt the edge of propriety if she took such a leap.
Dear God in heaven, but she wanted that man.
…
Roughly three weeks had passed since Rhys had departed from the duchess’s chambers at Meadowbrook Park. Pain, unexpected and raw, still scraped at Rhys, shocking him with its intensity. The silence of the library pressed in on him, and a dark feeling of loss rolled though him in chilly waves. She had stolen his heart in a manner to which he’d never thought himself susceptible. How unforgivably idiotic he had been in his declarations. Never once had she intimated she’d wanted more than an affair, and he had been hungering to possess her forever. It hardly mattered to Rhys she was a duchess, and that was the problem. It was the woman he saw, the woman he craved. There had been no give in Georgiana’s heart, and her rejection was a raw, open wound.
What of their child? He knew of the methods women employed to rid their bodies of their babes. A hiss slipped from him at the very idea she would act in such manner when they were more than capable of providing for their child. Rhys dismissed the notion, his…the duchess was kind and a woman of honor.
He was not the type of man to relent when he hungered for something. He had fought for everything he had ever desired—a roof over his head, food in his family’s bellies, land, wealth, their protection. Perhaps he should fight for the woman he loved. He could find ways and means to blackmail the duchess, her brother, or even trade secrets that would see her bend to his will. Rhys was merciless when he chose to be, and he did not retreat from that aspect of his character. It was what had made him the successful man he was today.
And what if the palpable desire she clearly had for him turned to hatred for having trapped her into a life and circumstances she clearly did not want? Hell. If he had to fight dirty for his duchess’s affections, surely it would all be rendered meaningless. If her soul did not cry out for him with a similar intensity, what would be the point of being in such a union? Being able to claim and be a part of his child’s life would be worth his duchess’s bitterness.
His thoughts coldly rushed ahead, plotting how he could bend her to his will. He had the means to see it done, for the dossier Rhys had on her brother held more than one secret the earl would prefer to bury. She would care about the pain of her family.
That was it, he would use her brother to break her resolve. Rhys closed his eyes as his heart rebelled against the idea of hurting her. He wouldn’t be able to endure the pain and accusation in her eyes, or the loneliness that would perhaps return if he trapped her in a life she did not want. Christ. She had effectively weakened him.
Fucking hell, he was turning into a maudlin poet. The plain truth of the matter was Georgiana did not need his wealth, his connections, or even his reputation to protect her from the ton. Georgiana had to want him, and he had not seen that. Had he ever seen it? Had it all been mere lust, a need only for his cock and the pleasures he could give her?
He was a fool, lamenting the loss of her when he’d never really possessed anything of the duchess. The duchess’s rejection had simply been a cumulation of his profound idiocy. Hardening himself against the surge of need and the instinct to fight for her
, he knocked back the glass of whiskey he had been nursing, appreciating the burn that traveled to his stomach. He set the glass on the mantle and stalked from the room, calling for his coat and his carriage.
Several minutes later, he was seated in one of the private card rooms in The Asylum, gambling where the takes were much riskier and higher. No one spoke to him, somehow picking up on his dangerous mood. He gambled with large stakes, winning some and losing others. Drinks were provided by attentive ladies hoping to secure a hefty tip and perhaps even supply pleasures. A few hours later, he was tired of gambling, and he pushed from the chair, tucking a ten-pound note into his server’s bosom. Her eyes widened in gratitude and with an open invitation, but Rhys ignored it and left.
He stumbled outside, slightly intoxicated, a virulent curse slipping from his lips. Nothing seemed to be working. Memories of their time together had been keeping him awake until dawn, over and over, with no show of relenting, and tonight would be another hellish night of not escaping those damnable memories.
What in God’s name had happened to him? He could not find his equilibrium. He’d never had cause to think so far ahead before, to plan a life for a wife and a child…a family, but now that they were within his grasp, he wanted it so badly his throat tightened. He scrubbed a hand over his face. Georgiana was a duchess, and at the best of times, he was a merciless criminal.
With a growl of frustration, he slammed his fist into the grimy brick wall, uncaring that he scraped the skin from his knuckles, uncaring that he bled.
How could it hurt so damn much?
A sound rode the air, alerting him to the presence of others. He whirled around, feeling a bit disappointed only three ruffians prowled toward him, with evident criminal intentions.
One held a knife, and the other two had clubs. Violence tore through him in a dark wave, and he welcomed the fire twisting his insides. This was what he needed. A quick, brutal bout of fighting.
They paused, glancing uncertainly at each other when he shrugged from his coat and let it fall casually on the filthy ground. It would be ruined, but he had been in fights for his life in his younger days and knew how easy it was to trip up a man who wore a coat.
“Give over yer money,” the apparent leader growled.
Rhys did not hesitate, rolling forward with a confident stride, the chill of mercilessness invading his soul. On another night, he would have given them the money without resistance or even offered them jobs in one of his factories, simply because he knew how terrible it was to exist in the abject poverty of the slums and how desperate a man could get to provide for those he cherished. After he had indulged in a gritty fight, he would offer them employment.
The scragglier-looking man broke from the trio and rushed forward, club at the ready. Rhys ducked underneath his wild swing and rammed his fist into the man’s gut. Before he could recover, Rhys brought his knee up, slamming it into his chin. With a guttural groan, the man tumbled to the ground.
Rhys’s lips curved into a sneer at the other two, and before they rushed at him, the cocking of a pistol hammer sounded.
“What do we have here?” came the low drawl.
The ruffians spun around, tripping over their explanation. “Mr. O’Malley, sir! We…we…”
“Be gone,” Riordan said, lowering the weapon.
They hurriedly collected their friend and scampered away without looking back.
“I see it is a good thing I followed you,” Riordan said in a neutral tone, propping his shoulder against the grimy alley wall.
“I needed no rescuing.”