CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
He went home alone, climbed the stairs to his empty room in his empty townhouse and lay in his empty bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn began to lighten the windows.
The next morning, Benedict found him in his study.
Rhys was sitting at his desk, an untouched cup of coffee growing cold beside him, his head pounding with the particular misery of a hangover he entirely deserved. He did not look up when Benedict entered.
“You look terrible,” Benedict said.
“I feel worse.”
“Excellent! You should.” Benedict settled into the chair across from the desk, his expression caught between sympathy and frustration.
“You were doing so well.”
“I was hiding in Cornwall.” Rhys finally raised his head, meeting his friend’s eyes.
“That’s not ‘doing well.’ That’s avoidance with better scenery.”
“And last night was?”
“Avoidance with worse scenery.”
Benedict was quiet for a moment. “What happened with Mrs. Hartington?”
“Nothing. I escorted her to her carriage and went home alone.”
“That’s not what it looked like.”
“No. It’s not.” Rhys laughed, though there was no humour in it.
“The gossip sheets will find this a most delicious feast. The Duke of Trevane, finally returning to his scandalous ways after his mysterious Cornish sojourn. They’ll imply all sorts of things that didn’t happen, and everyone will believe them because why wouldn’t they? It’s exactly what they expect of me.”
“And you let them see you leaving with her because…?”
“Because I was drunk and a complete fool and it was easier than facing the truth.”
“Which is?”
Rhys did not answer immediately. He looked at the stack of papers on his desk, the estate business that had brought him back to London, the responsibilities he had been avoiding for weeks. None of it mattered. None of it had ever mattered the way the things he had left behind in Cornwall mattered.
“My affections have unhappily settled upon the governess, and I am quite at a loss to master them.” he said finally.
Benedict stared at him.
“I know how that sounds. I know it’s impossible and inappropriate and exactly the sort of complication I should have avoided.” Rhys ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it further.
“But I couldn’t avoid it. She’s extraordinary. She’s honest in ways that make most people uncomfortable. She sees me clearly, and she stays anyway, and she cherishes those children as though they were her own and I have surrendered my heart entirely to her keeping.”
“Does she know?”
“She knows. We had a moment. In the garden. I almost…” He stopped, unable to complete the sentence.
“She stopped it. She reminded me of the impossibility of the situation, and she walked away, and she’s been maintaining professional distance ever since.”
“And you came back to London and got drunk and let Mrs. Hartington drape herself on your arm because…?”
“Because it was easier than being in that house with her and not being able to have her.” The words came out harsh, honest.
“Because the duke is comfortable and the man I’m trying to become is hard. Because she told me I hide behind my worst self, and she was right, and I don’t know how to stop.”
Benedict was quiet steadily. When he spoke, his voice was careful.
“The gossip sheets will reach Cornwall.”
“I am quite aware.”
“She will read them.”
“I know.”
“And she’ll see exactly what she warned you about.”
“I know.” Rhys put his head in his hands.
“I know all of this. I’ve been sitting here for hours, knowing all of this, and I cannot find a solution to rectify this.”
“Have you tried writing to her?”
“Three times. I tore up every letter.” He gestured at the wastepaper basket, which was overflowing with crumpled sheets.
“There’s no way to explain what happened that doesn’t prove her right.
‘I escorted a beautiful widow to her carriage after drinking too much champagne and letting her flirt with me all evening, but nothing actually happened.’ It sounds like an excuse.
It sounds like exactly what a man hiding behind his worst self would say. ”
“It’s also the truth.”
“The truth doesn’t matter, appearances and consequences matter.
” Rhys lifted his head. “She told me that the children need stability. That they need someone who will stay. And I left. I came back to London for ‘estate business,’ and I got drunk and caused a scandal, and now the gossip sheets will tell her exactly what kind of man I am.”
“You’re not that man anymore.”
“Am I not?” Rhys stood abruptly, moving to the window to stare out at the grey London morning.
“One week away from Cornwall and I’m back to my old patterns. Drinking. Gambling. Letting women like Mrs. Hartington treat me like a prize to be won. Five weeks of being present, of trying to be better, and it all falls apart the moment I leave.”
“It didn’t fall apart. You made a mistake. There’s a distinction.”
“Is there?” He turned back to face Benedict. “She told me that accountability requires presence. That I can’t be the father my children need if I’m not there to do the work. And I left. I came back here, to this life I was trying to escape, and I proved her right.”
“Then go back.”
“How can I go back? How can I face her, knowing what she’ll have read? Knowing that I’ve confirmed everything she feared about me?”
“You go back and you tell her the truth. You tell her what actually happened, and you accept whatever judgment she offers.” Benedict leaned forward in his chair.
“You go back because leaving would be worse. You go back because the children need you, and she needs you, and hiding here in London is exactly what the old Rhys would do.”
“The old Rhys didn’t have anything to lose.”
“No. He didn’t. Which is exactly why the new Rhys needs to be brave enough to risk losing everything.” Benedict stood.
“Go home, Rhys. Go back to Cornwall. Face the consequences of your mistakes and try to make it right. It’s what you would want your daughters to do, isn’t it? It’s what you’ve been trying to teach them.”
Rhys stared at his friend, the truth of the words settling into his chest.
Benedict was right. Of course Benedict was right.
Running away to London had been a mistake.
Getting drunk and causing a scandal had been a worse mistake.
But the worst mistake of all would be staying here, hiding from the consequences, proving once and for all that Mel’s assessment of him was accurate.
A man who hides behind his worst self because he’s afraid his best self will fail.
“I need to finish the estate business,” he said slowly.
“Another day, perhaps two. The matters that brought me here genuinely do require attention.”
“And then?”
“And then I go back. I face whatever she has to say. I try to explain, even though explanation feels impossible.” He met Benedict’s eyes.
“And I don’t leave again. Not like this. Not ever again.”
“That sounds like the beginning of a plan.”
“It sounds like the beginning of groveling. But I suppose that’s what I’ve earned.”
He returned to his desk and pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him.
The letter he was about to write would not explain what happened.
It would not excuse his behaviour or beg for forgiveness.
It would simply announce his return, his intention to stay, and his willingness to face whatever judgment awaited him.
It was not enough. He knew it was not enough.
But it was a start.
And starts, he was learning, were sometimes all a person had.