CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“The children are finally asleep.”
Mel stood in the doorway of the study, the room where so many of their evening conversations had taken place.
The fire was burning low in the grate, casting flickering shadows across the familiar furniture, the desk where Rhys pretended to work on correspondence, the chair where she had sat so many times discussing philosophy and education and the wider world beyond Hartfell’s walls.
Everything looked the same as it had a week ago but everything felt entirely different.
Rhys rose from his chair when she entered, a gesture of courtesy that had become automatic over the months of his extended visits.
He looked better than he had this morning, having bathed and changed and eaten the breakfast that Cook had prepared with pointed comments about people who caused commotions before dawn.
But the exhaustion was still visible in the lines around his eyes, in the careful way he held himself, as though he was uncertain of his welcome.
“That took longer than usual,” he said.
“They had questions.” Mel moved into the room, not quite approaching him, maintaining the careful distance that had become habit over the past week.
“Thistle wanted to know if you would be moving into the nursery. Anna wanted to discuss the logistics of adding another desk to the schoolroom for when you inevitably decide to join their lessons. Viola wanted to know if she could call me something other than Miss Grace.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told Thistle that you would be keeping your own room. I told Anna that we would discuss any changes to the schoolroom arrangement at a later date. I told Viola that she could call me whatever she liked, but that any decisions about names should wait until there were actual decisions to announce.”
“Very diplomatic.”
“I’ve had practice.”
She crossed to the window, looking out at the darkness beyond. The garden was invisible in the night, the roses dormant and the paths empty. But she could see it in her memory: the moonlight, the gravel crunching beneath their feet, the moment when everything had shifted between them.
“We need to talk,” she said, not turning from the window. “Really talk. Now that we do not have the children to bear witness to everything we say.”
“I know.”
“There are things I need to understand. Things I need you to explain. And there are things I need to say that I couldn’t say with an audience.”
“I’m listening.”
She turned then, facing him across the room that had become so familiar over the past months. He stood by his chair, not sitting, not approaching, simply waiting with the patience she had never expected from a man of his reputation.
“Tell me about London,” she said. “All of it. Not the summary you gave this morning, but the whole truth. I need to understand what happened.”
Rhys nodded slowly, as though he had been expecting this request.
“I went back because Grieves insisted the estate matters were urgent. They weren’t, particularly, but I had been ignoring my responsibilities for weeks, and he was not wrong that some things required my personal attention.” He paused, gathering his thoughts.
“I didn’t intend to stay more than a few days. I certainly didn’t intend to attend Lady Dearborn’s ball or spend an evening drinking too much champagne and letting Mrs. Hartington flirt with me in plain view of everyone who mattered.”
“But you did.”
“I did.” He met her eyes, unflinching. “I told myself it was because the old life was easier. Because being the duke was comfortable in ways that being the man I’m trying to become is not. And that’s true, as far as it goes. But it’s not the whole truth.”
“What’s the whole truth?”
“The whole truth is that I was running away from you.” The words came out heavy, weighted with an honesty that seemed to cost him.
“From what you said in the garden. From what you saw in me. You told me I was hiding behind my worst self, and you were right, and I didn’t know how to face you after that.”
Mel absorbed this, turning it over in her mind. It was not an excuse. It was barely even an explanation. The words possessed a certain starkness of sincerity, and she had ever preferred the bracing air of reality to the stifling warmth of a convenient deception.
“So you went back to London and became exactly what I said you were.”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs. Hartington?”
“Was beautiful and available and entirely uncomplicated. She wanted the duke. She wanted the scandal. She wanted whatever temporary pleasure my attention could provide.” He paused.
“She was nothing like you. Which was, I think, part of the appeal. Being with someone who wanted the performance meant I didn’t have to face the reality. ”
“But you didn’t actually do anything.”
“No. I escorted her to her carriage and went home alone. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about you, thinking about the children, thinking about all the ways I was failing to be the man any of you deserved.” His voice dropped.
“Benedict found me the next morning, hungover and furious with myself. He told me to come back. To face the consequences and try to make it right.”
“And the conversation I overheard?”
Rhys closed his eyes briefly, as though steeling himself for something difficult.
“That conversation happened the evening I returned. Benedict had accompanied me from London. He wanted to make sure I actually followed through, I think, rather than losing my nerve somewhere along the road.” He opened his eyes again.
“We were in the drawing room, and I was trying to explain why pursuing you was impossible. Why the scandal would be too great, the social consequences too severe. Why my daughters would suffer for my choices.”
“You said you couldn’t enter into matrimony with a governess.”
“I said many things. Most of them were arguments against the very thing I wanted most.” He took a step toward her, then stopped, as though uncertain whether the approach would be welcome.
“What you didn’t hear was what came after, me telling Benedict that none of the arguments mattered, that I held you in my highest esteem and that I would rather face every scandal in England than spend another day pretending I didn’t want to spend my life with you.”
Mel felt her breath catch. She had suspected, after his declaration in the entrance hall, that there had been more to the conversation than she had heard. But hearing it confirmed, hearing the words he had spoken when he thought no one was listening, was different.
“Why didn’t you tell me immediately? When I refused to let you explain at dinner, when I was treating you like a stranger, why didn’t you make me listen?”
“Because you had every right to be angry. Because the gossip sheets had already convinced you of what I was, and nothing I said that evening would have changed your mind.” He paused. “Because I was still trying to find the courage to tell you the truth, and that took longer than it should have.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly, the night pressing against the windows. Mel could feel the weight of everything that had passed between them, every conversation and confession and careful silence.
“I need to tell you something,” she said finally.
“Something I should have said this morning but couldn’t, not with the children there.”
“Tell me.”
“I cannot be your anchor.”
The words landed in the quiet room, their meaning not immediately clear. Rhys frowned, confusion flickering across his features.
“I don’t understand.”
“In the garden, you told me that I was the only person who saw all of you. The rake, the father and the man you’re trying to become. You said that everyone else sees a version, but I see everything.” She held his gaze steadily.
“That may be true. But it cannot be the reason you stay good.”
“Mel…”
“Let me finish.” She held up a hand, forestalling his interruption.
“I watched you in London. Not directly, but through the gossip sheets and through the evidence of what you did when I wasn’t there to hold you accountable.
The moment you left Cornwall, the moment you were away from me and the children, you went back to being the duke.
The rake. The man who drinks too much and gambles too much and lets beautiful widows drape themselves on his arm. ”
“I know. I’ve already admitted…”
“I’m not blaming you. I’m telling you what I observed. And what I observed tells me something important… I cannot be the thing that keeps you from falling apart.” Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it, something that sounded almost like fear.
“If my presence is the only thing that makes you a good man, then my absence will always make you a bad one, and I cannot build a life on that foundation.”
Rhys was silent, absorbing her words with the focused attention he gave to things that mattered.
“You’re right,” he said finally.
“I know I’m right.”
“No, I mean…” He stopped, visibly struggling to articulate something complex.
“You’re right that you cannot be my anchor. You’re right that if I’m only capable of being good when you’re watching, then I’m not actually good. I’m just performing goodness for an audience.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re wrong about something as well.”
Mel raised an eyebrow. “What am I wrong about?”
“You’re wrong about why I failed in London.
” He moved closer, close enough that she could see the firelight reflected in his eyes.
“I didn’t fail because you weren’t there.
I failed because I was afraid. I failed because facing what you told me in the garden meant facing everything I had been hiding from for fifteen years.
I failed because change is hard, and the old patterns are comfortable, and I chose comfort over courage. ”
“That’s not actually different from what I said.”