Chapter 11
Her feet planted on the corner of Piccadilly and St. James’s Street, Tilly shifted from foot to foot, staving off the chill that wanted to creep in between the woolen layers of her clothes, and wondered what in the blazes had possessed her to agree to this.
A noble deed in this part of town where all the aristocratic midnight carousing happened?
As if the universe sought to illustrate her question, a gaggle of drunken, overloud lordlings staggered so close she had to step out of their way or be plowed over.
And even as she doubted her blooming mind for having agreed, she knew why she had.
Because it was Rhys who had asked.
She was right to doubt her mind.
Except it wasn’t only her mind making these decisions, but other parts of her, too—her fingers to touch him…her lips to kiss him…
And there was this other place, too.
A place in the center of her chest that by turns contracted and expanded and ached.
So much of her had been involved in the decision that had her standing on this street corner.
All of it sparked by that kiss last night.
Lawks.
The champagne bubbles still fizzed through her blood.
Others had noticed, too.
At the breakfast table this morning, Lucy had taken one look at her, then proceeded to giggle through the entire meal.
Lord Percival had shot Tilly the lift of a single eyebrow.
Isabel had been quiet in that respectful way of hers.
And when Tilly said she was going out tonight on an errand—no more sneaking out for her—instead of asking what sort of errand she was embarking upon at night, Isabel had simply replied, “Tilly, be careful.”
Tilly knew what they all thought.
That she was carrying on with a wastrel rake.
And she supposed she was.
Except, her heart didn’t believe what the mind should on that front.
She believed Rhys.
He no longer wanted to be that wastrel rake.
He was trying.
And she felt a deep kinship with that sort of striving.
That striving to be better.
To better oneself.
Ahead, a pair of wasters managed to sort of cascade down the front steps of White’s without falling. She began to turn away and froze. One of those carousers—the tall one—had a very, very familiar way about him.
She squinted through the dim light.
In fact…that taller carouser wasn’t only familiar, he was none other than Lord Rhys Osborne shuffling up the street.
The flare of outrage that blazed through her was instantaneous.
The cheek!
Once he and the other rotter with him came within shouting distance, she let fly. “You’ve got some brass, Rhys Osborne, inviting me here to…to…what? Bear witness to your carousing? Noble deed, my arse!”
“Tilly, Tilly, Tilly,” he said—pleaded. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Mouth clamped shut, she exhaled through her nose and crossed her arms over her chest and waited, her foot tapping the cobblestones.
He waved a hand toward the fellow beside him. “I would like to introduce you to the Right Honorable Viscount Whitmore.”
Rhys didn’t sound drunk as a piper, she would give him that.
The lord beside him—Viscount Whitmore—gave a wobbly bow that listed to the left. “A lady such as thy lovely self can call me Whitty.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Everyone does, anyway.”
Tilly saw a few things at once.
It was this lord who was three sheets to the wind, not Rhys.
And she liked this Whitty.
Oh, he possessed the look of an absolute waster, but he had kind eyes.
Her umbrage fell away. She still didn’t know what this night was about, but she was intrigued. “And you can call me Tilly.” She added on a laugh, “Everyone does.”
Rhys searched her eyes for the split of a second, long enough for her to know what he was looking for. She offered a smile, just for him. And what passed behind his eyes could’ve been taken for none other than relief.
Whitty in the middle, they set off down Piccadilly.
“Do you know, Lady Tilly,” said Whitty, a slight slur to his words, “that Lord Rhys here—I call him Ossie, by the way—is me oldest friend in the world?”
“Is that so?”
“Aye, it is.” He was nodding a touch too adamantly for the maintenance of his balance.
It was a good thing she and Rhys had hooked their arms through his on either side.
“Thirteen years old at Eton.” Now, his head was shaking from side to side.
“A dead lonely age to toss a boy to the Arctic winds of boarding school. Oh, how I missed Nanny.” He drew suddenly inward, then as suddenly brightened.
“As you may have gathered by now, I’m a chap who likes a convivial gathering.
None of this darkened-brow, romantic bosh for us. Am I right, Ossie?”
“Right you are, Whitty.”
“Can’t be arsed a whit for that rubbish.
Why not just have fun? So, one night that first year, I reckoned I could sneak out of Hawtrey House and find my way to the nearest public house.
And who did I meet at the gate at the end of the drive doing the exact same thing?
” A boisterous guffaw sprang from his gut.
“This waster,” he said with great affection.
Rhys snorted.
His dimples gifted a glimpse of the daring boy he once was.
“Except,” continued Whitty, “this waster had already been sneaking out every night for a fortnight.” Again, came his jolly roll of laughter.
“You see, at the age of thirteen, Rhys already stood at six feet and was the tallest boy in our year. Me?” He snorted wetly.
“I was the same age and half his size. To look at us side by side, the hard of seeing could’ve taken us for father and son. ”
Rhys shook his head on a wry chuckle. “Didn’t we try it once?”
Whitty’s face brightened. “By gads, we did! And it worked.”
“Until you edged up to the bartop and demanded a jigger of whisky with your glass of milk.”
Both men roared with laughter, and Tilly couldn’t help joining in.
It wasn’t until Rhys guided them onto a quiet street that Whitty took note of his surroundings. His brow crinkled with befuddlement. “Ain’t Brooks’s the other way?”
“We’re going to my flat on Bennet Street,” said Rhys.
Tilly felt her eyebrows lift. That was news to her. Though she did like the idea of seeing how he lived.
Whitty’s brow furrowed as he gave this surprising information a penetrative think. His brow, at last, released. “As long as there’s whisky.”
Rhys didn’t miss a beat. “There will be tea.”
Whitty’s feet stuttered to a dead stop, pulling them all up with him. “Tea?” Whitty instantly looked twenty-five percent more sober.
Rhys nodded, firm. “Tea.”
“What is this?” No mistaking the note of betrayal in Whitty’s voice. “Is this a kidnapping?”
“Now, Whitty—”
“Don’t Now, Whitty me.”
“If you’ll just see—”
Whitty gave a great, long shake, like a dog returned from a swim who was now expelling the water from his fur, in the process freeing himself from Tilly and Rhys’s grasp.
Then, liberated, he whirled around and started running until he reached the end of the street, his head frantically bobbing left and right at the apparent dead end before scuttling sideways into a narrow snicket and disappearing from view.
All the while, Tilly and Rhys stood rooted in place, watching Whitty’s desperate progress, dumbstruck and gobsmacked.
“That was…” began Rhys, staring at the last place they’d seen Whitty.
“Unexpected?”
“I didn’t know he could run that fast.”
“While tight as a tick,” said Tilly, nodding, impressed. “Imagine how fast he could go without half a bottle of whisky in him.”
“Hard to, actually.”
Like that, it struck Tilly.
She knew what tonight was all about.
“So, Whitty was your second noble deed, then.”
Rhys nodded. “Was supposed to be.” He shook his head. “I thought I could get him out of the clubs and have a quiet chat about the change in my life and the good it’s done me.”
Tilly understood. “And he would suddenly want that life for himself.”
Rhys snorted. “Over tea.”
A giggle escaped Tilly. “Tea might’ve been the feather that broke the horse’s back.”
Rhys’s face turned serious. “I’m not giving up.” He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Come on.”
Next thing Tilly knew, her hand was clasped in his and she was dashing down the street alongside a Rhys as determined as she’d ever seen him as they followed Whitty’s trail to the narrow confines of the snicket, then onto another street, soon finding themselves back on St. James’s and facing the impressive Portland stone facade of Brooks’s club.
Lawks, didn’t it just look like an establishment for nobs.
Gasping for breath, Rhys faced her. “They won’t let you in.”
“Oh, the wretched lot of woman.”
A smile twitched about his mouth, even as earnestness warmed his eyes. “You’ll wait here?”
He wasn’t telling.
He was asking.
And how she liked that.
“I’ll be here.”
His eyes searched hers one last time, then he nodded and was off, taking the front steps two at a time. The doorman saw Rhys coming and had the door swung wide before he even reached the top step.
In case Tilly had any doubts that every door was open to a lord, here they were put to rest.
She pulled her black velvet, wool-lined cloak snug around her and crossed her arms over her chest, thankful for the woolen stockings she’d had the forethought to wear tonight.
However, she’d only just settled into the wait when the front door crashed open and out flew a wild-eyed Whitty.
Instinctively, she lifted her hand in greeting, but it froze midway as he careened down the steps, took one look at her, emitted a strangled, “Can’t be arsed a whit,” and streaked straight past her.
A few seconds later, it was Rhys flying through the front door and down the steps. “Tilly,” he shouted, eyes bright with pursuit, “which way did he go?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but all that tumbled out was a great wallop of laughter that once started was impossible to stop. So, she pointed down the street and managed not to double over with the giggles.
“Well, come on, then,” he urged, grabbing her hand to follow.
But Tilly was finding it mighty difficult to keep up with both this laughter and her feet.
Rhys grumbled over his shoulder, “Can’t you go any faster?”
“I don’t think I can,” she said, trying to keep up and failing. “You go ahead.”
That got his attention.
His feet stuttered to a stop, and he faced her. “And leave you?”
“I’m the sort of gel who always comes through all right, haven’t you noticed?”
Now she had his full attention, his silver-gray eyes searching hers. “I won’t leave you, Tilly.”
She wasn’t sure if it was the words or the way he spoke them or the earnestness in his eyes as he spoke them or a combination of all three, but that instant, she was cured of her laughter.
In her entire life, only one other person had taken her hand and vowed not to leave her behind—Isabel.
And look how life had turned out since then.
Lawks.
Couldn’t life get serious in the space between one heartbeat and the next?
She noticed her hand was still in his when he tugged it, and on they walked, fingers twined through each other’s, side by side, in a way that could be called companionable.
“I’m sorry your friend lit out on you.”
He gave a shrug. “Should’ve expected it.”
“I reckon the reformation of a rake has to start from the inside.”
“I reckon you’re right,” he said with a shake of the head. “Whitty can really run.”
And together they laughed.
Ahead appeared a grand avenue of plane trees. “Is that St. James’s Park?” she asked. Her bearings felt all scrambled.
“Aye,” said Rhys. “Care for a midnight stroll in the park?”
“I rather think I would,” she said, prim as a lady.
She liked the smile that pulled from him.
Down the avenue they ambled, deeper into the park. She hardly felt the chill of the night now, her arm woven through his. So still and quiet, it was. As if the rest of the world had fallen away and only they remained.
And the stray thought wandered into Tilly’s mind that she might not mind so very much inhabiting that world.
A world of just her and Rhys.
Something fluttered from above and caught in her eyelash.
She blinked it away.
When it happened again, she realized it hadn’t come from the trees, but from the sky above.
She tipped her head back and squinted up at the bare-branched canopy and she beheld it—snow.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, pure delight rippling through her. “Would you look at that?”
She released Rhys’s hand and began spinning around slowly, her arms extended, her face turned up to the sky.
The snowfall wasn’t heavy and lacked the feel of permanence, fluttering and floating as if it were lighter than air and wouldn’t deign to sully itself by touching earth.
Surely, it would be vanished by morning.
But now, trifling and feathery, it drifted around them as if it had not a care in the world. So silent…so…
Magical.
“Lord Rhys Osborne—”
“Rhys,” he corrected.
“Did you know this about yourself?”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve got this bit of magic that follows you around.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
He shook his head. “No, Tilly, you’ve got it mixed around. It’s you who has the magic.”
The breath caught in her lungs.
And this time she knew it was the words themselves and the way he spoke them and the look in his eyes as he spoke them that fizzed the champagne bubbles to life inside her.
Those words…
He believed them.
Of her.
“Rhys?”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to kiss me?” she asked.
“Would you like to be kissed?” he asked.
“Yes.”