Chapter 14
Ashburn Hall, Hampshire, Three days later
Rhys urged his horse through the familiar gargoyle-topped, wrought iron gate that opened onto the ancestral lands of the Earls of Ashburn.
He was home.
But as he made his way up the long gravel drive with stout oak trees to either side and onto Ashburn Hall’s wide forecourt, it felt little like a homecoming.
“Lord Rhys,” said Letlow, Ashburn’s long-time butler, hurrying down the front steps, as Rhys dismounted and handed the reins to a lad, “we weren’t expecting you until Christmas Eve.”
The servants were all regarding him in the way they used to—doubtfully, as if he were likely too drunk to know that Christmas Eve was four days hence.
But Rhys wasn’t drunk.
He hadn’t had a drop, though he’d been properly tempted when Whitty had rolled off his sofa three days ago and pulled a flask from some inner pocket.
When his friend had offered him a swig, Rhys had known no greater temptation in his entire life.
After all, he’d been utterly bereft, and one drank whisky in utterly bereft times.
Who would’ve blamed him for taking a swig?
It was what one did.
Yet, somehow, Rhys had dug deep into inner reserves and resisted.
And he’d continued to resist in all the seconds…minutes…hours…and trio of days since.
So, now, he was able to look Letlow in the eye and say, soberly, “Is the earl about?”
The butler nodded. “Of course, Lord Rhys.”
A few minutes later, Rhys was following Letlow into the study, where Papa stood before a large rectangular table with his estate manager, Landry.
While his presence yet remained unregistered, Rhys felt remnants of childhood memory slip through him, brought on by the familiar scent of leather, books, and tobacco specific to this room.
As a boy, of all the thirty or so rooms in Ashburn Hall, this one had been his favorite.
“Lord Rhys, milord,” intoned Letlow.
Papa’s head lifted. It wasn’t a smile of welcome that greeted Rhys, but a subtle creasing of the brow.
Wariness.
And hadn’t Rhys spent a dozen wastrel years earning that cool, wary smile from his father?
“Have I caught you at an inconvenient time?” he asked.
“Landry and I were just finishing up.”
Rhys took a step forward. “What are those? Land surveys?”
“A neighboring baron has offered us the purchase of the fifty acres abutting our northern boundary. We’re deciding on a fair offer.”
Fairness—another memory from childhood.
Papa was immovable when it came to fairness. It was why his tenants respected him so.
Landry took his leave, and Papa indicated Rhys take a seat on the sofa beside the hearth, which roared with a lively fire. Papa settled into the leather wingback opposite and waited for Rhys to state his business. “Shall I ring for tea?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Perhaps a finger of whisky?”
“I haven’t touched a drop in over a year.”
Papa’s brow lifted. “Truly?”
The question had been a test, Rhys understood that. “Truly.”
“Jasper mentioned having seen you at White’s.”
Rhys supposed he should’ve expected Jasper to report back to Papa—and Rhys didn’t blame his brother.
Jasper would’ve wanted to brace Papa for the possibility—probability—that Rhys had slid back into old wastrel habits.
It would’ve been motivated by the need to protect their father, and Rhys couldn’t begrudge Jasper that.
“I’ve stayed the course,” said Rhys.
Papa nodded, and Rhys noted a flash of relief behind his father’s brown eyes.
In a strange way, Papa’s relief hit him harder than his initial wariness had. For years, his third son had been a source of worry—he still was—for this parent who had never been anything other than kind and generous to him.
And what struck through Rhys was shame.
But, perhaps, today could be the first step on a new path forward.
Make your amends.
Tilly’s words echoing through and propelling him, he dug into an interior coat pocket and retrieved the signet ring, which he placed on the low table between him and his father.
Papa’s eyebrows winged together. “Is that—”
“It’s your ring.”
Papa reached for the ring and slid it onto his pinky. He squeezed his hand into a fist and released, testing its weight and feel.
“Papa,” said Rhys, “I must offer my sincere apology for taking and losing it.”
“You’ve already apologized, Rhys.”
A hard note sounded in Papa’s voice.
A hard note Rhys had spent years earning as he’d done as he liked and apologized later—over and over again.
“Did you earn it back the way you lost it?”
Again that hard note.
But the question was a fair one.
Rhys shook his head. “I didn’t win it back. I had to earn it back.”
“Earn it?”
“With noble deeds.”
Papa considered Rhys for a long moment. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain.”
Where to begin… “As you know,” said Rhys, “I lost the ring in a card game.”
“Loo, as I recall.”
“Well, it took a year, but I managed to get into another game with the rotter who took it off me.”
Head cocked, Papa was listening.
“Except,” continued Rhys, “I didn’t count on Tilly.”
Papa’s brow furrowed. “Who is Tilly?”
“She’s the one who won the ring in that card game.”
“So, you, in fact, lost the ring in a card game a second time.”
“Aye.”
Papa heaved a slightly exasperated sigh. “Then how did you get it from this Tilly person?”
This Tilly person.
A surge of defensiveness rose inside Rhys. “You can refer to her as Miss Birdwell.”
Papa nodded, slowly, but held his silence.
“She would only let me earn the ring back with three noble deeds.”
An incredulous laugh escaped Papa. “The cheek.” None of his incredulity having faded, he shook his head. “Son, it’s quite a life you live.”
Rhys snorted. “For better and worse. Mostly worse, though.” On second thought… “But Tilly is on the better side of the scale.”
“So, she made you earn the ring.”
“She did.”
“Good woman.”
“The best I’ve ever known.”
How wretched Rhys sounded, even to his own ears.
From the way Papa’s eyes narrowed, he’d caught that wretchedness. “And now?”
“Now what?”
“Now that you’ve returned the ring to me, what are your plans for the future?”
Future?
Rhys could barely get through one minute into the next. “I’ve never been all that skilled in thinking in those terms.”
“And Miss Birdwell?” asked Papa. “Is she?”
Rhys blinked. “She is.”
Papa considered Rhys for another long moment and seemed to make up his mind about something.
“With the birth of my first son,” he said, “I’d done my duty by the earldom and produced an heir.
And when my second son came along, I knew the line to be completely secure.
Then came my third son—you—and you were such a happy baby, then a charming child, and all anyone wanted to do was love and coddle you.
Your mother and I gave you everything—and were happy to do so—except for one crucial thing.
We didn’t give you direction.” Papa inhaled deeply and exhaled.
“As the happy, charming, coddled person you were, you took all the easiest paths. And as most easy paths tend to flow downhill, there you went. By the time I noticed, your mother had passed, and it felt too late to intervene.”
Rhys swallowed against the hard knot that had formed in his throat.
This wasn’t easy to hear.
“And, son, that was where I failed you a second time.”
Rhys had difficulty drawing breath.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Aye.”
“Now that you’ve recovered this”—Papa held up his hand, the emerald glowing with flickering firelight—“are you returning to your old ways?”
“Never,” Rhys nearly growled. He might’ve been wretched and bereft, but he wouldn’t return to the life of wastrel lord and rake.
Papa considered him for another long moment. “I see a change in you, son.”
Son.
Lingering unworthiness crept through Rhys.
“Any change in me,” he said, “is down to Tilly.”
“Then why do you sound like that?”
“Like what?”
“Abject.”
“My acquaintance with Tilly is at an end.” Each word followed the one preceding it mechanically, as one spoke when delivering hard facts.
“Because you earned the ring back?”
Rhys nodded.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“I…”
Rhys blinked.
This feeling of wretchedness…of abjectness…of pure, utter desolation… It had a source, didn’t it?
And wasn’t that source obvious?
Love.
Love for Tilly.
He was wretchedly, hopelessly in love with Tilly.
“Aye,” he said, “I love her.”
“And she inspired you to be a good person?”
“She did. She does.”
That inspiration wasn’t in the past.
It sparked through him in this very moment—and every moment he drew in a breath and exhaled.
That inspiration was in the present—now.
To be a good person.
To be a worthy person.
To be a son worthy of his father.
To be a man worthy of Tilly.
He shifted toward the edge of the sofa, imbued with a swift, sudden energy.
To be a man worthy of Tilly.
That was what he wanted.
It only took the turning of one second into the next for wanting to solidify into resolve.
He would spend the rest of his days being a man worthy of Tilly.
Those hopes in his heart.
The ones that were bruised and sore and bereft.
They lifted their voice with a demand.
That he fight for them.
That he fight for a future with Tilly.
“I see but one path forward for you, son,” said Papa.
“Aye?”
“Earn her.”
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
Though it mattered not how his father reacted to his next words, Rhys had to speak them. “Tilly isn’t a lady in the aristocratic sense of the word.”
In their world, this was a matter of supreme importance to many.
Papa nodded. “But she’s the key to your future happiness and stability.”
“She is.”
“Then you have my blessing, son.”
And though Rhys hadn’t been seeking his father’s permission or blessing, a deep-seated part of himself had craved it.
“In my four-and-sixty years,” continued Papa, “I’ve come to understand a parent can only be as content as their least content child.”
Rhys shot to his feet, spurred by sudden urgency. Three days of riding stood between him and London—and Tilly. He had much to do. “I must return to London immediately.”
“I thought you might.”
“I won’t be back for Christmas.”
“Do what you must, son, to secure your future and your happiness.”
Rhys understood what he must do.
And what he was going to do wasn’t a noble deed to win or earn Tilly.
It was simply to give her what her heart desired.
And if her heart desired to share that future with him, then it was her choice.
The point was Tilly was free to choose.
And if she chose not to share her future with him, then he would be wretched and bereft, but he would have given her something her heart truly desired.
And his heart would just have to find a way to make that outcome suffice.