Page 12 of While the Duke Was Sleeping (England’s Sweethearts #1)

In Rhett’s mind, the difference between small towns in England and small towns in Europe was charm, namely the fact that European towns had some. Berwick was small. The streets and buildings were narrow. Except for the Christmas wreaths on the doors, it lacked color, and its inhabitants were standoffish.

But here he was, seated in the village’s only pub, drinking weak-as-piss ale in a futile search for normalcy. The barman had been polite, but when Rhett had tried to banter with him, he’d awkwardly ducked his head and found a spot at the other end of the bar that needed intense cleaning.

Every time a new person would enter, Rhett would give them a wide smile, throwing his arms open. “Bonjour. Ciao. Privet.” Truly, he’d welcome conversation with anyone; it would make him feel more like the man he’d made himself into over the past few years and less like the feckless Lord Everett, which was all he was when he came home.

But each person who entered gave him a wide berth before clustering in little groups where they were clearly gossiping about him—looking at him without actually looking at him, no matter how hard he tried to catch them doing so.

“What’s for lunch?” he asked the barman. Up at the house, he’d seen the footmen laying out a full spread—soups, cheese, pheasant, pickles. Along the sideboard had been an array of pastries and cakes with enough clotted cream for him to indulge in his usual two-thirds cream, one-third cake concoction. Meg must have had a word with the kitchen staff.

But he hadn’t stayed, despite being starved. Instead, he’d escaped to the village.

“Haggis.”

Great. Wonderful. Of all the kingdom’s staid culinary delights, they were serving the one that turned his stomach. Perhaps he should just grit his teeth and return to the house. He could have a footman bring food to Peter’s study. It was stocked with plenty of decent brandy, although Rhett had developed a penchant for gin while he was abroad.

Perhaps if he entered through the back garden, he could avoid his sisters and all of their many questions. For some reason he could not fathom, given they’d expected nothing of him before, he’d become the person his sisters went to for answers—of which he had none. Zero. Aucun .

I don’t know when Peter will wake, Winnie. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I don’t know what will happen if he passes, Jac. I don’t know if Lady Bertram will consider this an acceptable reason to miss next season. I don’t know how I feel about any of this, Meg.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. And that lack of knowing only made him feel even more worthless.

The only person not asking him questions was Della. She’d stayed quietly in the corner of Peter’s room waiting for him to wake, making fast work of the embroidery in her lap and deftly palming off all attempts by his sisters to engage her in conversation. She was firm in her rejections but sweet in the delivery. She was poised. Calm. Collected. Gods, she was exactly like the lady she claimed to be.

Except the lady she claimed to be wouldn’t try to catch an elephant, damn it. He was mad with attraction to her, but if she was who she said she was, she was already spoken for by his blasted brother .

The doorbell jangled, and Rhett looked up, keen for a distraction. Ugh.

“Avoiding anyone in particular?” Andrew asked as he took a seat beside Rhett and gestured for a pint of ale.

“Can I not avoid them all?”

Andrew frowned. “For the next hour or two,” he said, his disappointment clear. “But you cannot spend your time idling right now. After lunch, there is work to do.”

Rhett took a big gulp of the dreadful beer. “Work?” Rhett didn’t work. Not how Andrew meant it. He would climb a rigging or help shoe a horse. Hell, he’d even muck out stables; there was something satisfying in manual labor. But Andrew wasn’t asking him to pick up a shovel. The estate was well staffed. He knew exactly what Andrew wanted. There was a pile of it on the desk in Rhett’s room that he refused to look at. The sight left a pit in his stomach.

“With Peter out of commission—”

“Don’t say it.” It was never supposed to happen. He was the spare. A backup only in case the proper duke perished.

“Rhett, you can’t run from your duty.”

“I’m not running.” Which was a lie. He’d escaped the house as soon as he could and was dragging his feet before returning. That was why he was trying to make conversation with anyone who was willing. It gave him a legitimate reason to avoid going back.

“If Peter doesn’t wake, if he passes…”

“The sawbones said he’d be fine.”

“The doctor said there was a fifty-fifty chance of his recovery.”

Rhett drained what was left in his glass and gestured for another. “I like those odds.”

Andrew’s lips thinned. “I don’t, and as Peter’s man of business, I have a responsibility to him and to the estate.”

“Great. Excellent.” Rhett accepted the tankard a barmaid offered to him. “You do it. You’ve been helping him manage the dukedom for years, ever since we were children.”

Andrew had been Rhett’s father’s ward. He had grown up in the same schoolrooms and dining rooms, played games on the same lawns, climbed the same trees, paddled in the same lakes, all the while knowing that when he was older, he would be the family’s solicitor or estate manager or some equally important caretaker of the Strafford domain.

Andrew had been groomed for his role in the same way Peter had, while Rhett had been left to his own devices. Hell, Andrew would be a better duke than Rhett ever could be.

“You know what needs doing,” Rhett said, “so do it. I’m unnecessary.”

Andrew tsk ed. “You are quite necessary,” Andrew said. “I can advise, but ultimately, the duke decides.”

“And the duke will , when he wakes. Until then, you have my permission to act as you see fit.” Because even if it was for the shortest period of time, Rhett would screw it up.

“Everett.” The censure in Andrew’s tone grated.

Rhett slammed his tankard on the bar top, the thud of metal against wood making Andrew flinch. “Not a single person thinks that I’m fit to be the duke, not even you, so why are you pressing this?” He went to stand, but Andrew grabbed him by the shoulder, holding him firm.

“If people think you are irresponsible and incompetent, it is by your design. You played the fool even though you weren’t one. You sought the moniker.”

Rhett clenched his fingers around his tankard. He had no biting response to the truth. It hadn’t been conscious, at least not at first. Negative attention had been preferable to no attention at all. Eventually, he’d realized that pranks and smart-alecky quips were easier than trying and failing.

He wasn’t good at numbers. He had trouble concentrating on the dense reading his professors liked to set. He found dead people boring. The only thing he was good at was alive people, but that wasn’t a subject he could be graded on. He’d scraped through with a degree only because of Peter’s influence, and he’d entered society already labeled a scoundrel.

None of his attempts to be anything different had succeeded.

If Peter died, and that was still yet to be determined, then Rhett would work out what the hell to do with this whole mess, but until then, there was no reason the conscientious and respectable Andrew Gray couldn’t step in.

Andrew squeezed Rhett’s shoulder. “If Peter dies, his titles fall to you. You don’t have the option of declining them.”

Rhett shook his friend’s hand off. “Philborough hasn’t set foot on his country estates in decades. English lords swan around Paris and Florence with a woman on each arm every summer.”

Andrew ran the edge of his tankard in circles on the bar. “That’s true. Plenty of lords let their estates run into the ground with no care for the people they’re supposed to be responsible for. But that’s not in you. You are not that self-centered, no matter how hard you pretend otherwise.”

Rhett swallowed. He might not be that self-centered, but he was also not his brother, and stepping into Peter’s shoes would only bring about comparison. He could be something else, maybe, if there was something he was good at. But he couldn’t be the duke.

“Your faith in me is misplaced. If you’ll excuse me, you’ve rather spoiled this drink, as unlikely as that sounds, given its quality.”

There was a billiard table in the back corner of the tavern. If no one would play with him, he’d play on his own. He turned away from Andrew to see an older man in worn farmer’s overalls gripping his hat in front of him. He had one foot turned away, as though ready to change his mind about approaching.

“My good man,” Rhett said, trying to put him at ease. “I’m in desperate need of a playing partner.” He gestured toward the billiard table.

The man shook his head. “N-no thank you, my lord.”

“Then will you join me for a drink?” he asked, tipping his glass. “The more of these I have, the better they taste.”

The man took a step back and looked at Andrew. Andrew shrugged and nodded toward Rhett, giving tacit permission for whatever came next. Which was not a great sign of things to come.

Rhett clamped down on the desire to squirm. “How might I help you?”

The man cleared his throat. “My condolences for your brother, my lord.”

“Condolences are for the dead. My brother is still very much alive.”

The man’s eyes widened, and he crumpled his hat in his giant hands. Rhett immediately regretted making him uncomfortable. “Apologies, my lord. I only meant that I’m very sorry for the situation. It must be a difficult time for you and your family.”

Rhett grimaced. The entire point of escaping the house was to escape the situation. It was bad enough that Andrew had imposed on his reprieve. Now complete strangers were dragging him back toward that which he was avoiding. “Thank you for your concern—”

“Gregory, my lord. Gregory Smith. I’m the local smithy. One of them, anyhow.”

Rhett nodded. “I shall pass your well wishes on to my sisters. I’m sure they’ll be very appreciative.” Desperate to be thinking about anything but the house, its inhabitants, and the unwanted future that was threatening, Rhett tried to turn the conversation to something that had no stakes at all. “Have you lived in this town long, Gregory?”

“All my life, my lord.”

“Please call me Everett.”

“My lord Everett.”

Rhett sighed. “That’s not exactly what I…” On the continent, he rarely told people who he was. He would simply say Everett Montgomery, and people would call him that. In the most formal situation, they might call him sir . Not my lord . He would never be comfortable with the moniker, but explaining that felt like far too much effort.

“Never mind,” Rhett said. “I’ve ordered the haggis. Tell me, should I leave before it arrives, or am I going to be able to eat this meal without embarrassing myself?”

Gregory smiled widely. “It’s the best haggis on this side of Hailsham.”

They were in the very south of England. “Is it the only haggis on this side of Hailsham?”

“That may be, my lord.” Gregory’s cheeks flushed.

“I guess I’m in for a treat, then.” Beside him, Andrew snickered. Fabulous.

Gregory looked pained, more uncomfortable than even the worst serving of haggis could justify. He regarded Rhett with an apprehension that Rhett wasn’t used to. Rhett was friendly. He had a welcoming face. People weren’t scared of him, yet here was this burly man ducking his head and shrinking into himself as though he were a schoolgirl.

“What can I do for you, Gregory?” Because there was no way this man had approached for a casual chat.

“Now that you mention it, my lord Everett… It’s my daughter. She’s reached a marrying age. It’s time I think about her future.”

Rhett patted the man’s shoulder. “I’m flattered that you would consider me, Gregory. But I’m not currently looking for a wife. Not that I doubt she’d be an excellent lady of the manor. I simply don’t plan on settling down and have no manor for her to run, if you know what I mean.”

Rhett could feel Andrew’s disgruntled stare boring into the back of his head. He shifted on his stool.

Gregory’s ears flamed red to match his cheeks. “Pardon, my lord Everett. I wasn’t propositioning you.”

Rhett shrugged. “If you were, it would have been the first proposition I’ve had in a week. It’s a shame. Maybe I’m losing my appeal.” Rhett turned to Andrew, determined not to stumble under his friend’s disapproval. “Am I as handsome now as I was before I left England, do you think?”

Andrew rolled his eyes.

Frustrated, the smithy interrupted. “My lord, she will not listen . Samson and I have arranged a splendid match for our children, but my daughter will have none of it. Julia claims to love a Blanchfield .” Gregory spat on the ground.

What did he think Rhett could do about it? Granted, he’d sat in a bar giving advice to many a man down in his cups, but there was a level of expectation that Gregory had that was unfamiliar. “That is a conundrum,” Rhett said, trying to pretend that he was talking to a drunk sailor in a bar off in Lisbon. “I don’t envy your position. I’m still at a loss as to how I can help.”

Gregory took a step forward. “Talk with Julia, my lord. Make her see the folly of her reasoning. A Smith can never marry a Blanchfield.”

Rhett knew better than to tell a woman her reasoning was daft, and in his experience, most women’s romantic decisions weren’t easily swayed by a man’s opinion or their parents’ feuds. “I do not imagine that my thoughts will hold much weight with your daughter.”

Gregory furrowed his brow. “But you’re the lord while your brother is indisposed, are you not?”

No, he was definitely not the lord. “I hardly imagine my brother involved himself in such affairs while he was conscious.” He looked at Andrew, who appeared more frustrated than was reasonable.

The smithy’s confusion deepened. “The duke would always hear our complaints. No problem was too small for him. His guidance was very much valued.”

Of course it was. Perfect Peter was perfect. “I’m not my brother, Gregory. I’m sorry to disappoint.” He stood and slipped a coin on the bar. The town wasn’t a safe haven, but neither was the house. Perhaps he could sneak back in without his sisters noticing. There was a door that led from the gardens into Peter’s study. He nodded to Gregory to be polite, not acknowledging the man’s stunned expression. As he exited, he heard Andrew speak.

“It’s been a trying day. His lordship is tired. You can discuss it further with him tomorrow.”

Ha. Now Rhett knew where not to come for a meal tomorrow. He would find somewhere else to hide.

Fuck. Adelaide rifled through the many, many papers on the duke’s desk, looking for the betrothal announcement to The Times that the duke had supposedly written. There was no reason for the duke to have lied about it. It wasn’t in his bedroom, so it would either be here or on its way to London. Lord help her if that was the case. If the newspapers printed it, not only would it mean Adelaide wouldn’t be able to hold up her end of the deal, it would also mean that Cordelia’s family would know where she was. Then there would be a very angry, very awake duke to deal with, as well as the unconscious one.

She flipped through the ledgers, looking to see if the letter had been slipped between the pages. There was nothing there except proof the duke was doing his job. The incomings and outgoings were carefully tabulated, and the estates were in the black. The dukedom had several properties, though none were pulling in significant income. They existed on what looked like industry investments. The duke had licensed the design of multiple technologies and was using the profits to prop up his estate without laying off any staff or evicting tenants who were behind on rent.

Cordelia could have done much worse than marriage to the Duke of Strafford. He was a man of honor. He looked after the people who relied on him. His family were kind people, and he offered financial security. Cordelia had been—continued to be—a fool for not leaping at his proposal. If she were given the opportunity, Adelaide wouldn’t turn it down.

Perhaps, if the duke woke, Cordelia could be convinced to see reason. Although, after the failure of this morning’s attempt to rouse him, Adelaide was less sure the duke would wake from his comatose state. What that would mean for the rest of them was anybody’s guess. The siblings had asked blessedly few questions about exactly how the duke fell. If he died—which he surely would without a proper drink soon—would they insist on an investigation? If they did, Cordelia’s scheme would be revealed the moment anyone from London became involved. It would make her look guilty. It would be hard to convince anyone of her innocence. Adelaide would appear just as culpable.

If he weakens, or if he doesn’t wake in two days, you will have to leave, Adelaide. Drop Cordelia at her father’s front door and find a ship that will take you to France. Pay a man to pretend to be your husband, if that’s what it takes.

Adelaide loved the continent. She was only in England because English ladies’ maids were paid well compared to the work she had been doing. She didn’t mind if her house with a garden and heavy furniture was on English soil, French, or Spanish, so long as she had a place of her own where she could put down roots.

But without Cordelia’s money, there would be no roots. She would have to go back to eking out a living through her travels, and all the uncertainty that went with that.

No. Nein. Nunca. You must find this bloody announcement. You must wake the duke, and then you can leave all of this behind for your own piece of this earth.

With no sign of the announcement in the ledgers or the stack of letters, Adelaide turned her attention to the drawers. The top one was locked, and she pulled a pin from her hair, unbending it until it formed a straight stick. With one eye closed and her head cocked, she slid the pin into the lock, jiggling it until she heard a soft click. Modern drawers had locks that took a long time to pick. Funny that the most powerful men held on to ancient furniture that afforded next to no protection.

The drawer held journals, beautifully bound and full of the duke’s delicate, almost feminine script. She flicked through them quickly to see if there were any loose papers, keeping her eyes averted from the words. It was bad enough she was rifling through the man’s things. She wouldn’t rifle through his thoughts as well.

Nothing.

She lifted the last journal. Beneath that were several loose sheets of paper. They were too thick to be plain old letter paper. The duke didn’t strike her as someone who wasted good paper on a notice to The Times , but a betrothal was a rather special announcement. Perhaps he had more sentimentality than she gave him credit for. She picked up the first leaf and turned it over.

Not an announcement.

Adelaide’s heart rate quickened, and there was a sudden, unwelcome, hot swirl in her belly. She’d seen naughty sketches before. If you knew where to look, you could buy entire magazines of them, and she knew where to look. But never had a single sketch turned her mouth dry and set off such a ringing in her ears.

Rhett was spectacular naked. Spectacular. The strong line of his jaw was rendered in sharp charcoal and reflected in other lines—the deep v of his collarbone, the shadows that cut across his chest beneath curving muscle covered with a dusting of hair, the hard rope of brawn from his waist to his groin that traveled past interlocking abdominals. From between his long and lean thighs jutted his cock, semi-engorged. Surely the artist had taken liberties with that .

She snatched up the remaining pieces of paper and flipped each over. Rhett, naked, from multiple angles. Unless it had been a concerted effort between the artists, no liberties had been taken at all with his member. In each sketch, the artist’s focus was clear—one rendered his eyes in perfect brooding clarity. Another captured the sardonic quirk of his lips. A third was focused on form, with each muscle drawn in detail. Regardless of focus, all of them captured the same thing, a beautiful, giant cock, sketched so perfectly that she could imagine the shaft—how silky it would feel beneath her fingers, what it might feel like pressed up against her.

She sagged against the desk, using one of the papers to fan herself, trying to get her temperature to a reasonable level. She was not unpracticed in the art of sex. She’d had a handful of lovers who’d satisfied the urge when it became distracting. They’d been fine enough specimens, but none of them compared to the man on the pages in front of her.

Bloody hell. How will you ever look him in the face now, Adelaide? She could just picture it, walking into the duke’s bedroom, seeing Rhett there with his sisters, and her eyes immediately dropping to his crotch. Damn it. Why do fashionable men have to wear such tight trousers? There would be no tearing her gaze away from that, and there would be no hiding her sudden interest from him. He wasn’t a prude, so he would likely find it amusing. He’d sat for the sketches, after all, though why his brother had them was beyond comprehension. Unfortunately, this new scrambling of electricity across her body would give him even more power over her.

“Damn it.”

The hairs standing up on the back of her neck were the first sign that something was about to shift, then the door behind her that led out into the gardens clicked. The hinges were too well-oiled to squeak as it opened, but there was a slight whoosh , and then a current of cold air swept into the room.

“Della? What are you doing?”