Page 6 of While the Duke Was Sleeping (England’s Sweethearts #1)

Rhett was in a foul mood even before the carriage pulled to a stop outside his brother’s country house.

Enduring a full day’s ride with his sisters, who didn’t understand the meaning of traveling lightly or quietly, had pushed him to a knife’s edge. To add to the insult, they’d missed the bloody turnoff. “Not again, ya bleeding maggot,” the coachman had sworn.

It was almost as if the tiny village of Berwick was deliberately obfuscating its presence. There was no paved road turning east, not even a signpost to suggest that if you turned down the semi-worn track between two old elm trees, an hour later, you’d find yourself at the smallest ducal estate in England.

Rhett had a good mind to douse both trees with red paint in order to make his next journey easier.

“At last,” Winnie said, taking the outrider’s hand so as not to stumble as she exited. “We were in that carriage forever .”

“A day’s ride is hardly forever,” he replied as he climbed out of the carriage after her. It was a quick trip compared to some treks he’d been on. But his sister rarely left London, so Rhett could see how she’d feel this had been a marathon journey.

“I need tea,” Jac said.

“I need a chamber pot,” Winnie replied.

“That’s because you didn’t heed my warning and instead insisted on having tea at our last stop.”

Winnie poked out her tongue. Rhett turned away from his sniping sisters to help Meg out of the carriage. He held out an arm, and she took it, walking with him up the stairs. Winnie bounced along behind them as the driver and footman who had accompanied them untied the luggage from the top of the carriage.

When the siblings reached the top step, the door was still firmly closed.

“That’s odd,” Jac said.

“Quite.” Rhett rapped on the door with the metal head of the cane he carried with him.

There was no response. He frowned and rapped again. This time, the door flew open, but it wasn’t the household’s familiar butler in the doorway. Instead, an unknown maid stood there, her cap slightly askew, her gaze flicking over her shoulder before returning to Rhett and his sisters.

“May I help you?”

Rhett and Meg exchanged glances at the lack of formality. “We are here to see my brother,” Rhett said. “The duke,” he added when the maid continued to stare at them without an ounce of understanding.

It was a further few seconds before the maid’s eyes widened, and she flapped her hand about, fanning her face. She still made no move to clear the doorway.

“Do you think we might come in?” Meg asked.

The maid flushed red and stepped aside, drawing the door open fully. “Of course. My apologies, my lord, my ladies.” She looked toward the stairs as though she’d suddenly faced a four-headed monster and was waiting for salvation from up high. The only thing to come down the stairs was a pair of gossiping footmen, so immersed in their conversation they didn’t even look up to see who was at the door.

Rhett crossed the threshold and, when he realized the maid wasn’t about to do it, he helped his sisters out of their traveling coats, took their bonnets and pelisses, and walked them over to the coatroom at the edge of the entryway. “Where is Daunt?” he asked as he shucked his own coat and hung it up. The butler should be at his post or, at the very least, the underbutler should be there in his stead.

“Mr. Daunt will be down directly, my lord. Apologies. With everything that’s going on, the house is in quite an uproar.”

Jac leaned forward. “Do tell. What is going on?”

The maid blanched, and Rhett’s stomach tightened. She crossed to the bellpull by the door and yanked it so hard Rhett expected it to tumble from its fastenings.

There was a frustrated sigh from above. “I cannot see what could be so important as to require my…” Daunt, the butler who had managed Strafford Abbey for as long as Rhett had been alive, trailed off. “My lord. My ladies.” He wrung his hands. “I forgot we were expecting you today.”

Forgot? That seemed decidedly out of character. “Is my brother in his study?” Better to get this argument over with so they could enjoy Christmas together.

Daunt swallowed hard. “No, my lord. The duke is… occupied.”

“Please send word that Lady Titteler, Lady Edwina, Lady Jacqueline, and I are here.” Rhett turned to his youngest sister. “Didn’t you need the lavatory?”

Winnie narrowed her eyes. “You are a devil,” she hissed, flushing pink with embarrassment. She turned to the butler. “If you could have the family rooms opened, that would be much appreciated. I will head there directly.” She shot her brother a look that could have felled a Siberian sled dog before hastening off.

The butler continued to wring his hands, as though the instructions he’d been given were beyond the run-of-the-mill requests made of the head of staff.

The footmen, who had been so engrossed in their conversation earlier, had paused at the edge of the room and were looking at the siblings nervously. A chambermaid, who had entered with a pile of laundry in her arms, froze. The housekeeper walked in, saw the three siblings, and raised her eyebrows.

Something was amiss. By the way she narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, Meg sensed it too. “Daunt. Mrs. Hillston. Is there something that we should know?” she asked.

She received a soft, faint smile from the housekeeper. “You must be hungry after your journey. I’ll have the kitchen prepare some food.”

Rhett recognized a deliberate nonanswer when he heard one. He was an expert at them. Whatever was afoot, the senior staff were too loyal and too well trained to spill. Rhett would need to wrest it from his brother or wring it from a footman.

Peter’s study at Strafford Abbey carried the weight of the dukedom: the century-old desk that still had a patina of age despite careful attention from staff, the thick tomes on the shelf about everything from agricultural development to estate law, the piles of accounting books that took up the left half of Peter’s desk, and the giant portraits of the previous dukes hanging over them.

It was heavy and burdensome, and it kept Peter tied down. Rhett would suffocate under his brother’s responsibilities. He preferred the freedom to up and leave when he wanted, with just a fresh change of clothing and a destination in mind.

Traveling the continent was the only time Rhett had felt like his own man rather than the lesser version of his brother. Not that he resented Peter. Someone had to make sure the estates ran properly and their sisters were provided for. Rhett was simply grateful that it wasn’t him.

He eschewed the chair in front of his brother’s desk and took the more comfortable armchair by the fire, crossing an ankle over his knee and looking into the flames. He’d put off the encounter as long as he could, escorting Jac to Almack’s and a half dozen balls, taking Winnie shopping for a new fan, reticule, bonnet. He’d sat with Meg on the lawn seat in their Mayfair garden and listened to all the ways she was going to dress down her husband when he finally returned to England.

But he couldn’t put off the inevitable forever. One of two things was going to happen. Either Peter would be satisfied with a metaphorical rap over the knuckles and Rhett’s promise to find a worthwhile reason for his travels, or the duke would cut Rhett off, forcing his hand toward the army or the clergy.

The army. No, the clergy. No, the army. Damn it. Neither. Rhett could not do it, and none of the other careers he’d tried his hand at had fit either. He’d made a terrible student, frustrated at the extent to which historians looked backward when life was forward. Speculating on the market had been a disaster. All he’d achieved had been the loss of twenty thousand pounds in the space of a year. He had eschewed safer stocks and bet on the young, the visionaries, the disruptors, the people who represented what Rhett wished he was. Peter had understandably refused to continue supporting that endeavor.

Even Rhett’s attempt at becoming an artist had failed. He was, according to some of the greatest artists of their time, too reluctant to show his belly, and only in raw honesty could one succeed artistically. And so he traveled. His purpose would show itself, or it would not. Either way, he would have a good time searching for it.

A footman entered. Rhett didn’t recognize the lad, but it had been five years since he’d stepped foot on the estate.

“My lord?” The footman stared at him with the expression of someone who’d asked a question more than once.

“A brandy, thank you.” Regardless of the man’s question, brandy was an appropriate answer.

“I’ll have one of those as well.”

Rhett rolled his eyes and looked to the doorway, where Jac had just entered. The footman hesitated and then looked at Rhett for direction.

“What was your name?” Rhett asked.

“Thomas, my lord.”

“Thomas. A quick lesson for you. Looking to a man for permission when my sister makes a request will not end well for you.”

It was true. Of all of his sisters, Jac was the most odd by society’s standards. She was bold and refreshing and a lot of fun, but not your typical duke’s daughter.

Almost as proof of it, Jac snorted, and Thomas—quick boy that he was—didn’t miss a beat. “One finger or two, my lady?”

Jac beamed. “Two, please.” She took one of the remaining armchairs in the room, gathered her shawl about her, and snuggled in. “I take it Peter hasn’t made an appearance?”

“Not yet.”

Rhett swirled the brandy around in his glass, watching as the liquid stuck to the sides, hanging on as though it were fighting the pull to keep up with the rest of the drink.

“You are more contemplative than usual, brother.”

Rhett threw back his drink, polishing the full drink off. “Yes, and it’s doing me no favors. Tell me a story, Jac.”

Jac arched her brow. “What about the story of the man who posed naked for a horde of artists, causing his brother to have a conniption and go mute for days?”

Heat crept up the back of Rhett’s neck. “It was France. It’s what one does in the artistic center of the world.”

Jac giggled and waved at his crotch. “You didn’t even attempt to cover your parts. They were on display for the entire world to see.”

“Hardly the entire world.” Though definitely too much of the world if his sisters had seen them. Never in a million years would he have deliberately given them that kind of ammunition. Those sketches were supposed to have remained private. “In my defense, it was an afternoon lesson by a grand master. I was assured that no painting would come of it.”

“No painting, maybe. But at least four of the sketches made their way to London. Peter spent a fortune collecting them all.”

Rhett dropped his head in his hands. His brother was going to roast him alive for that. “Did he really go mute?”

“I think he feared what might come out of his mouth had he opened it.”

There was a disapproving hmph from the doorway. Andrew Gray, the duke’s man of business and a longtime family friend, furrowed his brows. “How much did you pay the artists for such a flattering representation of your nether regions?”

Rhett straightened and gave his friend a wicked smile. “No bribe necessary. That was all me. I can provide references, if you like.”

Jac rolled her eyes. “That is far too much information, both of you.” She stood and met Andrew halfway, clasping his hand in affection. “Andy, it’s good to see you. We’re waiting for Peter. Would you like brandy or tea? I’ll ring for some.”

Andrew took on a grim countenance. “I can’t stay, I’m afraid.”

Jac cocked her head. “Whatever you’re off to do can wait. Peter won’t mind you catching up. You can couch your gossip in business terms if you like.”

Andrew shook his head and swallowed hard.

“What is it?” she asked. “You’re acting strangely.”

Rhett stood. His gut was screaming at him. The servants’ odd behavior, Daunt’s reticence, Andrew’s stiff bearing. He and his sisters had walked into something. “Yes, Andrew. What is it?”

“Your brother. There’s been an accident.”

As his sisters rushed forward, Rhett’s feet locked in place at the foot of Peter’s bed. The girls immediately grasped Peter’s hand, leaned over him, brushed the hair from his forehead, and peppered Andrew with a dozen questions.

“What happened?”

“When did it happen?”

“How did it happen?”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“Will he wake?”

“How long has he been out?”

“Has anyone tried forcing orgeat down his throat? He hates that stuff. He’d wake from the dead to avoid it.”

“Shush, Edwina. Don’t say dead. Don’t jinx it.”

Still, Rhett stood silent, taking in the sight of his brother—always so strong, so stalwart, so steady—lying unconscious. Peter was pale, paler than Rhett had ever seen him. His shirt hung open at the collar. Someone had removed his waistcoat and jacket and replaced them with a robe. Probably the duke’s valet with Andrew’s help. Rhett knew firsthand how hard it was to change someone out of clothes when they were nothing but deadweight. It was usually him being assisted when he was too drunk to even change himself.

There was a slight smear of blood on the shirt. His sisters hadn’t yet noticed it, and it was enough to spur Rhett to action. He joined the girls at his brother’s bedside and leaned over, tugging at the robe until the stain was hidden.

“What happened?” His voice came out strangled, tangled with an emotion he could not identify.

Andrew had waited in the doorway, giving the family some space, but now he came forward, resting a hand on Jac’s shoulder. She rested against him, and Rhett wondered when the two had gotten so close.

“We’re unsure of the circumstances of the accident.” Andrew looked pointedly to the other side of the room, toward the window, and all three siblings followed his gaze.

Rhett’s heart swooped at the sight of her. His stomach flip-flopped before settling into a pit.

What the devil?

Pressed against the back wall, caught mid-shuffle toward the exit, was her . The woman who had haunted his dreams every night for a week. Every time he’d found himself bored, his mind had turned to her, to their brief meeting, and he’d imagined all the ways it could have gone differently.

Chief among those daydreams had been her twining a hand through his hair, looking at him adoringly, promising future encounters. There was nothing adoring in her expression right now. She looked like a deer caught in the sights of a wolf.

“What are you doing here?” His words were terse, his tone gruff. Not by choice; the timing was bollocks. He wanted to see her again when he could devote all his energy to uncovering what it was about her that had him so arrested. This was not the time. This was not the place. Peter… Why the devil was she in Peter’s bedroom?

Even her freckles paled. “Rhett. I… Uh… I was not…” Her speechlessness was unexpected, given she’d had words aplenty at the docks.

His sisters looked at her, looked at him, looked back at her, their brows furrowed in confusion.

Della swallowed. “Excuse me. This is a time for family.” She stared firmly at the floor and marched across the room.

It was instinct, how quickly Rhett moved to block the doorway to prevent her exit. He’d lost her once before. He wasn’t ready to lose her again. Timing be damned. “Why are you here?” he asked, straining to keep his fingers from reaching out to her.

When she wouldn’t answer, Andrew cleared his throat. “She’s Peter’s fiancée, apparently.”

Rhett’s entire body went stiff. Andrew’s words left a ringing in his ears.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, clearly frustrated.

His sisters launched into their infernal babbling once again, crowding around her.

“Peter said nothing about being betrothed.”

“He’s betrothed?”

“Why hasn’t he written to us?”

“When was the last time we received a letter from him?”

“He could have come to London to introduce her. It’s not that far.”

“I tell you, the postal service has been subpar for a year now.”

“Did he consult with any of us on the matter?”

Della stared desperately at the door, and then up at him, pleadingly, her hands twisted in her skirts.

“Who are you?” asked Jacqueline.

The babbling stopped as all sisters stared at her, waiting for an answer.

“She’s Lady Cordelia Highwater,” Andrew said when she said nothing.

The girls gasped. Rhett’s jaw locked tightly. No, she’s not.