Despite his great fortune, Rhys didn’t have the deportment or education of a gentleman. It was against the designs of God that he should take the daughter of a titled English family to wife. Rhys couldn’t blame Helen for ending the betrothal. “She never wants to see you again,” Kathleen had informed him bluntly. The next day, Kathleen, Lady Trenear, who had been married to Helen’s late brother, had come to inform him that Helen was so distressed, she was bedridden with a migraine. The scene had ended in tears on her part, anger on his. Her disdain couldn’t have been more obvious. She had gone stiff in his arms, rejecting him. The last time he had seen Helen, he’d been impatient and aggressive, finally kissing her the way he’d wanted to for so long. Their engagement had lasted a mere two weeks before Rhys had managed to ruin it. a woman who was cultured, innocent, shy, aristocratic. Losing his temper was a luxury he rarely permitted himself, but for the past week he’d been invaded by a sullen gloom that weighted every thought and heartbeat, and made him want to lash out at anyone within reach.Īll because of a woman he had known better than to want. Rhys returned his attention to the letter in front of him. She left promptly, the heels of her shoes hitting the floor like the staccato of gunfire.
Fernsby’s lips pinched into a disapproving hyphen.
“I don’t care if she’s the bloody Queen,” he snapped. “Yes, sir, but the visitor is a lady, and she-” “You know I don’t receive visitors at this hour.” It was his morning ritual to spend the first half hour of the day reading mail in uninterrupted silence. She was a tidy hen of a woman, middle-aged and just a bit plump.
Fernsby, stood at the threshold of his private office, her eyes sharp behind round spectacles. Rhys looked up from the stack of letters on his desk with a scowl. WINTERBORNE, A WOMAN IS here to see you.”
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