Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(78)

He sighed. “Most definitely.”

His eyes were so earnest, so troubled. He seemed to have missed her hopeful hint completely. Which, in that case, was probably for the best.

“Oh.” She became suddenly conscious of the stone digging into her shoulder blade. “Then … may I lower my skirts?”

“Yes, of course. Sorry.”

He withdrew from her body and tucked himself back in, refastening his trousers in haste. The cravat was a lost cause. He wadded it up and stuffed it in his pocket, where it shared the space with that last orange. Meredith felt, with a sad, sudden certainty, they would never eat it.

She shook out her skirts and smoothed them down.

“Let’s walk,” he said. “It’s easier to converse that way.” He took her by the hand and led her out of the shadows. The street being deserted, they promenaded down the absolute center at a stately pace. A parade of two. Her heart served as the pounding bass drum.

“After what you told me, earlier …” He rubbed his neck with his free hand. “I gather you know my father and I … Well, we didn’t get on.”

The understatement was so great, so absurd—she had to bite back an incredulous laugh. “Yes. I know he beat you. Regularly. Severely.” For her part, she wasn’t going to mince words. If he wanted to talk about it, they were going to talk about it. He’d been holding his silence for far too long. “Until that last summer,” she added softly. “What made him stop?”

“I grew too big. I came home from Eton four inches taller and two stone heavier than when I’d left.”

“I remember.”

He looked askance at her, as though questioning why she should have noticed such a thing. She shrugged. How could she not?

“I came back to Nethermoor that summer,” he said, “and for the first time I stood taller than my father. I was younger than him, and healthier, too. We both knew I could best him in a fair fight. So the next time he tried to order me into the cellar … I simply stood tall and said, ‘No. Not anymore.’ And that was the end of it.”

She hugged his arm. “That was very brave of you.”

“It was stupid, is what it was. He was enraged, and the fury had no outlet. One night, a few weeks later, I came back from a ride to find him in the stables. He was worked into a frenzy, whipping a mare for only the Devil knows what reason. The grooms were powerless to stop him. Your father wasn’t around.”

Her whole body tensed.

He noticed. “I gather you know where this story is going.”

She nodded. Queasiness puddled thickly in the pit of her stomach.

“I fought him,” he said. “And in the scuffle, I knocked a lamp into the straw. That’s how the fire began.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. This was her every worst fear coming true.

She reeled to a halt and turned to him, eyes wide and burning with tearful fatigue. She wished she could shut them and just sleep. Pretend this conversation wasn’t happening. “But …” The word fell off her trembling lips.

“Yes.” He sighed heavily. “You know how it went from there. The horses … most of them died. Horrible, agonizing deaths. Your father was crippled trying to save them. The entire estate was lost, plunging the village into economic depression. And not a day has gone by in the fourteen years since that I haven’t thought of that night. Dreamed of it. And wished that I’d died instead.”

“Oh, no.” Her hand went to her mouth. “You can’t possibly blame yourself.”

Fool thing to say. Obviously, he could. And had, for all the years since. The realization seized her heart and wrung it hard. She couldn’t breathe.

He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have fought him back. He wanted to beat that horse. I should have just let him beat me. I’d taken countless beatings from him over the years. If I’d just taken one more, none of it would have happened.”

“How can you say such a thing? That fire, it … it was an accident. It wasn’t your fault, Rhys.”

“I don’t believe in accidents. And it hardly matters whether or not I own the blame. The responsibility is mine, the duty to make it right. I’m Lord Ashworth now, much as I prayed I’d never live to inherit that title.”

“I …” A wave of dizziness unsteadied her. “I think I need to sit down.”

He pulled her over to a small row of steps leading up to a narrow stoop and urged her to sit on the topmost riser.

Then he sank to one knee before her.

“I couldn’t bear to hide it from you,” he said. “You deserve to know the truth. And I need you to know it. If you marry me …”

His voice trailed off. Meredith was struck by the significance of what he’d just said. If. For the first time, he’d used the word “if.”

“If you marry me,” he repeated slowly, “you’ll be waking up every morning next to the man responsible for your father’s injuries, the village’s plight, your own years of work and sacrifice. I need to know you can live with that.” He held up an open palm. “Don’t answer me right now. Think on it, good and hard, before you decide. You were right. I owe you this much, to offer you a real choice.”

His big hands engulfed hers where they lay folded in her lap. “I swear, if you give me the chance, I will fix everything.” Sincerity rang in his voice. “I vow to you before God, I will take care of your father for the rest of his years. I will make certain the villagers never go hungry. And I will devote all the strength of my body and all the determination of my soul to the purpose of making you happy. All I ask of you is the chance.”