She expected him to agree and for that to be the end of it. She didn’t exactly look forward to a return, but she had always known it was going to happen. She had responsibilities there, of course. She couldn’t live in the fantasy land of London forever.
But to her surprise, he shook his head. “No.”
Her brow wrinkled. “N-No?” she repeated.
“I need to assess the situation for myself.”
She stared at him. “But you…you have so much to attend to here. I know your world has been turned upside down, Rhys…” She shook her head. “Lord Leighton. You cannot possibly spare the time for this.”
“He is a child,” he said, his gaze holding hers again. “His life and future are the most important matters I have to attend to. I could not focus on the more frivolous resolutions knowing that I had not dealt with this first.”
Her lips parted at the passion with which he spoke about a baby he had never even met. Never known the existence of until just two weeks before. “You are truly a decent man.”
His jaw tightened and those bright blue eyes flickered over her again. “Not very decent, I assure you.” He straightened his perfectly placed jacket with what looked like discomfort and then began to move down the hallway again, forcing her to follow. “Will you accompany me to Bath?” he asked.
Her heart lodged in her throat and she had to swallow hard to have any hope of speaking. “Yes,” she squeaked out. “Of course.”
“I know you didn’t come here with a companion,” he said, and his gaze moved straight ahead as they went down the stairs together toward the parlor where friends were gathered for the wedding.
“No, I…it is complicated,” she said. “I came here alone.”
“Then I will hire someone to attend you on the journey,” he said. “For propriety.”
She almost laughed at the very idea but held back the unladylike reaction. At the door to the parlor, she stopped and said, “I’m not certain that propriety applies when it comes to me anymore, but anything for your comfort, my lord. I will be ready to return to Bath whenever you need me to be.”
“Thank you,” he said softly.
She inclined her head and touched the door handle. “We will discuss particulars later, I’m sure.”
He nodded and she entered the parlor. He didn’t follow, but she felt his stare on her as she walked across the room. Felt it burn into her back like a flame. And knew how careful she had to be, because the warmth of his fire was most definitely off limits to her. For now. For always.
Rhys took a long sip of the glass of champagne that had been forced into his hand for the toasts and twitched his nose at the tickle of bubbles it left behind. It was a festive drink and a festive occasion, and he was happy for the couple. He’d begun to consider Owen Gregory a friend, and Celeste—well, now she was Celeste Gregory, not Montgomery—deserved the love she had apparently found.
All the women his brother had destroyed were owed happiness and likely a great deal more.
His gaze flitted across the room toward Phillipa Montgomery. She stood with Abigail Montgomery and the bride, their heads together in serious conversation. God’s teeth but she was beautiful. He never wanted to see it so clearly, but how could one not?
There was just something about the woman. And it wasn’t her mop of curly blonde hair that never seemed entirely tamed by whatever pretty style she wore, or the long expanse of neck that made a man want to trace it with his fingertips. It wasn’t her green gaze that was filled with intelligence. It wasn’t just her lovely figure or her bright smile.
All those things were wonderful, of course. Undeniable in their attraction. But there was something deeper that always made Rhys turn his head when she entered a room. Always made him track her like a hawk.
It was her spark. Despite the terrible situation the woman was in, there was always this light in her. Like a never-ending candle burning in her soul. Her mouth almost always held a little smile, like she knew a secret, even when she was at rest. How he wished he could ferret that secret out. Give her a few more secrets to make her smile like that.
Only…he couldn’t. Ever. Because she was the widow of his brother. Well, she sort of was, if one ignored the bigamy. He couldn’t ignore that, though. It had already destroyed his world. His future. His name.
And so for at least two dozen awful reasons he had to ignore the longing that tightened his chest any time Phillipa entered a room. He had to chastise himself whenever he woke hot and hard because of dreams of her. He had to stop memorizing her scent and the way she tilted her head back when she laughed.
“Leighton.” Rhys’s best friend, the Duke of Gilmore, stepped up beside him and joined him in looking over the threesome of ladies across the room. Gilmore’s sister had been the latest target of Rhys’s brother before Erasmus’s death. Both the one he faked and the real one. Gilmore had hired Owen Gregory to look into the blackguard pursuing his sister’s fortune. And when Erasmus had been presumed murdered, Rhys had hired him in turn to find the culprit.
Complicated, to say the least, but he was pleased that his friendship with Gilmore had not been damaged. He had few enough people he was close to, he didn’t want to lose the duke.
“Gilmore,” he said, and they clinked their glasses without drinking. Before they could speak, Owen Gregory stepped up to join them. Rhys smiled at him. “It was quite the ceremony. My most sincere wishes for your happiness. Mrs. Gregory is a wonderful woman.”
“She is,” Gregory said with a happy smile that felt like a punch in Rhys’s gut. “I am the luckiest of men.”
Rhys let out the air in his lungs. “Will you stay in London?”
“Yes. I intend on taking her away this winter and having her all to myself, but for now I have work to do. So we’ll settle into my little home here and practice being newlyweds.”
Once more, Rhys’s gaze flitted to where it didn’t belong: Phillipa.
“And what of you gentlemen? Now that the situation with Montgomery has been resolved, what are your plans?” Gregory asked.
Rhys shook his head. “There is little resolved for me, I fear. Only new problems begun. We can cover up the murder, and I will. My brother was, as far as the law is concerned, a suicide.”
Gilmore grunted a sound of displeasure. “And it only took a few bribes and payoffs. Not that I blame you, of course. It was the most palatable story.”
Rhys flinched. “None of this is palatable. But the specter of murder or suicide or anything else surrounding his death doesn’t change that the world knows what he did before that end. They know about the multiple wives and the debts and the bad acts. There is much to resolve, both the public…and the personal.”
Gilmore and Gregory exchanged a glance filled with concern on Rhys’s behalf. “Can I help?” Gregory asked.
Rhys felt heat suffuse his neck, creep toward his face at the humiliation. “You’ve done so much to help already,” he said. “And I appreciate your kindness, your counsel and your friendship, both of you. But what is left to manage is something I fear I must do alone.”
Gregory looked as though he wanted to argue that point, but before he could his gaze moved toward the three Mrs. Mongomerys. Well, two Mrs. Montgomerys now, and one Mrs. Gregory. There must have been some communication between husband and wife that Rhys couldn’t understand because everything in Gregory’s demeanor changed. He relaxed, loosened. Rhys envied him for that.