Duke Looks Like a Groomsman - Valerie Bowman Page 0,66

it, because I'm leaving.” He made to step past Bell. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to get you your money.”

“Spare me,” Bell replied. “I happen to be one of the few people who knows that you don't actually need the money from this bet. Or any other bet for that matter.”

Rhys froze. He slowly turned to face Bell. “How in the bloody hell do you know that?”

Bell momentarily lifted his eyes skyward and sighed. “Why is everyone always forgetting that I’m a spy? Especially my friends.”

Rhys couldn’t help the smile that popped to his lips. “Fine. I’ll have the money to you as soon as I get back to London. Is that what you want to hear?”

“No, actually, it’s not. Because I don’t give a bloody damn about the money either, and you know it. This has nothing to do with money.”

“What do you want then?” Rhys shot back.

“I want to know what happened…between you and Lady Julianna. That is why you’re forfeiting, isn’t it?”

Rhys clenched his jaw. “Then you’re going to be disappointed, I’m afraid, because I’ve no intention of telling you.”

Bell stepped to the small window above the berth and glanced out at the paddock before turning to stare at Rhys again. “You’re forgetting that I also happen to know why you agreed to go to France.”

Rhys cursed under his breath again and he slowly folded his arms over his chest. “Oh, really? Do tell. I know you won’t be satisfied until you’ve delivered your little speech. Go ahead.”

Bell shrugged one shoulder. “You went to France to run away from the first lady you ever truly loved.”

Rhys’s nostrils flared and he narrowed his eyes to slits on the marquess. “Oh, is that why?” He did his best to sound nonchalant.

“Yes, actually.” Bell nodded. “It’s precisely why. Well, that and the fact that, despite your insistence upon letting everyone in the ton believe you’re a drunken, penniless lout, you’re really a good man who wanted to help his country.”

“Please tell me more,” Rhys drawled, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “I’m fascinated to hear what I think.”

Bell leaned a hip against the windowsill. “Very well. I also happen to know that you love to go about pretending you’re devil-may-care, but the truth is you’re really worried that no one will truly love you for yourself, which is why you had to get away from Lady Julianna so quickly. She did love you for yourself. So, you invented a lot of excuses until you were finally able to hang it on that nonsense the Times printed, and that kept you conveniently mired in your bachelorhood.”

Rhys clenched his fist. He wanted to punch the bastard in the face so much his fingers ached. “Oh, so going blind is an excuse now? I see.”

“Am I making you angry?” Bell continued in his own nonchalant tone. He moved from the window to stand on the opposite side of the mattress, blocking Rhys’s path out of the berth.

“If you don’t step out of my way, I will hit you,” Rhys growled.

“Excellent,” Bell drawled. “That tells me that I’m not missing my mark.”

“I’m warning you, Bell—” Rhys ground out through clenched teeth.

“No, I’m warning you, Worth,” the marquess shot back, his sky-blue eyes darkening.

“What?” Rhys tossed a hand in the air. “What are you warning me about?”

“If you let her go, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life,” Bell said quietly.

Rhys brushed past him, hitting Bell’s shoulder, and knocking the marquess out of the way. “She’s already gone.”

Chapter Thirty

The Duke of Worthington’s London Town House, Mid-September 1814

“Your Grace,” Rhys’s butler, Lawson, intoned as he presented Rhys with a silver salver on which sat the day’s mail. Rhys absently pulled the letters from the tray and excused the man.

He tossed aside two bills and several invitations to parties and balls. The final piece of mail made him freeze. It was addressed from the Duke of Montlake.

Swallowing hard, Rhys yanked open the missive and unfolded it. His eyes scanned the page.

It, too, was an invitation. An invitation to the wedding of Lady Julianna Montgomery to the Marquess of Murdock. No doubt Montlake had had a smile on his face when he addressed this particular letter.

The invitation fell from Rhys’s numb fingers onto the desktop. He took a deep breath. She was getting married. Early. Next month, in fact. Seems whatever important letter she’d written during the house party hadn’t been about the wedding being moved up as he had guessed.

There hadn’t been a day that