Duke Looks Like a Groomsman - Valerie Bowman Page 0,67

had gone by since Rhys had returned from Clayton’s estate that Bell’s words hadn’t haunted him. If you let her go, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. The bastard was right of course, but it didn’t change the fact that Rhys was doing the selfless thing.

But Bell’s other words were the ones that tore at him each night. Made him completely unable to sleep. Sometimes even unable to breathe. You went to France to run away from the first lady you ever truly loved. 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.

The only thing that made those blasted words fade temporarily into the background was the copious amounts of brandy Rhys had been drinking since his return. And even then, the words haunted him, streaming through his mind when he least wanted them.

As he stared down at the invitation that sat like an unwelcome bug on his desk, a hundred other thoughts raced across his brain. But in the end, he settled on the thought that he had wanted this. Pushed her to it, even. So be it.

But he didn’t have to like it.

“Lawson!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

Seconds later, the butler reappeared at the study door. “Your Grace?”

Rhys paced behind the desk, pushing back his hair and scratching his forehead. “Get me some brandy.”

Lawson bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace. A glass of brandy.”

“Not a glass, Lawson. The bottle.”

Chapter Thirty-One

“These will be lovely, don’t you think, dear?”

“Yes, Mama, whatever you say.” Julianna had been sitting in one of her father’s drawing rooms staring at flowers all morning and she still couldn’t bring herself to care. She didn’t give a hairpin whether they had roses or lilies at the wedding. Lilacs were out of the question. It was too late in the year.

She took a deep breath and fought back the overwhelming anger and frustration she felt lately whenever she thought about the wedding, the marriage, or the rest of her life. She’d no idea why she couldn’t just accept it all. She’d been raised for this. She’d been told her entire life that when it came time, she would make the most advantageous match with the most eligible gentleman and marry. She would be a wife, a mother, and a peeress. That’s what had been planned for her since the cradle. So why was she so unhappy now that it was coming true?

She’d told herself a thousand times that she should call off the wedding. But she hadn’t called it off. Why hadn’t she called it off?

Because she was as stubborn as an ox, that’s why. She’d wanted to throw the gauntlet at Rhys’s feet. She knew he loved her. She knew he wanted her. She knew he didn’t want her to marry Murdock, but he refused to tell the truth and save them both. Well, she refused too. If he was going to act as if the future and what happened to them didn’t matter, then so would she.

Besides, what possible excuse could she give her parents for crying off? I’m sorry; I won’t marry the Marquess of Murdock because the Duke of Worthington loves me—even though he refuses to marry me. It sounded ludicrous. And to make it worse, from time to time she continued to have the awful thought that perhaps Rhys had only been using her engagement to Murdock as an excuse not to marry her himself.

Well, if that’s what he wanted, he was about to get it. This is what she’d been raised for all these years, wasn’t it? To marry not for love but for title. The Duke of Worthington didn’t want her, so she would marry the next most eligible bachelor. Just like the blessed Times had reported.

Julianna clenched her jaw and tossed down the fistful of flowers she’d been pretending to examine. She would cry if she had anymore tears left. She’d promised herself that she’d shed her last tear over Rhys Sheffield. He’d broken her heart—not once, but twice now—and bless it, she refused to allow him a third chance. No, she was going through with this wedding, and Rhys could go straight to hell.

Stratham, the butler, entered the room drawing room. “Miss Frances Wharton here to see Lady Julianna,” he intoned.

Julianna glanced up, frowning. “Miss Wharton? For me? Not Lady Mary?”

Stratham cleared his throat. “She