Page 11 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Charlotte walked down the aisle, entirely on her own, and Rhys watched her every move.

He had to admit he was rather disappointed that she had not worn her scarlet gown. He felt a little foolish standing there, dressed up like a peacock. But it was too late to change now.

He noted the appraisal in her gaze as she drew closer, her eyes looking him up and down. He stood straighter, his shoulders pulled back, chest puffed out. He might as well give her a proper picture of what she was about to marry.

Marry.

How strange it was that he should be wed now, here, this day, in front of what appeared to be the entire ton. In fact, it felt as though half of London had arrived, because St. George’s of Hanover Square was bursting at the seams. There were even people standing at the back.

No wonder they had both been written about and talked about so extensively—everybody wanted to see the notorious pair.

His lips curled into a smile. The kiss.

He hadn’t even thought of that. That ought to be very interesting, indeed.

“Are you expected at the circus after the ceremony?” Charlotte asked in a whisper when she joined his side, looking him up and down. “Those buttons are so shiny that I can see my reflection.”

“Good,” he uttered. “I had my valet polish them for that sole purpose—so you might gaze on your image while we wed.”

His biting tone did not make her flinch in the slightest.

“I can see that,” she replied dryly.

“I had rather hoped that you would wear your scarlet gown.”

“Well,” she drawled, “given how everyone who is anyone is here today, I did not want to cause a scene. There are quite a few elderly people here, as you might—”

“I have noticed.” He leaned a little closer to her whilst the clergy flicked through the pages to get to the correct one. “I must confess I do not know a third of the people assembled here.”

“Neither do I,” she confided. “But I’m certain they will feel as though they know us intimately.”

“No doubt,” he muttered.

He cleared his throat, and they looked at the pews. Surely the congregation had observed their every move and assumed they were whispering sweet nothings to one another.

If only they knew the actual exchange.

They did not stand on friendly footing; that was clear.

But Rhys had to admit that there was a certain fire.

A fire he could not deny excited him. Charlotte was witty, clever, and she did not shy away from confrontation.

Perhaps life at her side would not be as dreadful and tedious as he had initially feared.

However, what was absolutely as dreadful as he had feared was the sermon that followed.

Why did Anglican church services have to persist until one’s very leg fell asleep?

He shifted uncomfortably now and again, noting that Charlotte did the same beside him as the vicar droned on endlessly.

After what felt like eternity, the vicar finally arrived at the part Rhys had been anticipating and dreading. It was time.

They made their vows without looking each other in the eye, and then the vicar nodded once, a smile on his face. “You may kiss the bride.”

Rhys looked at his bride, who looked up at him with an expression that suggested she would rather drink a pint of vinegar on an empty stomach.

He bent forward—it was expected.

“I know perfectly well what is expected,” she whispered.

“Can I trust you will not attempt to bite me or some such?” he asked with a wry smile.

“I make no promises,” she breathed.

They were so close now that he caught the scent of her breath. She had eaten something sweet that morning. Strawberries, perhaps? But there were no strawberries in winter, so what was that sweet fragrance?

“I will allow no tomfoolery,” she warned as he leaned in further.

“You can trust me,” he replied somberly. “I am not that cruel.”

“That is almost a pity,” she drawled. “Cruel men, I know how to handle. They are generally far less clever than they think they are.”

Behind them, a certain restlessness stirred, and Rhys knew they had prolonged their chess game long enough.

He nodded and smiled. “Well then, I am sad to disappoint. I am not cruel. But I will do my very best to keep you on your toes, Lady Ravenscar.”

A gasp escaped her then, as though she hadn’t realized she was now going to be addressed as such. Before she could reply, he placed his lips on hers. His eyes remained open for a moment, then he closed them.

The softness of her lips was unexpected. She had such a sharp, brusque personality; he had thought that her kiss would reflect it. But it didn’t.

It was soft and warm, and after a moment’s hesitation, he felt her lips respond—felt that she wanted to kiss him back.

What was this bewildering performance?

Alarmed, he realized he actually cared whether she enjoyed the kiss or not. Sensing the dangerous territory he was approaching, he pulled back and straightened up, whilst behind them the crowd erupted in applause.

The rest of the service passed in a blur. Rhys avoided looking at his bride and noted that she did the same whenever he stole a glance out of the corner of his eye. They endured the rest of the lengthy ceremony and then made their way out of the church.

Outside, the assembled crowd—among which stood her sisters and aunt, as well as Gideon and Uncle Amos—threw rice on them.

Rhys hated the custom. Hated the way the rice struck his top hat and wormed its way beneath his collar.

But he kept his composure. He smiled and waved, with Charlotte on his arm.

They made their way to the wedding carriage under the whooping and hollering of the guests. He thought he might go deaf at any moment from the noise alone, but then they were in the carriage and surrounded by silence.

As he leaned back in his seat and looked at his bride, he realized that the silence inside the carriage was almost as deafening as the noise outside.

The silence was oppressive.

Charlotte tugged at the front of her wedding gown because it seemed to tighten around her body with each breath she took.

She knew this wasn’t physically possible, but that was how it felt. The lace chafed at her chest, her ankles, and her wrists. The pearl necklace Aunt Eugenia had clasped around her neck that morning—the same pearls from her own wedding day—felt like a stone against her throat.

Charlotte knew that all of this wasn’t her imagination. It was her body’s way of rebelling against what she had just endured. Standing at that altar for two hours, listening to the vicar speak of… What had he spoken of?

She truly could not remember. She had gone woolgathering, as her aunt liked to say.

She thought of her mother and what she might say about all of this. She had conjured up memories of her parents when she was younger, back when her father was not the wretched creature he had become—when they had been happy.

She thought of summers by the seaside and springs in the Scottish Highlands. She even managed to pull a memory from the depths of her mind of her mother’s singing voice. She didn’t remember the words, but the melody was there. That beloved sound…

Eventually, she had been jolted back to reality when the vicar insisted that she repeat after him the pledge to obey a man she barely knew.

Obey?

Her?

If Rhys thought those were anything other than empty words, he would be sorely mistaken. She would not obey anybody. She had learned that from Evelyn. One did not have to submit to fate.

“… however you please,” Rhys’s warm, deep voice drifted to her ears.

Goosebumps broke over her forearms, and she cursed her traitorous body. He had a pleasant voice—he truly did—but did her body have to react in such a way?

She turned to him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I think that is the politest thing you have said to me since I’ve known you.” He smirked, his eyebrows rising.

“You’ve caught me unawares. I was busy thinking of the future.”

“Very good. That is what I was asking you about. As we agreed, we should stay together at my London townhouse for the time being. I thought you might like my mother’s old chambers. My father’s chambers are also available, if you prefer them.”

“You do not stay in the Marquess’s chambers?” she asked, cocking her head.

“No.” He rolled his shoulders as if they had suddenly become stiff. “It does not feel right. They were not meant for me. I am comfortable in my own chambers. However, you may stay wherever you like.”

She nodded once. “I see. Well, I am certain they will do just fine. The cook has started? And the maids I hired?”

“The maids you hired with my money,” he pointed out with a chuckle.

“The maids I hired with your money, as stipulated in the contract,” she fired back.

He raised his hands. “Very well, very well. I will not challenge you further. Yes, they have all arrived. You will find a fully functional house; there will be no danger of me attempting to cook anything and setting the whole place ablaze.”

“Good,” she said. “I daresay it would be best if we made it through the first twenty-four hours unscathed. We wouldn’t want the scandal sheets to write about another disaster befalling a Langley sister on her wedding day.”

He laughed. “I’ve heard all about Bertram and the treacherous apricot. Pray, were you present?”

“I was. It was not half as amusing as people make it sound. It’s almost as though people forget that the gentleman died. He may not have been a man of quality, but he still died—in front of many people. There was nothing amusing about it.”

Rhys pressed his lips together and almost deflated, as though she had entirely disrupted his mirth.

“In any case,” she continued, “we ought to try to make it to tomorrow.”

“I think we can manage that,” he conceded. “Although we still have to make it through the wedding breakfast.”

“I hope not everyone who came to the ceremony will be there.”

“I believe we have only fifty people to contend with. And I am pleased to announce that I do know all of them in some fashion or other.”

“I suppose that is… comforting,” she muttered.

Silence stretched between them. Then, she took a deep breath.

“So I take it now we must put on our masks and pretend to care for one another?”

“I think that is wise,” he replied. “Otherwise, what was all this for? Can you pretend not to despise me, perhaps for the duration of the wedding breakfast and the occasional ball?”

“I suppose, given that you have set up an entire library in the townhouse, I can muster some enthusiasm for our performance.”

“Good, then. Everybody shall see us as the happy pair we are.”

“Happy,” she echoed. “I do not know what there is to be happy about. It will all be pretense.”

She looked at him. He meant that he wasn’t happy about this, was he? He couldn’t be. It was ludicrous.

“I am quite happy. I am wed. I no longer have to worry about what Society thinks of me. My standing in the House of Lords will improve, and I have a beautiful wife of my own. What is there not to be happy about?”

His voice dripped with sarcasm.

She crossed her arms. “I must remind you that I have never belonged to anybody, and I never…” she trailed off.

Nonetheless, she had meant the words as a warning. To put him on alert. To keep him on his toes.

Yet seeing the way he looked at her—a small smile on his lips, his eyes sparkling with mischief—she realized that he had understood her words as a challenge.

She took a deep breath, ready to tell him there was nothing to smile about, when the carriage came to a halt. They were outside his townhouse once more.

Her townhouse now.

The last time she had been here, she had seen the townhouse in the dark. She hadn’t really taken it in properly.

It had appeared small to her then, but now she realized it wasn’t. It stood on the corner, and the house next to it appeared to be connected. Decorations had been placed on the windows of the house she assumed was his and the one on the corner.

She turned to him. “Our neighbor celebrates with us?”

“No,” he said with a laugh. “They are both our homes. My father bought the house adjacent when I was a little boy. I told you, you are now the mistress of a grand country estate and a London townhouse. You should be the envy of everyone in London.”

She looked up and heard music spilling out of the windows. Their guests had already arrived, with more and more carriages streaming by and people entering through the front door and the door of the house next door.

“Are you ready? You know that all of polite society is waiting to see the bride and groom,” he said, offering his arm once more.

“I thought you said it was no more than 50. That is hardly the entire ton nor a fraction of it,” she replied.

“You know very well what I mean,” he said and moved his arm as if to prompt her to take it.

She took it. Her stomach lurched as she walked up the stairs.

It was time to present themselves, for the first time, as the Marquess and Marchioness of Ravenscar.