Page 14 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Two days later, Rhys returned from a meeting with his solicitor to discover his house had been quite altered.

The entrance hall had always displayed several medieval suits of armor—some collection his great-grandfather had acquired during his travels abroad. But now, they had vanished, replaced by enormous vases filled with elaborate flower arrangements.

He approached them with curiosity, wondering where on earth Charlotte had procured roses at this time of year, only to discover they were made of silk.

She certainly had no qualms about spending his money.

Merely a few days had passed since their wedding, and already she was transforming his home.

Their home.

He had to remind himself repeatedly that this was now their home, not his alone. Although even when it had been only his, it had never truly felt like home. Now, it felt… strange. Unsettling. Wrong, somehow.

The memory of his parents and brother had always clung to the rooms they’d occupied before their death, which was why he had closed them off.

Everything had been shut away, furniture shrouded in white cloth. Until now. He watched as maids descended from the upper floors, bearing armloads after armloads of dusty sheets. They billowed in the back garden like the surrender flags of some defeated army.

Rooms were being reopened, furniture rearranged, flowers displayed—though the blooms were as false as their marriage.

He wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about these changes. He wasn’t insulted—he had told her she might do as she wished—but neither was he delighted.

Though, according to Mr. Beale, her campaign was proving effective: several of the more skittish investors had expressed renewed confidence in their union. Particularly given the romantic tale of star-crossed lovers that had somehow taken hold.

“Darn you, Gideon,” Rhys muttered, shaking his head. “You do spin a fine yarn.”

He sighed deeply.

Somewhere close by, something crashed, and he spun toward the sound. It came from the drawing room. He made his way there and found, to his surprise, his new wife bent over at the waist with her back to him.

His eyebrows shot up. This was hardly how he had expected to find the Marchioness of Ravenscar.

“Am I interrupting some form of exercise, My Lady?” he inquired.

She jerked up and whirled around. “It is exceedingly rude to sneak up on a lady.”

“I was not sneaking up on you. I was simply seeking to use my own drawing room. That is still allowed, I trust? Or are you planning military maneuvers?”

“Whatever do you mean?” she demanded, glaring at him.

“Well, I noticed you have removed the swords from the walls and exiled our armored knights from the front hall. I naturally assumed you must be planning some sort of campaign. Do you intend to claim the parlor next? I should appreciate prior warning, so I might relocate my better brandy to safety.”

“You consider yourself tremendously amusing,” she scoffed. “For your information, I am not planning any battle. If anything, I am restoring order. This house had become something of a mausoleum.”

He caught himself before the familiar darkness could descend, unwilling to let her see how deeply her words had cut.

“If I am to receive Lady Woodhaven, Lady Sherwood, and Lady Rosslyn here, the place must appear—”

His eyebrows rose sharply. “Woodhaven, Sherwood, and Rosslyn? Those are the wives of the most powerful men in the House of Lords, aside from the Duchess of Windsor. Why would you invite them? I was unaware you moved in such circles.”

“I do not,” she replied with a slight smile. “Not yet. In any case, since you are here, perhaps you can help. I want to move this crate to the corner. It will be perfect for my silk flowers.”

Asking for his help cost her a great deal; her tone made that clear.

He shrugged and moved to help, then reconsidered. He removed his coat and draped it over the settee, before rolling his shoulders and pushing the heavy crate across the room.

Once at its destination, he rose to his full height and looked back at her. She stood there, her eyes wide, and he knew at once that she’d been watching him.

This was partly why he had shed his coat. He was not above wanting his wife to appreciate his physique.

He was perfectly aware that Society deemed him attractive, and he saw no harm in occasionally reminding his wife of the fact. Indeed, they made quite a handsome couple. Perhaps that explained why people had so readily accepted their love tale.

“Now then,” he said, drawing her attention, “why exactly are you entertaining those ladies if you neither know them nor particularly like them?”

“Well, you mentioned needing to restore your reputation. What better way than inviting the wives of the most influential lords to our home and letting them observe the devoted couple we are? Also, they might be able to suggest a charitable endeavor I can involve myself in. I was thinking of helping those less fortunate. Many of these wretched souls are in the positions they are in because they have no education. So, I am considering starting a school. But I shall need help, hence I invited the ladies for tea.”

“Am I expected to attend this tea party?” he asked, for few activities appealed to him less than making polite conversation with such formidable ladies.

“No, but you must make an appearance. Perhaps give your wife a few compliments so they might witness our marital bliss.”

“Very well, I will do so.”

“Excellent, and I shall hold you to that promise. No excuses or deceptions.”

“Why would you suspect me of dishonesty in my own home?” he asked.

She shrugged nonchalantly. “I suspect nothing.”

“It certainly sounds as though you do.”

“I merely ask that, if you want to persist in your old habits, you conduct yourself in a way that does not sabotage my efforts—efforts to restore both our reputations, so we might proceed with our arrangement.”

“Our arrangement to be rid of one another,” he said flatly.

She paused, and they regarded each other steadily.

Rhys had engaged in such battles of will with his brother during childhood—usually over some trivial matter—and he had always won. He would not be the first to look away now.

Silence settled around them. From outside came the nicker of a horse and a child’s brief cry, quickly silenced by a nursemaid.

Finally, she exhaled and looked away, conceding defeat.

“Yes, our arrangement to make this marriage look genuine, then go our separate ways. If you continue behaving like an unmarried man, that will never happen, and we will both end up not only ruined but also laughingstocks. So I ask you to exercise discretion. I will not inquire about your nocturnal activities, but I do request that you be careful. If you must go out, perhaps frequent establishments where you are unlikely to be recognized.”

He pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “What exactly do you think of me?”

“What I think of you? I fail to see how that is relevant.”

“It is if you believe my conduct will ruin your efforts. Perhaps you should specify what misdeeds you fear I might commit, so I may avoid them and spare us both future distress.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “I am not in the least distressed,” she declared, in a decidedly distressed tone. “I simply wish to protect our plans and our future.”

“You think I am reckless,” he said, issuing a challenge.

“I think you…” She hesitated, then let her arms fall, her palms turned upward. “I think you are the sort who enjoys playing with fire.”

Well, he had heard such accusations before.

His mother, much as she had loved him, had often despaired of his behavior.

She had encouraged him to join the military or read the law, but he had not cared.

And his father had been entirely on his side.

After all, he was not the heir, merely a second son and therefore not expected to behave like a gentleman.

Now, he sometimes wished his mother had won those battles.

He pushed away the memory of her worried face and focused on the woman before him.

“I may enjoy the occasional adventure, but I will not allow it to destroy our plans.”

“I hope not. I will do everything I can to help restore your reputation, and soon enough, everyone will believe we are happily married. Provided you do not accidentally burn down our entire future,” she said crisply. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

She swept past him toward the door.

He watched her march up the grand staircase, equally amused and intrigued. And somewhat unsettled, for he had just realized something rather startling.

Finally, he had encountered a woman who wanted neither his fortune, his title, nor his reputation. She desired only her freedom.

And as he watched her disappear down the hall, he found that the more desperately she wanted that freedom, the less inclined he felt to grant it.

Their exchange had ignited something within him, something he had not felt in a long time.

While they’d sparred, he’d felt fully alive.

Had he perhaps made a grave error in inviting the very woman who could be his downfall to take up residence under his roof?