Page 16 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

“And what news of my wife’s project?” Rhys asked his valet as the man adjusted his cravat.

The heavily starched linen scratched his throat with all the subtlety of a hangman’s rope, and he fought the urge to tear it off. Unfortunately, they were expected at a dinner hosted by Lady Woodhaven, who was not the sort to forgive an open collar.

“Ah, she is very excited about the school. Her maid tells me that she speaks of little else,” Ferris replied.

Rhys nodded, not surprised to hear it.

Ever since Charlotte had decided to involve herself in this project, she had spoken of nothing else. Well, at least not on the few occasions their paths had crossed.

It was not as though they habitually spent time together. Still, twice this week, they had met at the breakfast table.

That was generally avoided, thanks to his habit of rising later than the sun and her… distressing tendency to spring up at the break of dawn with a vigor that instantly made him sleepy again.

How a person rose with the sunrise was utterly beyond him.

During his days as the second son, he had never risen before dawn. There had been no need. The public houses he favored did not open until late in the day, and his friends—equally fond of their beds—saw no reason to stir before then.

But all of that had changed when he became a marquess.

The marquessate and his steward, Mr. Barns, had little sympathy for his sleeping habits.

Gradually, he had begun rising earlier and earlier.

In the weeks before his marriage, he could sometimes be found at the breakfast table at half past nine, though always with his eyes half closed.

After two cups of black tea and a cup of coffee—a beverage he despised for its bitter taste but drank anyway due to its invigorating properties—he generally managed to greet the world and Mr. Barns come ten.

Anyhow, since Charlotte had moved in, something uncanny had occurred.

He found himself waking up with the sunrise.

Indeed, that very morning, he had opened his eyes at the ungodly hour of six.

Determined to undo the damage, he had rolled this way and that, turned his pillow repeatedly, and stared up at the canopy as if that might send him back to the land of nod.

At seven, when the church bells tolled, he had given up.

Once upon a time, sleep had been his loyal friend. But since he had lost all three of his family members in quick succession, sleep had been a treacherous companion at best. It would overcome him at the most inconvenient times—such as during a session in Parliament—and evade him when he wanted it.

“… rather among more reformed ladies.”

He blinked. While he had been mulling over the injustices of early mornings, Ferris had clearly continued speaking.

“I beg your pardon, I did not sleep well. What was that about reformist ladies?”

Ferris’s expression slid neatly into exasperation, but he said nothing of it, merely took up the brush and began briskly dusting his master’s coat.

“I said,” he repeated with the patience of a man long inured to such lapses, “that she is planning a dinner party later this month with some of the more reformed ladies. She claimed that you would attend.”

“Did she now?”

Rhys could not recall any conversation touching on reformists or their ilk. Then again, if he were being honest, he had not listened to Charlotte speak. Not for lack of interest—she was, in truth, an intriguing woman, their exchanges more stimulating than anything he had known in years.

But lately, every time she spoke, his mind betrayed him, drifting back to that afternoon in the drawing room with the most respectable ladies in London.

It had been a most peculiar afternoon. From start to finish, in fact. His story about the fallen milkmaid was true. Before his marriage, he had been known to tell a Banbury tale or two in order to explain away his tardiness, but in this case, reality had been as bizarre as his tale.

Given his delay, he’d braced himself for a tongue-lashing from Charlotte, only to find the ladies still congregating in his drawing room.

To say he was thrilled would have been a boldfaced lie. There were a few women he’d rather have seen sipping his tea than those three.

Lady Rosslyn’s husband, the Earl of Rosslyn, was one of the loudest voices pressing for the “livelier” members of the House to mend their ways or face severe consequences.

Naturally, Rhys had not been eager to greet them in his own home. Still, he had promised Charlotte he would appear, and had meant to keep his word. Until, of course, the unfortunate milkmaid had crossed his path.

He still remembered Charlotte’s expression when he finally arrived: the look of a volcano on the brink of eruption.

But it had softened when she saw the flowers in his hand, and the box of chocolates he had thought might serve as either a peace offering to the unwelcome guests or an apology to Charlotte if they had left.

Something had shifted in her eyes then, a flicker of surprise softening into the smallest of smiles. At that moment, she had been beautiful.

And when the conversation shifted to her school, her entire face had lit up. She had been pleased to see him. Relieved. No doubt the ladies had been interrogating her as though she were a Frenchman caught on the battlefield.

In fact, the way Lady Woodhaven had attempted to catch him out by asking for his opinion on Charlotte’s school for the poor was just in line with the way her ilk operated. She’d been looking for any signs that their marriage was not real, that they knew nothing about one another.

Which, to be quite fair, was the truth. They hardly knew a thing about one another.

He was therefore all the happier that he’d asked Ferris to report any news of her endeavors.

Thus, he’d been able to step in and say all the right things.

Charlotte, he’d noted, had looked somewhat anxious the entire time, and he could only imagine that the three ladies had been keeping her on her toes.

Seeing the usually sharp young woman diminished had unlocked something—a desire to shield her from scrutiny, gossip, and harm. He had even likened her to his late mother without forethought, a comparison that—though surprising—was, upon reflection, apt.

“I don’t wonder where my wife’s interest in education comes from,” he remarked now as Ferris straightened his cuff.

The valet looked up, taken aback by the sudden resumption in conversation. “Her sister, I am certain. The Duchess is very involved with the climbing boys.”

“I suppose such charitable inclinations run in the family.”

“Indeed. And it seems the reformist ladies will be more inclined to assist her. Will that pose a problem for you?”

Rhys considered. “Woodhaven and Rosslyn will not like my wife keeping company with their rivals, but it seems their wives have proposed it themselves. It is a minefield.”

A deafening clap of thunder cut him short. He turned to the window just in time to see a jagged fork of lightning split the sky.

It had rained most of the afternoon, but this was another matter entirely. Outside, pedestrians dashed for cover, skirts and coats plastered to their bodies. A woman screamed when lightning flashed again. A carriage halted as its horses reared in panic.

“I doubt it is wise to go out, My Lord,” Ferris cautioned.

“As do I. Though truth be told, I questioned the wisdom of the venture even before the storm.”

Just then, a carriage door swung open, and a man leapt into the downpour, splashing through puddles toward the house. A whiff of smoke reached Rhys—perhaps a struck chimney, perhaps nothing more than a neighbor’s overzealous fire.

The man pounded on the front door, vanished inside, and a moment later, the butler appeared on the stairs. “A message from Lord Woodhaven.”

Rhys took the letter and broke the seal. “Cancelled, due to the weather.” Relief settled over him like a cloak. “Have you seen my wife?”

“I have not,” Ferris replied.

Croft, the butler, cleared his throat. “She went to the library to wait for you. I believe she is still there.”

“Thank you, Croft.”

The so-called library was, in truth, a former guest chamber Rhys had filled with books after turning the actual library into a wardrobe for his extensive collection of coats, hats, canes, and shoes. One could not hope to be ranked among the pinkest of the pink without a wardrobe to match.

“Lady Ravenscar?” he called as he entered.

On occasion, he used her title in what he fancied a playful fashion.

She did not react. Seated at the desk by the window, head bent to her reading, a few curls had escaped her half-updo, grazing her shoulder blades. His hand twitched, remembering the feel of her skin when he’d touched her only days ago.

That, too, had been troubling him—how easily his thoughts strayed to her scent of vanilla and orange, to the memory of touching her.

He couldn’t deny his wife’s beauty, or that he sometimes allowed his thoughts to drift to more unsavory territory when he lay awake at night.

You must stop with this tomfoolery.

Whenever such thoughts overtook him, he reminded himself of their agreement—to improve one another’s standing in Society. She was there to improve his reputation. Allowing himself to think otherwise would only invite complications.

Besides, he did not like thinking of her as a conquest. She was more than that. She was… different.

He crossed to the shelves, rapping a knuckle against the wood. She looked up then, lightning illuminating one side of her face in cold blue while the fire cast the other in warm gold.

For a moment, she looked like two women in one: the sharp-tongued, cynical wife who had married him for convenience, and the gentle, kind-hearted lady who cared for the education of those less fortunate.

“Our evening has been cancelled. It seems the Woodhavens did not like the idea of their guests getting struck down by lightning on the way,” he announced.

She exhaled, her shoulders dropping. “Good. I am glad.” She nodded.

Her gown, a light peach color, suited her well. Though in his mind’s eye, he still saw her in the scarlet gown she’d worn to Lady Swanson’s soirée.

“I thought you were eager to go,” he murmured, stepping further into the room.

“I accepted the invitation out of politeness. They have made it clear they will not help me with my venture. Still, it would have been good for us to be seen together. We must get that out of the way.”

“Our first appearance as husband and wife? Indeed. Well, Lady Swanson will be hosting a ball soon. I dare say it would be a good chance to do so. And we would be returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak.”

She smiled a little, her face brightening. “I will have to be on my very best behavior, lest the ton expect me to make another shocking announcement.”

He grimaced but followed it with a smile. “I will have to be on my guard, lest you say something that would shock even me.”

“I did not think you were easily shocked, My Lord.”

“I am not, but you have managed it once, and I am not the sort of man to allow myself to be taken aback twice,” he said. “And I do wish you would call me Rhys, as I asked before. We are in our home.”

Again, she smiled. “Indeed, we are. Rhys. I forgot. I shall remember.”

This was… odd. They were not arguing or making snide remarks. It was almost as though they were getting along.

“Well,” she spoke. “If we are not expected anywhere, I shall spend the evening in the library, reading, if you do not mind.”

Did she wish to end the conversation? It seemed that way.

Rhys noted with some dismay that this bothered him. He’d wanted to continue their conversation, wanted to talk in this more peaceful, amiable way. But she did not wish to.

Pushing away the uncomfortable feeling of disappointment, he cleared his throat. “Very well, I shall leave you to your reading.”

He bowed and turned.

As he walked away, a lump formed in his throat, and he cursed himself for having allowed his walls to lower, even just a fraction.