Page 17 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Charlotte heard his footsteps retreating and was about to return to her book when—without her bidding—her feet moved toward the door. Then, once more without her permission, her lips parted.

Her body, it seemed, had a mind of its own, not obeying her strict instruction to stay away from Rhys as much as possible. Ever since that afternoon with the insufferable ladies, her body had done as it pleased when it came to him.

If she saw him at breakfast, she willed her legs to walk away, but instead, they carried her to him. Her mouth insisted on smiling at him, and sometimes entire conversations ensued before she could regain her composure and walk away.

It appeared this was the case tonight.

Why can’t I stay away from him? All he did was bring me flowers…

“Rhys,” she called, tasting the name as it left her mouth.

He turned back and looked at her, while the storm continued wreaking havoc outside.

The hall was lined with windows, and a sharp, bluish light from the lightning illuminated him where he stood.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“Thank you… for bringing some of your books from the country estate. I do enjoy reading them, and there are some that are quite interesting, indeed.”

Why do I sound like a girl fresh out of finishing school, confronted with a dashing prince?

He walked back toward her. Charlotte wasn’t entirely certain whether this had been her intention or not, but it was too late to call the moment back. He was heading toward her.

“Oh? May I ask which books you have found most interesting?”

She wet her lips and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Why did her curls insist on tumbling from her updo every single time? Turning, she walked back to the desk and picked up the volume she had been reading. Holding it to her chest, she smiled.

“Have you read any books of late?”

“Of late?” He shook his head. “My mother used to insist that I read poetry and such; she thought it would help refine me as a gentleman.” He chuckled. “As you can see, she failed.”

“It seems to me you are a gentleman, even if in name only,” she remarked.

He chuckled. “Well, I suspect the husbands of your new friends are dismayed at the fact that I am on the same rung as them. Or higher.”

Her face darkened. “They are not my friends. They are tools to help us achieve our goals. And I am not sorry to miss out on their company tonight.”

“Well, we agree on that account,” he said. “A rarity, indeed. Now, pray. The book?”

She twisted away from him and held the book in such a way as to conceal its title.

“Perhaps you can tell me,” she challenged with a smile. “So we can see just how much of a gentleman you are and how much of your mother’s teachings remain.”

“A game, Lady Ravenscar? You surprise me,” he said as thunder boomed outside again.

The fire in the grate danced rapidly from the air rushing down the chimney. It gave the room an eerie air. One could have called it romantic even. Although there was nothing romantic in the air between them, of course.

She took a deep breath, tasting the burning wood on her tongue.

Why had she called him back? She wasn’t certain. The storm had unsettled her; that was part of it. But there was more.

She simply could not put words to that strange feeling that had pushed her to call him back. Maybe it was that moment in the drawing room, when he’d placed his hand on her shoulder, that had thrown her entire being into such turmoil.

Did she care for him? No. Not at all.

He was a rake. He vexed her at every turn and took pleasure in it. And yet she had to confess, if only to herself, that she enjoyed their banter.

“Very well. I shall read, and you will tell me what it is I am reading.” She cleared her throat. “She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies.”

“Byron,” Rhys guessed, moving closer. “Hardly what I’d expect from a gently bred young lady looking to establish herself in Society.”

“I am still a woman of my own mind who enjoys rather scandalous books,” she said with a smirk. “But I confess, my passion for Byron had ebbed when he married that poor Annabelle Milbank. Still, I find myself inspired to re-read his works of late.”

“And what, pray tell, inspired you?” he asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

Rhys, being Rhys, did not sit as a gentleman would. He had turned the chair backward, straddled the seat, and crossed his arms on the back.

The warm firelight filled the space behind him, and her mouth grew dry.

Why did he have to be so handsome?

“If you must know, Lady Woodhaven warned me to never involve Lord Byron in any of the activities pertaining to the school because his reputation would cast a shadow on it all. Having recently found myself in a similar position, I felt a kinship and picked up his work again. His and that of some other writers considered scandalous, which I used to favor but abandoned.”

He let out a chuckle. “Your reputation was hardly in danger of being as ruined as his. That would be a feat most difficult to achieve. I have been at it for years, and even I pale in comparison. The only one I can think of who could come close is…”

“Lord Emery,” she said at the same time he did.

They both chuckled.

“Great minds do think alike,” he quipped.

“It appears that way. In any case, I felt a pull to his work, and here I am.” Charlotte shrugged.

“As for any question regarding my interest in reading, where it pertains to my reputation, no one knows what I read in the privacy of our home. And even if they did, I am no longer a damsel in distress, but a marchioness. Surely that grants me some latitude in my reading material?” She lifted her chin.

“Besides, you mentioned your reputation. Surely my husband’s reputation reflects more on me than my reading habits. ”

“Ah, yes, my reputation.” Rhys smirked. “Tell me, wife of mine, exactly what you had heard about me before we were wed.”

The sound of the word ‘wife’ on his lips sent an unexpected shiver through her. It felt peculiar being someone’s wife, and yet oddly freeing. No longer was she her father’s daughter, his property.

Legally, she was Rhys’s, but he’d offered her more freedom than her father ever would have. True, he seemed to find much of what she had wanted to do amusing, but he had not stood in her way so far.

“That you’re a rake. A gambler. That you care for nothing beyond your own pleasure and have left a trail of broken hearts across London. And that you are familiar with the lightskirts in the rookeries.”

“All quite accurate,” he confirmed with that infuriating, self-deprecating smile.

“Also, that they like you. The ladies of ill repute. Not just your money, but also your company.”

At that, he flinched.

It wasn’t much, and if she hadn’t paid such close attention, she might not have noticed it, but he did flinch.

“Well, I am rather handsome, and I am generous with my purse,” he muttered, looking away.

He fidgeted with his fingers for a moment, before pulling back his arms, rising from the chair, and crossing the room.

What had she said? What had unsettled him?

He walked along the shelves, his fingers stroking along the spines of the assorted tomes, and then stopped.

“So, I take it you read Byron to give yourself a thrill, to think yourself rebellious?”

The twinkle in his eyes was back, though she wondered why he’d steered the conversation back to Byron.

She crossed her arms. “I do think I am rebellious. Or have you forgotten how we met?”

He snorted. “Your performance at Lady Swanson’s soirée was bold, I will give you that. Whether it was rebellious, I do not know. Reckless, certainly.”

A fire sparked within her again. He was crossing a line from playfully mischievous to unkind. Suddenly, she recalled why she’d wanted to keep her distance from him.

“Reckless and rebellious go hand in hand,” she argued. “And the ton was sufficiently shocked.”

“Perhaps,” he said and walked past her.

She caught a whiff of his sandalwood cologne and shivered.

He picked up her book, which she’d placed down, and examined it. “I must say, ‘She walks in beauty’ is hardly shocking, Charlotte. If you truly wish to scandalize me with your reading, you’ll need to do far better than that.”

She lifted her chin, accepting his challenge. “Perhaps I was merely testing the waters, My Lord.”

“Now you have my attention. Pray, enlighten me.”

Charlotte surveyed the shelves around them with a critical eye, then turned back to him with a small smile. “You will have to excuse me. I must fetch a tome from my chambers.”

“Your chambers?” His eyebrows rose. “What are you looking for that cannot be found here?”

“I took it from the shelf to keep myself occupied a few days ago. I shall have to retrieve it now.” She moved toward the door, before pausing to look back at him.

Thunder boomed overhead as she made her way through the dimly lit corridors and back to her chamber.

What was she doing? This felt like a game, but one with stakes she didn’t fully understand. The light from the sconces flickered as she went, the lightning occasionally illuminating her.

Inside her chamber, she picked up the book she’d wanted to show her husband and hurried back to the library with a smirk on her lips.

He wanted to see what kind of woman she was. Well, she’d show him.

As she made her way back through the corridors, the book clutched against her chest, Charlotte wondered at her boldness.

Was this truly about shocking Rhys, or was something else driving her? The way he had looked at her during their earlier conversations, the warmth of his hand on her shoulder that afternoon, had awakened something inside her she didn’t quite understand.

Thunder rumbled, but it was far away now, as if attempting to make its final stance. Rain pelted the windows, the sound comforting as it reminded her of her childhood, when she’d sit and read books in her mother’s drawing room.