Page 18 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Rhys was standing by the fire, one hand resting on the mantelpiece. He turned at her approach, his eyes immediately dropping to the book in her hands.

“There you are. Show me what sort of scandalous books you were planning to read once you were done with Byron.” He sat on one of the armchairs and crossed his legs. “If it is truly scandalous, I will know it. So please read it to me.”

Charlotte opened the book and found a passage she knew well. “It is justice, not charity, that is wanting in the world.”

Rhys frowned slightly. “That’s not Byron. That is…”

“Mary Wollstonecraft, from A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. I used to read her works in the past, and given how Society forced me into marriage, I felt drawn to her once more.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Good God, Charlotte. You read Wollstonecraft? I’m surprised your finishing school didn’t burn such books.”

“They tried,” she scoffed. “But knowledge, once gained, is rather difficult to unlearn. Would you like to hear more? It is a melancholy truth; yet such is the blessed effect of civilization! The most respectable women are the most oppressed.”

“Gadzooks, Charlotte,” Rhys said, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been alarm. “I think you will fit in well among those reformist ladies. Lady Woodhaven will suffer apoplexy, however, if she hears you read such things.”

“I did not intend to tell her what I read, but the reformist ladies might share these sentiments. I hope so, anyhow, since I wish for them to help me with the school.” She leafed through the pages.

“There is also this: Women ought to have representatives, instead of being arbitrarily governed without any direct share.”

“… allowed them in the deliberations of government,” Rhys muttered, moving closer despite himself.

“You know it?” she asked, shocked now.

“My mother was somewhat of a reformist herself. She would at times read me some of these books,” he admitted, nodding toward the book in her hand.

“She sounds like a remarkable lady.”

“She was,” he affirmed.

She noted the change in his tone immediately—the mirth had left it. And he no longer looked directly at her.

“You told Lady Woodhaven that she would have been pleased to have me as a daughter-in-law because of my desire to start a school.”

“Among other things,” he said, still not meeting her gaze.

Her eyes were drawn to his left hand; he was rubbing his stomach, clenching his fingers in a slow, steady rhythm—one she suspected was meant to soothe.

Soothe from what?

“Why do you think she read Wollstonecraft to you?”

“It was not just her,” he said. “She read many things to me. All intended to inspire. Her efforts were wasted on me, of course, for I was only a second son.”

“I think not,” Charlotte countered. “Second sons may yet hold a standing in Society. It is not the exclusive province of dukes, earls, or barons—nay, even knights may wield influence. In any case, you are a titled gentleman now. Perhaps you might put some of the principles she instilled in you to good use.”

Rhys stopped his fidgeting, his hands suddenly falling to his sides as he looked at her. He did not speak.

She was reminded of that silent standoff they had not long ago, when she had been the first to look away, unable to endure that penetrating stare of his.

Well, tonight she was ready. She had steeled herself for another round.

She held his gaze, determined not to break eye contact first. There was a heat in his eyes now; his jaw worked slowly, as though he were grinding his teeth.

Her thoughts whirled.

What was it about Rhys that made him so difficult to understand?

How was it that one moment he could be so charming—charming enough that even women like Lady Rosslyn and Lady Woodhaven might forgive his past indiscretions—and the next moment he could be all shadows?

His mood seemed able to shift in the blink of an eye.

“What do you mean?” he asked, taking a step closer.

She rolled her shoulders, steadying herself.

“I mean, now that you are a titled gentleman, there are many good endeavors you might undertake. The sort of things your mother might have wished you to accomplish, had she known you would inherit the marquisate. She did not tell you all those things for nothing.”

He took another step closer, his head tilting slightly. “Charlotte,” he said, her name warm in her ears. “You ought to be careful, or you will start sounding as though you wish to be my conscience.”

She, too, took a step forward, unwilling to be outwitted. They were now only inches apart, and she lifted her chin to meet his gaze.

“Perhaps I am just what you need, Rhys,” she murmured.

His hand rose, as though he meant to touch her, but then dropped again, so suddenly that it betrayed his uncertainty.

“In this regard, at least,” she added quickly, not wishing him to draw the wrong conclusion.

“Trust me when I say,” he replied, “I do not require you to be my conscience. Others who came before you had tried and failed.”

His breath fanned her cheek, and she knew he could feel hers as well.

“Your mother, you mean?”

He drew in a breath through his nose and held it for a moment before shaking his head and exhaling. “My mother… and others.”

He looked away, then turned to the door. “I should leave you to it. This cravat has been torturing me all evening; I shall go take it off and leave you to your scandalous authors.”

With that, he disappeared.

She stood alone in the library, listening as his footsteps faded. It was only then that she realized her legs were trembling. From what, exactly, she could not say. But she was forced to lean against the back of a chair, lest her treacherous knees give way.

This man. This vexing, peculiar man. The more time she spent with him, the more space he occupied in her mind. And that would never do.

She walked to the window, her thoughts drifting back to what her cousin Margot had said. How had she put it? Something was smoldering and she wanted to be told when it caught fire?

“Something is smoldering between you, and I am only waiting for it to catch fire?”

She wasn’t exactly sure but the meaning had been clear enough.

She could not deny that she had felt it, too.

She would not have called it smoldering, not until tonight.

There had been sparks between them, yes, but she had assumed they were sparks of resentment and vexation, the sort one felt toward a person they deeply despise yet cannot help but notice was… well, handsome.

But tonight, she could no longer deny there was something more.

Was it smoldering?

Whatever it was, she vowed she would extinguish it before it had a chance to catch fire.