Page 19 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Aweek later, they stepped down from the carriage. Rhys extended his hand toward her. She hesitated a moment before taking it. Then, she descended with her head held high and her shoulders pulled back so that her bosom was pushed out proudly.

Rhys allowed himself a moment to admire her, a smirk playing on his lips. Yes, he had an exceedingly beautiful wife. And so what if she seemed perpetually vexed by him?

None of the attendees here would ever suspect it. They would see only what they were meant to see—a united front. A beautiful young woman who knew her own mind, and her dashing, reformed husband at her side.

Reformed.

Rhys almost laughed at the notion. Who would have thought that he, Rhys Ellingsworth, would ever think of himself as reformed?

In truth, part of the reason why he had agreed to this arranged marriage was precisely so that he might avoid reform. And yet, somehow, reform had found him all the same.

He had planned to reduce his visits to the watering holes—perhaps once a week—but the truth was, he had not been even once. On the rare evenings he went out, it was usually to Gideon’s home for cards.

More surprising still, he had not once been tempted to visit St. Giles or any of his old haunts. He could not say exactly why, but it seemed the mere fact of having a wife—a wife on paper, to be sure—had kept him from it.

Foolish, perhaps, but every time he thought of the rookery, he saw Charlotte’s disapproving face. More specifically, he saw the look she had given him shortly after their wedding night.

By now, he had guessed that she believed he had gone to the rookery that evening, when in truth he had been at Gideon’s, drinking himself into a stupor.

He had no desire to see her judgment again. The more time they spent together, the more he found himself reluctant to offend her. It was one thing to needle and provoke her into a debate—something she rose to with a gratifyingly fiery spirit—but another to truly contort her opinion of him.

Their exchanges were always best when she was roused to indignation.

Well, not always. He recalled their conversation in the library on the night of the great storm. That had been invigorating, too. Until they had spoken of his parents. Or rather, until he had spoken of them. She had no idea that was the reason for his sudden reserve.

“You may let go. I have arrived safely,” her voice came, interrupting his thoughts.

He looked down and realized he was still holding her hand, his thumb resting over her fingers. Slowly, he released her.

Her lips were slightly parted, the deep rouge far bolder—far more scandalous—than any of the other ladies present would dare wear.

He smiled.

He liked it. She was a rebel at heart, and she had ideas he had never thought to hear from a lady’s mouth.

Indeed, Charlotte was far wittier and far more intelligent than he had initially thought—not that he would ever tell her so. She already thought quite highly of herself; there was no need to swell her head further. Still, he could not quite resist leaning in.

“You look positively dangerous with that rouge,” he murmured.

“That is because I am dangerous,” she declared, a smile ghosting across her lips.

It was true that their relationship was still largely combative, but far less so than before. Perhaps they were learning to weather one another’s tempers. Perhaps she was beginning to think him not quite so terrible. As for him, he had to admit he enjoyed her presence more than was prudent.

He closed his eyes briefly, and there it was again—the memory of her breath against his cheek in the library.

Foolish. He was foolish. She could barely stand the sight of him, of that he was certain.

“Are you ready?” he asked, offering his arm once more.

She took it, nodding. “Yes. Let us show the beau monde that you and I are indeed a happily married couple.”

He nodded, and together they entered the ballroom.

The place was packed with guests; Lady Swanson had truly outdone herself. The moment they stepped through the doors, half the assembly seemed to turn toward them.

“Well,” Rhys murmured, “we are certainly the cynosure of all eyes.”

“Given what happened the last time I walked through these doors, I can hardly blame them,” she muttered.

He said nothing, merely leading her through the crowd, greeting acquaintances left, right, and center.

“Is that your cousin?” he asked, inclining his head.

She looked up and smiled. “Yes. She said she would be here. Do you mind if I greet her?”

“Whatever you wish to do, you shall. That was our agreement. But do not forget that we must dance at least twice together—if not thrice. They must see us together. And since Lady Swanson encourages married couples to dance, we must take advantage.”

“Yes, I am aware. I shall greet her and then return in time for the quadrille.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It will have to be the waltz.”

“The waltz?” she echoed, her voice pitched higher than usual, as though the idea truly alarmed her.

He bent closer. “What is the matter, My Lady? Surely you are not scandalized at the thought of dancing the waltz with your husband?”

“No,” she said quickly, determined not to reveal how very much the thought of such intimacy on the dance floor unsettled her. “It is only that I did not know the waltz could be danced among the ton.”

He smirked. “We are at Lady Swanson’s ball. Of course, the waltz can be danced.”

With that, she inclined her head and made for her cousin.

Rhys had thought they would at least have a drink together. However, Charlotte was nothing if not difficult to read.

He made his way through the crowd, spotting several gentlemen he had known well in past endeavors. Yet he knew they were keeping their distance.

A few times, he had gone to the House of Lords, and on each occasion, he noticed the same thing: all the gentlemen with whom he had kept company before were now keeping to themselves.

It wasn’t merely that they kept away from him; they were avoiding each other as well, as though being seen together might dredge up their past deeds.

It was ridiculous. His standing in society should not be determined by the likes of Woodhaven, Rosslyn, and Sherwood. Although he couldn’t deny that, since their wives’ meeting at his home, those men had been somewhat more cordial toward him. Their wives had bought the charade of a happy home.

Perhaps after tonight, he could put all his worries about the future behind him.

He nodded in the direction of Lord Rosslyn, who was standing across the room with Lord Sherwood, sharing a brandy. Lady Swanson, their hostess for the evening, was busy chatting with a few matrons.

“If it isn’t Ravenscar!”

“A pleasure to see you tonight,” Woodhaven said. “My wife and I were very sorry you had to cancel.” He waved a hand. “The wretched flood washed out our entire driveway. It was dreadful. You would’ve had to swim your way home!”

He chuckled as though that was the wittiest remark made in at least a century, and Rhys joined in with a polite laugh.

“My wife tells me you are having some of our revolutionary ladies over for dinner soon?”

Rhys had known this was going to come up.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “My wife sought the counsel of your wife and her friends, and they pointed her in that direction. She thought they might be… a little more flexible with her, her strengths, when it comes to helping her put together her school.”

“A school?” Woodhaven shook his head. “Ravenscar, I do appreciate that you are looking to reform yourself and that your wife is doing the same. Charity is always to be admired. But a school for peasants? What would that do?”

Rhys took a deep breath, reminded of conversations overheard between his father and mother. His mother had always advocated for those less fortunate, while his father maintained that anyone could better themselves if they set their mind to it.

“Surely it is for the betterment of the entire realm if those who cannot so much as decipher their own name can do so,” he argued. “Is it not beneficial to all of us if they can seek employment and better opportunities? If they can read and write, and perhaps do basic maths?”

Woodhaven rubbed his thumb and index finger over his mustache as he considered. “I don’t see how it benefits any of us.”

That was what it was always about, wasn’t it? How such things might benefit those who were wealthy enough to never have to worry about another day’s work.

“It benefits us because we will not have to worry about their welfare,” Rhys said.

“If they can improve themselves, they can improve their circumstances. They can improve their neighborhoods, and we will not have to look at them in their current state. I dare say I would rather enjoy my morning walks without having to smell the stench that wafts from London’s less prosperous neighborhoods.

You know as well as I do that on a bad day, when the wind is just right… ”

Woodhaven raised his hands. “I understand what you mean. You think providing them with schooling will change that?”

Rhys clenched his fists. His thoughts drifted to St. Giles.

He had been there several times over the past few months.

First, he had called on Lizzie, the auburn-haired woman he’d woken up to during last year’s first snowfall.

Then, after she had disappeared—as those women so often did—he’d called on others.

The view from their windows had been the same: filth, sewage, and homeless people. It wasn’t right.

Then, he thought of Charlotte and what she had said about his mother—what his mother would expect of him now. Surely, she would want him to help those who could not help themselves.

Wasn’t that determination? And hadn’t Charlotte’s reading material been enough to send Woodhaven into apoplexy?

She was right. Perhaps he ought to stand for something. But right now, he stood for nothing at all.