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

Rhys leaned against the wall, one leg casually crossed over the other, swirling the brandy in his glass.

The amber liquid sloshed dangerously near the rim but never spilled.

The tedium of the musical soirée threatened to lull him into sleep right there.

Until Gideon Marsh approached, a plate of hors d’oeuvres in hand.

“Here, let this occupy you for a while,” Gideon said, thrusting the plate toward him.

Rhys raised an eyebrow but obediently plucked a bite off the platter—a thinly baked piece of bread piled high with cheese and something green.

He popped it into his mouth, trying to distinguish the flavors, but the cheese overpowered everything else.

He winced and pushed the plate back, swallowing a hearty sip of brandy to chase it down.

“Pray take that out of my sight. That may be the most dreadful thing I’ve eaten recently.”

“Very well.” Gideon shrugged. “Suit yourself. Now, are you enjoying yourself?” He wiggled his eyebrows in amusement.

“I would rather ride a horse through a densely wooded forest backward—with a blindfold—than endure another moment of this.” Rhys’s tone was dry as dust.

Gideon scoffed. “Oh, you’re positively theatrical. You’re a marquess now. This is what you’re made for—theatre, opera, fancy dinners, musical soirées.”

“I cannot believe I let you talk me into coming here,” Rhys muttered, shaking his head and downing the last of his brandy. “If you were a true friend, you’d have taken me to Teta’s or Vauxhall Gardens. But no, it must be here.”

“Indeed, it must. Lady Swanson is my godmother. You know this very well.”

“Yes, and I—” He paused as a murmur rippled through the room, punctuated by gasps and a swell of animated conversation.

Rhys turned his head just in time to see a young woman storm into the room.

She was a vision, for more reasons than one.

First, her dress. A shocking shade of red, as ripe and bold as a tomato, and decidedly out of fashion for the Season.

But more than that, she had revealed it in an equally dramatic manner, shrugging off a silver and white pelisse that now lay abandoned behind her on the floor, as though she had just stepped out of her dressing chamber instead of into a grand ballroom.

She stood, her hands planted on her hips, her expression unreadable from Rhys’s vantage point. Her blonde hair swept around her shoulders as she turned left and right, clearly ensuring she had everyone’s undivided attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” she called, her voice rising above the strings of the quartet. “Forgive me for intruding on your evening—and forgive me, Lady Swanson—but I have an announcement. I promise it will not be long.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “This ought to be interesting.”

“You will thank me for bringing you yet,” Gideon muttered under his breath.

“I just may,” Rhys murmured. “A spectacle such as this—I haven’t seen one in some time.”

The lady continued, her cheeks flushed with determination.

“My father, the Earl of Lowey, has in the past year decided to marry off my eldest sister to an octogenarian. Yes, a man old enough to be her great-grandfather. It was only through Providence that she escaped such a fate and instead married a truly remarkable gentleman.”

A wave of hushed murmurs swept through the crowd.

“And yet,” she said, “it seems my father has learned nothing from that debacle. He has now decided to marry me off as well, to a gentleman of his choosing: Lord Emery.”

Gideon turned toward Rhys, his face contorting with distaste. “Emery? The one rumored to have pushed his maid out the window?”

“Did he really?” Rhys asked, more intrigued now. “I hadn’t heard.”

“You hadn’t?” Gideon’s eyebrows flew up. “I’d have thought you’d know everything about the man who’s trying to knock you off your pedestal as the most talked-about lord in London.”

Rhys gave a half-smile. “I pay no mind to such trivialities. Though,” he added, “this is beginning to sound more and more amusing.”

Back at the center of the room, the young woman pressed on. “I will have you know that I have no intention of being sold off like a mare at the market. And certainly not to a man such as Lord Emery, who stands accused of many dreadful things.”

Gasps erupted anew.

She tilted her chin up. “Mark my words, I would rather die an ape leader than become the Countess of Emery.”

With that, she turned on her heel, retrieved her pelisse, flung it over her shoulder, and marched out of the room without another word, vanishing into one of the side corridors.

For a beat, the room was silent. Then, the buzz of renewed, fevered gossip began.

Gideon blinked. “Well…”

Rhys pushed off the wall and set down his empty glass.

“Now that,” he drawled with a wide grin, “was worth the brandy. Pray, Gideon, who was that?” he asked, looking after the lady who had vanish through the far door as though she were the devil herself, freshly arrived from the underworld in a scarlet gown.

“Lady Charlotte Langley,” Gideon replied. “The second daughter of Lord Lowey.”

“Ah, Lowey. That’s right, her father made her sister marry that old coot, Harrington. And then he choked to death on… what was it? A date?”

“I heard it was an apricot kernel,” Gideon said. “But I think what actually killed him was the apoplexy.”

“I’d die apoplexy too, if I were married to that spitfire,” Rhys said with a low chuckle, though he was clearly impressed.

She had wanted a scandal—she was certainly going to get one. The white feather fans were already fluttering like startled doves as whispers rippled through the room. Lady Swanson, their hostess for the evening, glanced around with something dangerously close to delight in her eyes.

“She’s always had a taste for the dramatic,” Gideon scoffed. “The more outrageous, the better. She’d hoped to be in the scandal sheets tomorrow—not for herself, mind, but for her event.”

“I daresay she will be,” Rhys muttered, just as an older woman, clearly flustered, hurried after Lady Charlotte.

He and Gideon turned toward the refreshments table to refill their glasses.

Two brandies, one Scotch, and one whiskey later, Rhys’s head no longer felt as clear as it had upon his arrival—which was just as well, considering he’d had to endure an hour of the most extraordinarily dreadful music he’d heard in his life.

During the intermission, he decided a bit of fresh air was in order. Leaving Gideon deep in conversation with his aunt, he slipped out into the garden.

The cold evening air revived him somewhat. For a townhouse, the garden was surprisingly refined, though modest in size. Within ten steps, he reached the far edge of it and sighed.

“I dare you…” a voice said beside him.

He turned sharply. There, illuminated by the moonlight, stood the unmistakable figure in the red dress. He didn’t recognize her face—how could he?—but the gown gave her away instantly. Her head was tilted up toward the sky, hands curled into tight fists.

“I dare you to send another challenge,” she whispered. “I will face it. I will. I will not end up like Evelyn. I won’t.”

“Does that usually work?” Rhys asked casually.

She rounded on him. Her hair had escaped from its pins and tumbled wildly around her shoulders, her eyes flashing in the moonlight.

“I beg your pardon?” she sputtered, though her tone suggested she wasn’t begging anything. It was the tone of someone saying, How dare you speak to me?

“I asked whether shouting at the heavens typically works.”

“I was not shouting at the heavens,” she retorted. “I was speaking to—” She waved her arm dramatically toward the sky. “The universal god, or fate, or whatever it is that sends us trials. And I fail to see how any of that is your concern.”

“It’s not,” he said, his voice even. “I merely thought it was interesting. You’re interesting. That was the most fascinating entrance I’ve seen in quite some time.”

“Well, I’m glad you were entertained.”

“I assure you, I was not the only one. You’ll certainly be the talk of the ton by morning. But I imagine that was the goal, was it not?”

She fixed him with a wary look. “I do not see how my goals are any of your business, Sir.”

“Perhaps not,” he relented. “Although if you didn’t intend it for public consumption, you might not have delivered your speech from center stage. And here you are again, continuing your tirade against the heavens. I must say, I’m imp—”

“I did not set out to impress you, Sir,” she huffed. “I set out to free myself from the shackles my father would place on me.”

“Well,” he said with a nod, “that is understandable. If my father tried to marry me off to Lord Emery, I might react the same way.”

Her eyebrows rose. “I rather think that situation would never arise, given that you are… decidedly not a lady.”

“That’s correct.” He smirked. “Though I do believe my father—or rather, my uncle, my steward, and even my valet—would like to see me wed. To salvage my reputation,” he added in a mock conspiratorial tone.

Her lips formed a small O of surprise. “Your reputation?”

She studied him more closely now, as if attempting to place his face. But she wouldn’t succeed, for they had never met before tonight.

Rhys bowed with exaggerated flair. “My Lady,” he said, “permit me to introduce myself. Rhys Ellingsworth.”

She froze, her hand flying to her mouth. She staggered back two steps and looked toward the door.

“How dare you accost me out here, alone, in the garden! Do you not know what being seen with a man like you could do to a young lady’s reputation?”

He let out a low, amused laugh. “I hadn’t realized you were so concerned with your reputation. I thought your intention was to ruin it. Wasn’t that the whole point of the performance? To declare to all of London that you will not wed?”

He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “London’s number one rake will be plastered across every scandal sheet tomorrow. But not because you were seen speaking to London’s second-most scandalous rake in a garden.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “From what I’ve heard about you, if anyone is the number one rake—not just in London, but in all of England—it’s you.”

He gasped theatrically. “How dare you insult me so cruelly! I assure you, I’ve no desire to knock Lord Emery off his pedestal. After all, I have no illegitimate children and no dead maids attached to my name. But I will forgive you. Clearly, you are in great distress.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, then her lips parted as if to respond, but no words came out. After a moment, she let out a breath, dropped her arms, and muttered, “You are impossible. Absolutely impossible.”

“I am wounded by your judgment, My Lady, when we have only just met,” he replied. “You really ought to give me a proper chance to prove how impossible I can be.”

“I think this conversation has come to an end, My Lord,” she said tightly.

Then, she grabbed a handful of her skirts, turned with theatrical flair, and marched back toward the house.

Rhys watched her go, oddly intrigued by the fire in her words, uncontained and unrepentant.

It was fortunate that she had made it very clear she intended to bring her life crashing down in a blaze of scandal. And that he had made it abundantly clear he never intended to wed.

Because otherwise…

Otherwise, this could get very dangerous.

Very quickly.