Page 22 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

“Come, I promise it will be worth it,” Rhys urged, his fingers curling around her wrist.

He pulled her through the thicket, his free arm extended like a shield so the low-hanging branches would not hit her face.

The leaves crunched beneath their feet, and the smell of the earth after a heavy rain filled her nostrils.

Somewhere in the distance, birds flitted from branch to branch. It was quite magical. She had never been to this part of town.

“How much farther is it?” Charlotte asked.

Rhys looked over his shoulder at her and then glanced down at her kitten heels. “Those shoes are most impractical. I do not understand why you insisted on wearing them. Shall I carry you?”

“I dare you,” she fired back.

He stopped and turned. “Do you, indeed? You should know by now that I am not the sort of gentleman who runs from a dare.” He wagged his index finger, beckoning her closer.

“No, no!” Charlotte hissed. “I will not come. And you should know by now that I am not the sort of lady who obeys a gentleman’s call.”

“We will have to see about that,” he said, and dashed forward.

She let out a squeal before she could do anything else. His left arm slipped behind her knees, his right around her back, and he lifted her.

“There.” He chuckled. “That settles it.”

“Rhys Ellingsworth, you are the very worst! Put me down this instant!”

“I should think not,” he said. “After all, I do not wish to take the blame when you return home later with your feet all blistered. It will be all you speak of at dinner with your family, and I can already imagine the storm your cousin Margot will unleash on me for having allowed your poor, delicate feet to come to such harm.”

“Very well,” she huffed, slinging her arm around his shoulder and letting her fingers rest on his collarbone. “How far is it?”

“Not very far, which is most fortunate for my poor back,” he drawled.

She giggled.

Moments later, he stopped. They had arrived at a clearing.

“Goodness gracious,” she breathed.

Beautiful pink cherry blossoms surrounded them. She had never seen anything as beautiful as this. Up until now, she had only ever seen cherry blossoms in paintings.

“What is this place?” she asked. “I thought these only grew in Japan.”

“In Japan and here,” he said as he set her down.

Charlotte stepped forward. Gorgeous hummingbirds of all colors perched on the branches. She breathed in the sweet air and closed her eyes. She noted the slight movement behind her, and when she opened her eyes again, she was not surprised to find Rhys standing before her.

He reached out and cupped her face. “Do you like it?”

“I do. Very much. Thank you.” She gazed up at him.

He bent forward, his lips drawing closer. The scent of peppermint still lingered on his breath.

His lips were on hers before she could say anything further.

Her eyes closed, and a rush of something wonderful swept through her body—a sensation she had never experienced before.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and stepped closer, his kiss growing more passionate, more demanding with each second.

“Rhys,” she whispered. “Oh, Rhys!”

Her own voice pulled her out of her dream, and she sat up as if summoned.

Outside, rain pelted the windows, but the sweet scent of the cherry blossom she had just imagined had been replaced by the more unpleasant smell of a fireplace gone cold.

She shivered and drew her blankets tighter around herself.

However had this happened? How had she allowed herself to dream of him?

Her brain was as much a traitor as her feet when it came to him, it seemed.

Just as her feet would cross any room to stand nearer to him, and her hands kept rising of their own accord to touch him, her mind had decided to take its own course and allow her dreams to be haunted by him.

Her hand wandered to her lips, and she remembered their kiss. Not the one from the dream, but the one from the ball.

How had he dared to kiss her? And without her permission!

It had been… infuriating, and yet romantic. Everyone had stared at them, not in the way one stares at a curiosity, but the way someone regards something they envy.

The young ladies had envied her handsome husband and their passionate dance and their kiss, which would set the entire ton talking.

She shook her head. This was quite ridiculous.

She rose from her bed and walked over to her writing desk. She fumbled through the match case; the scent of sulfur invaded her nostrils, but the little flame instantly illuminated her surroundings. She took out a piece of parchment, ink, and a quill.

She had to distract herself somehow.

Dear Marianne,

I do hope you have been keeping well. How I wish you were here! I have Evelyn, yes, and Margot, which is a blessing and comfort in itself, but I miss you terribly. My sister, always so pragmatic, always so steadfast. I could use your counsel.

I do not know what to make of it all. He is so utterly vexing, this husband of mine.

By now, you might have heard about the spectacle we caused at Lady Swanson’s ball.

I dare say she will never invite us again.

The first time, I appeared as a vision in scarlet, declaring my unwillingness to marry one worthless rake.

The second time, I appeared as the wife of another.

We danced together and quarreled. I can barely recall what we quarreled about.

He had tried to help me with my school—did I tell you about my school?

The notion struck me out of nowhere. I knew I had to do something to fill my time, and I thought, why not establish a school for those underprivileged souls who wish to learn?

I am endeavoring to establish it with some of the other ladies, to find ways to ensure that those who wish to attend do not suffer financially, for of course, it will take up much of their time…

She sat back and blew a curl from her face. Here she was, rambling about everything save the matter at hand. She set the quill down and rose, pacing up and down the room.

Why had she been so vexed with Rhys? He had only tried to help her. Approaching Lord Woodhaven in the manner he had would most certainly prove beneficial. And if she had Woodhaven on her side…

Had it bothered her because the idea was not her own? Because she was unwilling to accept his aid?

She was not entirely certain.

Her husband had not deserved such treatment. He was quite right—he had only endeavored to help her, after all.

The more she contemplated it, the more she realized that one of the reasons she had been so upset was that by acting so gallantly, by helping her with her endeavors, he was challenging her perception of him.

Rakes did not care for others’ welfare. Then again, that had not always been his reputation, had it? Even the sticklers of the ton considered him a cut above the rest.

Perhaps there was more to him than she had allowed herself to see. Perhaps there was far more to him, indeed.

She dropped her head into her hands. She had to cease thinking in this manner. This was very dangerous territory.

She could not allow herself to feel anything for her husband. For he most certainly did not feel anything for her. She had to prevent her treacherous mind from permitting such thoughts again.

She blew out the candle, leaving the letter unfinished. She crawled back into her bed and buried her head in the pillow, willing herself to dream of anything other than Rhys.

Rhys tapped his finger against the rim of his glass in a rhythmical motion, the only sound in his otherwise quiet study.

Outside, rain was still falling, but the angle was such that it did not drum against his window.

He would have liked it if it had. The pitter-patter tended to calm his nerves at times such as this.

And at this moment, calm was exactly what he needed. Or a distraction. One or the other.

He rose and gazed out at the London streets, which lay dark and silent before him. The only light came from the street lamps, which had been lit a short while ago.

Nobody was out on the streets at this hour, not in this neighborhood. A cat darted across the street and disappeared between two houses, the movement drawing his attention.

He noticed that the light in his neighbor’s front parlor was still on. He could see the candle flame dancing, though there was no movement in the room. Had the man gone to sleep without blowing it out?

Rhys thought back to his mother, how she had always scolded him when he left a room without extinguishing the candle or taking it with him. She had always been so mindful of such dangers.

What would she have thought of Charlotte?

He had spoken hastily when Lady Woodhaven had challenged him, and he had meant it at that moment. Now that he reflected on it more deeply, it became increasingly clear to him.

He could see the picture before him perfectly: Sunday breakfast, his mother seated at the table beside Charlotte, the two of them chatting amiably, perhaps leafing through the pages of Ackermann’s Repository, discussing ribbons and bonnets.

But no, they would not be discussing ribbons and bonnets. They would be speaking of entirely different matters—finding ways to assist her sister with her climbing boys venture, determining how to expand the school, which would already be built and flourishing by then.

His mother had never allowed anything to deter her, and neither would Charlotte. He could only imagine the formidable force the two of them would be together.

His hand tightened around his glass, his thumb still tracing the rim.

He had to cease thinking in this manner. It served no good purpose whatsoever. Thinking of his mother only brought the darkness he had worked so hard to keep at bay. Soon, thoughts of his father would follow, and then his brother, and then…

Usually, when his thoughts raced thus and robbed him of elusive sleep, he would leave the house and venture to St. Giles or whatever other refuge was nearest.

He would drink, he would gamble, and then he would find a lady with whom to spend the night. Perhaps he might indulge in opium—laudanum for certain, opium if the need was great. Then, he would forget everything. That was what he had to accomplish.

He could not continue thinking about the fact that his wife was only next door. He had to forget that she was merely a few chambers away from him. Had to forget about the kiss. That damned kiss…

“Blast!” he exclaimed as the glass shattered in his hand.

He leaped up and stared at the shards. Amber liquid spilled across his desk, and then red droplets of blood joined in the mess.

He turned his palm upward and watched the blood well up. No glass seemed to be embedded, which was most fortunate. Still, it stung more because the glass had contained spirits.

Hastily, he retrieved his handkerchief and wrapped his hand for the second time that evening. His palm still smarted from where he had dug his fingernails into it earlier, and now this fresh wound.

No matter what transpired, he was going to have to cease thinking about Charlotte, or else the wounds in his hands would only be the beginning. And whilst those would heal in time, he feared the wounds in his heart never would.