Page 24 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

The carriage rumbled down Bond Street toward Haversham House. Rhys pulled at his tunic to let air in while Charlotte looked at him with a smile.

“Itchy, are we, Apollo?”

“Yes,” he replied begrudgingly. “I had not expected the costume to be quite so itchy. I suppose that is why my parents did not end up wearing them at their masquerades.”

“Well, you look brilliant, indeed,” she drawled.

Rhys looked down at himself.

He was dressed in a rather ridiculous costume.

He couldn’t imagine his father had ever seriously considered wearing it.

His white tunic went down to his knees, and the elaborate gold embroidery along the hem, sleeves, and bottom glinted in the dim light.

The fabric was fine linen, but the metallic threads chafed his skin.

On his head, he wore a golden laurel crown with delicate leaves that caught the light, while his arms were adorned with wide gold and silver bracers engraved with sun motifs.

Instead of normal shoes, he wore his dancing slippers, but they had been wrapped with a golden cord and fitted with small golden wings at the ankles. Up his calves ran golden leather guards that had been tooled to resemble classical armor, complete with embossed lyres and sunbursts.

“It is most ridiculous,” he huffed. “I must say, it seems quite unfair that I should look as though I have escaped from Bedlam, dressed in a bedsheet, while you look… well, splendid indeed.”

He was not paying her Spanish coin. She truly was beautiful. She, too, wore a white dress, but it had been cut to fit her beautifully. Her bosom looked larger than usual, but that was not at all to her detriment. Nor was it an insult to his eyes.

Her gown was draped in the classical style, with one shoulder bare in the Grecian fashion, though a delicate silver chain mail overlay preserved modesty while creating the illusion of armor.

On her head was a diadem with silver owl feathers and moonstone gems, and her dark hair had been piled high but allowed to cascade in ringlets over her shoulders.

It was rare for a woman to venture out with her hair down, but given her pride in her rebellious ways as well as the shield of her costume, she could get away with it, and she looked superb.

Golden bracers ran up her arms, etched with owls and olive branches, matching the ones around his calves.

Her shoes, too, were wrapped in a silver cord, so that her dancing slippers blended perfectly with the illusion.

At her side hung a small ornamental shield, no larger than a reticule, embossed with Medusa’s head.

“Thank you,” she said, looking away.

“Pray, are you blushing?”

“I am not,” she said. “And even if I were, you could not see it, for the carriage is dark.”

Rhys grinned but did not say anything further. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t, because they had arrived at Haversham House. The moment he stepped out of the carriage, a wave of relief washed over him, for he was not the only one in a ridiculous outfit.

Walking past him was a man dressed as a faun, and at least three sultanas stood on the sidewalk, along with their companions. A Harlequin came down the stairs, followed by a shepherdess.

“Well,” he noted as he handed Charlotte down, holding her hand for a moment too long, “it seems we do not stand out too much.”

“I dare say, if you wish to stand out, then you should have simply worn the outfit you wore on our wedding day. Those gold buttons certainly stood out.”

He narrowed his eyes and clicked his tongue. “That is what I get for trying to be attractive on our wedding day.”

The air between them was light. He wasn’t quite sure why. In fact, it was difficult to tell these days when they were getting along and when they were not.

Days could pass without them speaking two sentences to each other, and he generally liked this because it meant that they were keeping their distance.

But there were other times when they would fall into easy conversation—usually about the most inane topics—sometimes even laugh, and he would wish those moments would never end.

Yet he was grateful when they did, because he knew that once again, distance would keep them from making grave mistakes.

He escorted her inside, and instantly, jolly music enveloped them. A reel was underway, and the sounds of feet stomping on the ground filled the air. Laughter and chatter surrounded them, and the chandelier, which held at least fifty beeswax candles, sparkled above them.

“Over there is the Duke of Windsor.” Rhys nodded his chin toward the surly-looking man dressed as a chimney sweep.

“How can you tell?” Charlotte asked.

“I saw the way he walked when he approached the table. He drags his right leg because of gout.”

“I see,” she said. “So I suppose when we speak to him, there will be no danger of him asking me to dance.”

“I should think not,” he replied. “Come, let us greet him.”

He offered his arm again, and she took it. The feel of her hand on his arm was almost indescribable. It was peaceful, it was right.

As they navigated the crowd, her hip bumped into his a few times. That, too, made him wish that whatever this thing between them would turn into something more.

“Your Grace,” he called.

The Duke of Windsor turned. “Ravenscar! You have spotted me. I see you saw right through my cunning disguise.”

Rhys paused for a moment, unsure how to explain how he had known it was him without referencing the gout, a sensitive topic amongst high society.

“You were given away,” Charlotte interjected. “We heard someone say that the Duke of Windsor is the only chimney sweep here this evening.”

The Duke snapped his fingers. “Drat! You would not know which traitor has given me away, would you?”

She smiled. “I could only say that it was a gentleman, but which one, I could not tell.”

“Well,” he said, “that is a shame. I shall have to live with the betrayal for the rest of my life.”

They conversed for several more minutes, and Rhys was impressed with how easily Charlotte spoke to the Duke, as though she had been born for this.

The Duke eventually turned and left them to their own devices.

The two stood on the edge of the ballroom for a moment, before Charlotte rose on her tiptoes to whisper something in Rhys’s ear. “I think he was thoroughly charmed. I dare say that after this, your business ventures will be safe.”

“I should hope so,” he whispered back. “That is, after all, one of the reasons why we’re doing this. Now, over yonder is Viscount Barley. He and I are in business together.”

“I wonder if his real title is Lord Barley-Fields?” she asked with a chuckle.

He rolled his eyes. “You think yourself exceedingly clever. I am certain this is the first time anyone has jested about the poor man’s name.”

She raised her hands placatingly. “I will not insult his good name again.”

“We are fortunate to have a name that is both interesting and evocative.”

“Ravenscar? Evocative?” she scoffed.

He widened his eyes. “Do not tell me you have never thought it an ideal name for a character in a Gothic novel. Ravenscar scaled the outer wall and leaped into the courtyard, dashing forth toward the beautiful maiden Rosemary.”

The laugh that escaped Charlotte’s lips sounded genuine, as though she was truly amused by what he had said.

“Now that you mention it in such a manner, it does sound evocative. Although it makes me rethink naming my school after us. The Ravenscar School for…”

“The Unfortunate?” he suggested.

She looked up at him, her face darkening. “I do not wish to call it that. It seems unkind to those souls that would attend it.”

“Why not simply call it the Ravenscar School? No need for all the additional fluff and flutter.”

Charlotte pondered that for a moment, then nodded. “I shall mention it to Lady Woodhaven and see what she thinks.”

“Is it your school, or do you need to ask her permission for every single decision you make?”

She bristled. “Yes, but it is her support I must count on. So if asking her opinion will make her more positively inclined to the things I wish to do, then that is what I shall do. Is that not what you do? Is that not what we are doing here?” she asked.

Rhys paused for a moment, realizing that she was right. They were here at this ball because he wanted his business partners to see something specific. He wanted them to see that he was reformed. That he was a respectable husband with a respectable wife. It was why they got married, after all.

He shrugged. “I suppose we ought to dance.”

“I have never been asked in such a well-articulated manner to dance before,” she said.

He offered his hand. “Let us go,” he said, ignoring her remark.

Together, they joined the rows of dancers that were presently beginning one of the country dances.

As they stood, Rhys realized that he hadn’t let go of her hand, even though none of the other pairs were presently holding hands in anticipation of the dance.

Should he release her hand? Would that draw more attention? Why hadn’t she released his? In fact, he noted that her fingers were curled around his hand, holding on tight, as though she didn’t want him to let go no matter what.

It was a conundrum. When had he ended up in a situation like this, pondering whether to let go of a hand or not?

He was Rhys Ellingsworth, London’s number two rake, and he was wondering if he should let go of his wife’s hand and what sort of message it might convey to her.

Who was to say? They stayed as they were, and fortunately, after another minute or two, the music started, and they stepped onto the dance floor.

As they twirled, moved, and changed partners only to find one another again, Rhys could not take his eyes off her. There was something about her. Something special. And yet he knew that she still saw him as nothing but a convenience, as he should see her.

After all, she had barely listened to him when he first told her about the ball.

She hadn’t even known when it would take place or what it was about.

She had forgotten about the costume until he suggested it.

It was clear that her mind was on her school and on a time when she could finally be free of him.

And yet here he was, thinking about her more than he should. Thinking about her with such intensity that he could have shattered a glass in his hand.

It was ridiculous.

“My Lord,” Charlotte said, drawing his attention. He blinked and looked at her. “I think your business partners are watching us.”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder and saw Lord Barley looking in their direction and smiling. He noted that several of his other business partners were also there, most watching them.

Well, their charade was working, that he knew.

Perhaps the best he could do at this point was to keep up the pretense.

Help her find a location for her school and ensure that all her plans were set.

Then, once he knew that his standing was firmly cemented once more, they could go their separate ways.

They could pretend to quarrel in public. They could have the ballet mistresses and lady’s maids spread rumors about their romance and how it was slowly souring. Then, they could part ways—he in whatever direction he chose, and she in her preferred location. And that would be that.

They would have to see one another on occasion, of course, but they would have their freedom. That was what they had always wanted—freedom from each other’s company.

So why did his heart clench at the mere thought?