Page 3 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

The knock on her door came quickly, and then the door flew open before she could even call for whoever it was to enter.

Marianne stood before her, several newspapers pressed against her chest.

“They are here—the papers. I had Bessy rush out to get more of the ones we don’t usually read. Father departed for Lord Emery’s—off to nurse his wounded pride, no doubt. Aunt Eugenia has collapsed twice and demanded her vinaigrette thrice, so you know she’s truly aggrieved.”

Charlotte blinked, not even fully awake yet, as her sister climbed into her bed, struggling with the papers.

“Give me those,” she croaked, and took them from her, allowing Marianne another free hand to get up on the bed.

Her sister perched cross-legged like a schoolboy, scandalizing the spirit of etiquette with every wrinkle of her nightgown, and pointed to the headline on the cover. “See here?”

“I can read, Marianne.” Charlotte picked up the paper.

There, at the very top of page one, was her name. They hadn’t even bothered with abbreviations. Usually, when they published things like this, they would keep up the mystery. “Illustrious Lady C., daughter of the Earl of L., caught in such-and-such situation” would have been the typical headline.

But no. This time, they hadn’t bothered.

Lady Charlotte, the second daughter of the Earl of Lowey, single-handedly destroys her reputation at Lady Swanson’s soirée.

Two nights had passed since the ball. She had woken up anxious the next day, seeking out the papers, but there had been nothing. It was too soon, of course. It took a while for news to spread and for the publishers to prepare the editions.

Of course, word had already spread. Her aunt had immediately informed her father, who had given her a dressing-down and confined her to her chambers, as though she were a child and not a nineteen-year-old woman.

There had been some talk amongst their neighbors also, but by and large, she had not yet seen the desired effect.

Until now.

Now, here it was in black and white—the scandal she had sought.

She read the article quickly, admiring the accuracy of the story. They detailed everything, from the repurposed red costume to the words she had flung like gauntlets across the ballroom.

She was also pleased they hadn’t noted how much her hands had been shaking or how she had nearly thrown up right there in the middle of the grand ballroom, where polite society had gathered to watch a musical performance.

Of course, they hadn’t been able to see that. She was happy she’d managed to hide her nervousness from everyone.

But when she looked up, Marianne did not look pleased.

“This is very bad,” Marianne said. “Aunt Eugenia is horrified.”

“I expected she would be. And she was already upset yesterday. She has stayed upset since that evening.”

“Yes, but are you not worried?” Marianne asked. “Your reputation…”

“Is in shambles,” Charlotte finished with a smile. “Which is exactly what I wanted.”

Another knock sounded at the door, and she looked up, bracing herself for the entrance of her livid aunt. However, to her surprise, the face that appeared was not that of her aunt, but of her sister, Evelyn.

“Evelyn!” she exclaimed, leaping from the bed and into her sister’s arms. “What brings you here?”

Evelyn held up one of the scandal sheets. “What do you think brings me here? This is the only one I’ve read, and I saw more being sold as I came over. I heard rumors about your adventures at the Swansons’, but this? Tell me, is it true?”

“Of course it is,” Charlotte replied, taken aback that her sister wasn’t prouder of her. “I had to do something. I wasn’t going to let Father do to me what he did to you.”

Evelyn pursed her lips. “So it is true. Father attempted to marry you off to… Lord Emery?”

“Yes. He’s taking advantage of the fact that Nathaniel is in Portugal and cannot do anything about it. He was going to force me to marry Lord Emery by the end of the week. I couldn’t allow that.”

“But Charlotte, there had to have been other ways. Why didn’t you come to me?”

Charlotte paused. Why hadn’t she gone to her elder sister?

She shrugged. “You were far away, and the soirée was taking place that evening. There was no time. I thought I would put to use what I learned from you.”

Evelyn stepped back. “I am certain I did not teach you to dress up like Lucifer and make a spectacle at a ball.”

“Why not?” Charlotte cried, stomping her foot. She wouldn’t have behaved like that around any gentleman or even her father. But with her sister, she didn’t mind showing emotion. “I had to do something! Now, Lord Emery will want to distance himself from me. My reputation is in tatters.”

“Exactly! Your reputation is in tatters for good. You may have avoided having to marry that dreadful man, but what of your future? Who will marry you now?”

Charlotte gulped. The truth was, she hadn’t thought that far ahead. She had only wanted to destroy her reputation enough to dissuade Lord Emery. But yes, Evelyn was right. Who would want to marry her now?

However, she was not going to worry about that just yet. For the time being, she was determined to enjoy her success.

“Evelyn, the future will come and bring with it what it will. Spare me your hand-wringing. Come, we’ll scandalize the household further by daring to drink hot chocolate before noon.”

Her sister exchanged a glance with Marianne, but neither protested.

Instead, the three of them went down the stairs, Charlotte with her head held high and her shoulders rolled back.

Yet, as they walked, she caught the glances of the footman and the maid.

They were trying their best not to stare at her.

Then, they passed the front door on the way to the breakfast room. She spotted a gaggle of men outside, pointing at the house, newspapers in their hands.

Her breath caught. Outside, the street murmured her name like a warning.

Had she taken things too far? Had she, in her quest to free herself, created a prison from which she would never escape?

Rhys bolted from the coffee house on Bond Street as though Napoleon himself was nipping at his coat. He pulled his top hat further over his brow and turned up the collar of his coat.

This had been most unpleasant.

He was accustomed to scandal—had courted it, even. His reputation had always been more tattered cravat than pristine cravat pin. However, he had never been quite so maligned because of it.

The moment he had stepped into the coffee house, he had drawn stares and whispers. And once he sat down, the waiter eyed him with raised eyebrows as though he were some sort of curiosity.

The reason soon became clear.

The Tatler, one of London’s most notorious scandal sheets, had written about him again. On the front page, no less.

Ravenscar Set to Ruin Prince Regent’s Cousin? the headline screamed.

He hadn’t even been aware that the Prince Regent had a cousin. It wasn’t as though he was on a first-name basis with the man or strolled into Carlton House whenever he pleased.

Alas, the writer hadn’t cared for facts. Instead, they wrote about supposed clandestine meetings on palace grounds between him and this cousin, apparently a Lady Gwendolyn.

It was ridiculous. At first, he’d assumed nobody would believe it. But by the time he’d drained half his coffee, he’d been proven wrong. Everyone was whispering about him, and no one had come up to greet him. Which, in itself, was unusual.

In the end, the weight of their stares had proved more suffocating than smoke.

He turned onto Bond Street, his jaw set, his strides brisk with purpose. He had received a message from his solicitor that morning requesting his presence at his offices at his earliest convenience.

Why he had been summoned so early, he didn’t know. But he had never been one to walk away from duty, especially when it insisted on finding him everywhere he turned.

Entering the offices, he knocked once, and upon being called in, he stepped through the door and dropped into a chair.

Mr. Beale, an old gentleman with a rather impressive mustache that reached his chin and grey hair shaggier than it ought to be, looked up from his desk.

“My Lord. How kind of you to join me.”

“The invitation you sent brooked no argument,” Rhys said coolly. “Now, what is the matter? Do not tell me I’ve been summoned on account of that absurd headline.”

“The one proclaiming you’re in the process of ruining some distant relation of the Prince Regent?

No, you are not.” Mr. Beale steepled his hands.

“However, I will say that the two matters are related. The story may not be true, but we know that scandal has a way of finding and attaching itself to you.”

Rhys shrugged. “But I didn’t think my personal life mattered in the past.”

“No, because no one in Society cares what the second son does. But you are no longer a second son. And you are no longer merely an heir. You are a marquess. You are a member of the House of Lords. A certain level of decorum is required.”

Rhys scoffed. “Decorum? The gentlemen in the House of Lords have carte blanche and accounts in every gambling hall in London.”

“Yes,” Mr. Beale acknowledged. “But it’s not common knowledge. It is not shared across the realm. They are discreet. Their actions may be known among their peers, but not the public.”

“You know of them, and you are no peer,” Rhys pointed out.

“I am solicitor to a number of lords. There is a certain understanding among the people you now rub shoulders with: discretion. Most of them are married and have respectable families to present to the world, shielding their private affairs.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes. “And?”

“And that is why you are here. You need to build a respectable public image. You must marry. You can continue visiting every pleasure house in London if you please, but you must have a wife at your side to appear respectable.”

He snorted. “You expect me to lure some innocent little doll into a marriage under false pretenses when I have no intention of being a devoted husband?”

“It may not be under false pretenses. There are many ladies who would marry for the title alone. Agreements can be—”

“No,” he said. “No agreement will be reached. Not now, not ever. I have no desire to.”

Mr. Beale leaned back. “It may not be up to you. As you yourself noted, many gentlemen indulge in certain… liberties. But there have been a number of younger, unmarried lords who’ve been less than private about it—not as overt as you, I dare say, but enough.

The matter has been raised among the Lords, and pressure is being put on them to correct their behavior. ”

Rhys said nothing, turning his face to the side.

Mr. Beale leaned forward in his chair.

“They seek to protect their reputations. Association with those who lead more… shall we say, boisterous lives is frowned upon. Business partnerships may be… reevaluated.”

“Now my ventures hinge on whether I take my vices behind closed doors?”

“I am saying the more conservative faction is considering it. And I’m afraid, My Lord, that several of your holdings may be at risk. Your father purchased many of his mines and all his vineyards in partnership with others. I know you’ve been looking to expand into horse breeding.”

“With the Duke of Windsor. He has carte blanche in Dover and another in Edinburgh.”

“And yet the public does not know that because he is discreet. Even if they did, his wife is very popular. I’m afraid, My Lord, your future may not look as bright as you imagined.

And it’s not just business. If you ever hope to pass any bills in the House of Lords, you’ll need allies.

Who will support you on a bill to improve the lot of farmworkers when all anyone will discuss is which lady you’ve scandalized most recently? ”

Rhys gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles whitening. This couldn’t be. He was being forced to marry?

What a shameful, hypocritical society he lived in.

“I will not be forced into marriage.”

“No one can force you. But as I said, the future—should you continue on this path—is not a bright one.”

He sat for a moment, his nostrils flaring, before he stood up. He stormed out of the offices and back onto the street, glaring at passersby.

What were they saying behind his back? He had never truly cared about his reputation before, hadn’t thought of it as a hindrance. But now…

Now, there were things he wanted to accomplish, things he disliked about society. Improvements he wanted to make.

Should all of that be taken from him because of the way he chose to live?

What was he meant to do?

He couldn’t marry.

He’d never believed in marriage.

It was impossible. The very thought was—

“Earl’s daughter causes commotion at Swanson soirée!” one of the paper boys shouted near him.

Rhys stopped in his tracks and looked back. The little boy passed him, waving a newspaper high over his head.

“Earl’s daughter causes commotion at Swanson soirée!”

He turned, followed the boy, took the paper, and paid far too much for it.

Without even opening it, he saw the headline on the front page.

Lady Charlotte had done exactly what she’d intended—she had ruined herself. Utterly.

No man would marry her now.

A smile crept onto his face.

Perhaps that was the way to resolve his problem. Both of their problems. Would she be amiable? Perhaps not. But what choice did she have?

If he had to marry, then it would have to be to someone who understood the predicament he was in. Someone who had a predicament of their own.

Lady Charlotte Langley. Beautiful. Wild. Ruined. Perfect.