Page 30 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Charlotte sat in the conservatory that evening, looking up at the stars. The night sky was clear, with not a cloud in sight.

She had come to this place often since discovering it when touring the house. She had even taken her meals in there. It was quiet, peaceful, and beautiful.

She was lounging in her chair, watching the stars dance across the sky. She had felt like a fool after her uncle’s tea party. She had been jealous; there was no denying it.

And why had she been jealous? Because she loved her husband. Because she had made a cake of herself. She had allowed the attraction that had bothered her all this time to take over, to take root in her heart, and now she was utterly lost.

Rhys would never be hers. He was a rake. The rake of rakes…

She had fought her father so that she did not have to marry Lord Emery, a cruel man who would’ve had carte blanche in every corner of London. Instead, she had married another rake. Another man who would never be hers.

Rhys was, by all accounts, less horrid than Lord Emery. Yet, he had enough scandal attached to his name that he’d been forced into marriage. No matter what he said, she was sure he, too, had carte blanche in every port.

He had sworn there was nothing between him and Lady Clarissa, and he had sworn again the previous night that there was nothing between him and Lady Sandler. He had sounded genuine, and yet he had gone out at night more than once and not come back until morning. So what did that mean?

“Are you speaking to yourself?” His voice came from behind her, and she leaped out of her chair, spinning around so quickly that the chair tipped back and forth with a loud thud in the glass-enclosed space.

She gasped because she was in her nightgown, having not expected him. Quickly, she pulled on her robe and tied the sash at her waist.

“It is not polite to sneak up on ladies.”

“I am aware,” he said. “And I would not have snuck up on you had I known that you were in this room. Alas, I was unaware, and this is my home. Also, I did not think it imprudent to wander when sleep eluded me. I see it was no friend to you either this night.”

“It was not,” she muttered, not wanting to admit that each time she closed her eyes, she saw their argument playing out before her like a play that would not stop.

“What robbed you of sleep?” she asked quickly.

He shrugged. “This and that,” he replied, entering the room.

He, too, was not dressed in his night clothes.

It was odd seeing him in such a state of undress.

He wore a velvet green banyan, tied on the side with flourish, because, of course, a known rake like him would know how to even tie his banyan with style.

His hair was slightly mussed, standing up on one side and flat on the other—evidence of his tossing and turning.

She resisted the urge to walk up to him to smooth it down, though her fingers itched to do so.

“I see. And what might this and that be?” she probed, not sure why she was engaging him in conversation.

He shrugged again and ran his finger along the back of one of the chairs. “Unwanted visits from dead relations, mostly. Whenever I close my eyes, I see a member of my family. It depends on what state my mind and my heart are in at the time. Tonight, it was my brother.”

She crossed her arms, not sure what to say. He rarely spoke of his family.

“It wasn’t unpleasant. We went for a ride. One of the few activities that we enjoyed doing together.”

“You did not have much in common?” she asked.

“He was not interested in gambling and women.” He winked at her in such a way that made her heart skip a beat.

“He was studious, but also the sort who thought he knew everything better. He would often chastise people—me, most of all. Worried about our reputation and such. I am certain he’s looking down upon me now and shaking his head. ”

“I dare say, you are not that different. You, too, enjoy knowing everything better than everyone else.”

He glanced up and smiled. “The difference is that I usually am right.” He paused, then sighed. “There are times I resent him.”

He said it so suddenly and so casually that she was taken aback.

“You resent him?”

“Yes, because this life is meant to be his. But he died. He died and left it on my shoulders. For that, I sometimes hate him. He was meant to be a marquess. I don’t know if he would’ve been good at it. He was certainly trained for it. He would’ve been better than me, I’m quite certain.”

“He did not choose to die,” she offered carefully.

“I am aware. And I know that it is not rational to feel as I do, but I feel it all the same. Sometimes I resent my father, too.”

His fingers drew circles on the table in front of him as he slid into a chair.

“Now that I can understand,” she said.

“You would, would you not?”

Silence settled between them, and then he looked up again.

“He died in this room, did you know?”

A cold chill ran through her.

Most people died in their homes, Charlotte knew this. She had assumed that the former Marquess of Ravenscar died somewhere in this house or in the country estate. In fact, she assumed it was the country estate, and that might be the reason why Rhys never visited there.

“In… in this room?” she stammered.

“Yes. Over there,” Rhys said, pointing one lazy finger to the corner. “He was a painter. Oils, very sophisticated. He was over there, painting a landscape, and then he was gone. Can you imagine? Just like that. My mother, my brother, and then my father. And I got stuck doing things like this.”

Charlotte did not know what to say, so she opted for humor.

“Things like sitting in your banyan, in the conservatory, in the middle of the night?”

Rhys smiled. “Among other things. I mean all the things that a young peer is meant to do—converse, run businesses, attend musicales and balls.”

“And marry.”

“That, too.”

“You resent it?” she asked, the words coming out sharper than she had intended.

He looked at her, something soft in his eyes. “Now, now, do not attempt to trap me into another argument. I dare say I have had enough of your tongue-lashings already. You know what I mean.”

“Being a peer,” she conceded.

“Yes. Do I resent that, too? I do. Most of it, not all. Mostly, I grieve the things I didn’t get to do—the things I wanted to do.”

He sat back in his chair, and without meaning to, she crossed the room and sat beside him.

They were both facing the garden, which was shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the moon and the stars.

“What was it you wanted? I hear second sons have far more opportunities than firstborn sons when it comes to indulging in their dreams, since they are only spare. So I am certain you had grand dreams.”

“I am not sure how grand they were. I wanted to go to Italy.”

“Italy?” Her eyebrows rose. “I did not know you wished to travel. Did you not go on a Grand Tour?”

He turned to her, blinking as though his mind was somewhat foggy. As she sat next to him, she smelled something on his breath—brandy, perhaps whiskey.

He had tried to drink himself to sleep. Or was this a remnant from dinner, which they had taken separately?

“I never told anyone that,” he said. “It seems whiskey, wine, and a lack of sleep loosen a man’s tongue.

My mother always warned me about that. But yes, I wanted to go to Italy.

I didn’t go on a Grand Tour. The war made it more difficult anyhow.

But still, I could’ve gone if not for my brother.

He and his hasty retreat from the earth.

But I had dreams about it. I used to read about it all the time. ”

“You, reading?” she teased.

He smiled. “Yes, imagine that. I used to read only books about faraway places that interested me. I would imagine myself there. Rialto Bridge, the gondola. I would’ve liked to see the Colosseum.”

“You can still go. There’s nothing preventing you.”

“There is much preventing me,” he countered. “Parliament, this house, and the country estate, which we should visit before we part ways. There are dozens of tenant farmers, mines, vineyards, all depending on me.”

“You have a steward, surely,” she said. “My father let his steward run everything.”

“I beg your pardon, my dear, but your father is not exactly the best example when it comes to how one should run their life.”

She had to concede that was true.

“How is he, anyway?” he asked.

“I could not tell you if I wanted,” she replied. “Aunt Eugenia told me he called on her and Marianne in Bath a while ago, but he’s gone again. It’ll be best for everybody if he stays gone.”

Silence settled between them, and then he rounded on her.

“Hang that man,” he hissed. “You didn’t deserve what he did to you—forcing you to choose between two undesirable gentlemen.”

It did not escape Charlotte’s notice that he was calling himself undesirable, but she chose not to comment on it.

“I was just thinking about that earlier. How much worse it could have been if I had not met you. I might be married to Emery now.”

Rhys let out a laugh. “I am uncertain whether that is a compliment or not. The man is known for all manner of things even I would not stoop to.”

“It is,” Charlotte assured him. “He is a reprobate. You are a far more charming rascal. Though an infuriating one.”

They smiled at one another, before she added, “I do apologize about the scene earlier at the tea party. I did not know what came over me.”

He nodded. “I do not hold a grudge, Charlotte. Things come over me all the time, and then I curse them afterward.”

They looked at one another, and a comfortable warmth settled between them. She noticed how his hand was close to hers. She would have to move her hand only a fraction to place it on his, to feel his skin.

But did he want her to? How did she want him to react?

Before she could make a decision, he got up and walked to the window. “Snow, at last.”

“It can’t be,” she said. “It was too warm.”

She stepped up to the window, and indeed, snowflakes were slowly falling to the ground. It was early December now, and she had given up hope for a cold, white winter.

“I do not understand. We had a tea party outdoors earlier.”

“The temperature can be volatile,” Rhys explained.

Then, he suddenly grabbed her wrist and raised her hand. She gasped as he pressed it against the window.

“You feel the cold?” he asked.

She shivered as the iciness raced through her arm. “Goodness, it is like a block of ice.”

“Yes. Not unusual for this time of year. I daresay we will see winter, after all. I love winter. The snow—it’s peaceful.”

“You enjoy feeling cold?” she asked.

“I do. I like sitting by the fire, bundling up, and walking in the snow. I like the crunch beneath my feet. And there is nothing better than walking back into the house after the cold has settled in your bones and warming up with hot chocolate.”

“Well, you would’ve hated Italy,” she drawled, and the two laughed almost in unison.

She turned to him and took his hand. He wrapped his arm around her, and they stood there for a moment. She tilted up her head so that they were looking directly at each other.

She was going to kiss him, and he was going to kiss her back, and then all of this would come to an end.

Would it be much more complicated afterward? Who knew? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it would clear everything up. Maybe everything would make sense.

Charlotte didn’t even care right now. She wanted nothing more than to kiss her husband.

Slowly, she rose on her tiptoes, leaning forward. She saw him lean toward her. When she closed her eyes, he suddenly stepped back, letting go of her hand.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I must try to sleep. I have… business in the morning with the Duke of Windsor.”

And then, just as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone, leaving her standing there on her tiptoes like a fool.