Page 31 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Rhys rushed down the hall, chiding himself inwardly. How had he let her get so close?

He had never told anyone about his dreams before—his vision of going to Italy, seeing Venice and Rome—things he had kept to himself. Gideon knew, but he was the only one.

He had abandoned those dreams long ago, the moment his brother had died and he had become the heir. And then, after his entire family was gone, there had been no reason to think of foolish things such as wishes and dreams.

But it had burst out of him this evening. Quite unexpectedly. As it so often did when he was near Charlotte.

He couldn’t deny it any longer. He loved her. He truly did.

But he also knew that he couldn’t allow himself to. She had to go, or he had to go—one or the other. They couldn’t stay together. He knew that if she stayed, he wouldn’t be able to control his feelings for much longer.

And then…?

He should have known this was getting too dangerous. He should have known that this could happen. That bringing her into his life was a risk he shouldn’t have taken.

Would it have been so bad if he had lost a few of his business ventures? Couldn’t he have just gone to the Continent for a few months?

The Lords were going to find another cause to put their power behind, other than this strange desire to rein in their younger, wilder peers.

These things came and went. There always seemed to be something everyone put their power behind, and others always followed because it was becoming the popular thing, the prevalent cause.

Rhys remembered the window tax and all the uproar about it.

And that time the Duke of Windsor had complained about how much he had to pay in taxes for a male servant, and before you knew it, the entire House of Lords had been raving and ranting about it, even though no one had complained beforehand.

This was going to be just the same, wasn’t it? Of course, now he would never know. And it was no good wondering and questioning.

It was done.

Well, almost done.

“Rhys,” Charlotte’s voice rang out, echoing off the tall walls like a shot fired in the dark.

He didn’t want to stop, but he had to. He couldn’t leave her standing there.

He paused and turned. “I really must rest,” he insisted.

But she was walking toward him in hurried steps, her robe fluttering slightly, revealing the nightgown underneath. Her hair, loose on her shoulders, bounced as she walked.

The sight of her in her night clothes had almost driven him to distraction when he first saw her, for he had been able to think of nothing but how much he wanted to run his fingers through her silky hair.

And then the snow—the blasted snow. Did it have to fall now? Did it have to be so dreadfully romantic?

He stopped and swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat.

“I will not let you do this again.”

“Do what?” he asked.

“We have done this for weeks now. Every time we begin to… Every time there’s an understanding, you turn around and run.”

“I do not know what you speak of,” he said, though of course he did.

He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his fingers against his skin.

“Every time you and I get closer, every time you become—” She took a deep breath, her bosom rising and falling. “Every time we become—”

“More united,” he finished for her, because he could see she was struggling.

“Yes. Every time we become more united, you suddenly run as though you regret everything. As though I suddenly caught a dreadful disease you could not wait to get away from.”

“No,” he said, dropping his arms.

He truly hadn’t meant to make her feel like that. But of course, he could see it now. He could see why she felt that way.

“Charlotte, I cannot quarrel with you like this.”

“I am not quarreling with you,” she corrected. “I am demanding that you tell me why you act the way you do.”

“I am not acting the way I do to hurt you.” He shrugged.

“We live under the same roof. Can I not come and talk to you when I please? Can I not attempt to make right the things that went wrong earlier today? Do you think I wish to live with somebody who has started a battle with me at a tea party without trying to make amends, without trying to smooth the waves, so to speak?”

She pressed her lips together, and he saw that his words had pierced the armor of rage she had wrapped around herself.

“I did apologize for what I said, but it doesn’t change anything. You continue to act warm and friendly, seeking my company, and the next moment, you are a block of ice. I do not understand.”

“You do not need to understand,” he said. “It is what it is. Soon enough, we will not have to do this.”

“So you keep saying, and yet you keep seeking my company. You tell me that soon, we do not have to be in each other’s lives anymore, and then, in the same breath, you tell me that you cannot live with somebody with whom you quarrel without smoothing the waves.

“You tell me that you are distant from me, and then the very next moment, here you are, telling me of your dreams about Italy, of your brother and father, and how your whole life was meant to be different. You open up to me, and then you run away, leaving me standing there like a fool. I am rather sick and tired of feeling like a fool.”

“I don’t want you to feel like a fool,” he murmured.

In fact, it hurt him that she felt that way.

He stepped forward and took her hands in his own. “I do not want you to feel like that. But I cannot do this.”

“Cannot do what?” she asked, her hands tightening around his.

She looked at him. He wanted to tell her that he couldn’t love her—that he would never be able to love her the way he wished he could—because if he did and something happened to her, if she died, if he lost her too, he would never recover.

He wanted to explain to her that debauchery—the nights spent drinking and placing wagers, lying delirious with opium, dallying with women in houses of ill repute—was a way of coping with the deaths of his loved ones.

But he didn’t know how, and he didn’t know how to explain to her that if it happened one more time, no amount of supreme wagers, spirits, or opium was going to save him.

Loving her and losing her would be the death of him.

And yet there she stood, the snow still visible through the windows of the hallway.

He let go of her hands. He felt her breath, cool and soft against his skin. He saw her eyes, pleading, full of questions he couldn’t answer.

“Charlotte,” he whispered.

And then, for a moment, he let go of all his worries. That tight control fear had over him loosened its grip, and he leaned forward.

He pressed his lips to hers, and they were warm and sweet and tasted of sugar. Something burst inside him, and tingling warmth spread up and down his limbs until he was nothing but—until he felt nothing but bliss.

It was the first time he had felt this way in a long while. No, the first time he had ever felt like this. This was happiness. This was the promise of a bright future.

He saw it before him, the two of them together. Christmas, Easter, Michaelmas. In the spring, summer, fall, and winter. Together. Young. Old. As parents, grandparents. And then he saw the end.

He saw himself. Alone. Again.

And as quickly as the wave had washed over him, it ebbed. He let her go and took two steps back.

“This—I cannot do this,” he croaked. “I am sorry. I wish I could be different. I wish I could be the man you deserve. But I am not.”

His hands dropped, and he walked away. And this time, when she called his name, he did not stop.

Charlotte tossed and turned. Rhys’s kiss still lingered on her lips. She didn’t know if she wanted to find him and kiss him again or slap him. The man was infuriating.

But after seeing the look in his eyes, it was not an illusion. She hadn’t made it all up. He felt about her as she felt about him.

What had he meant when he said he couldn’t? Why couldn’t he be with her? Why couldn’t he be a husband to her?

He had kissed her like he meant it. It wasn’t the sort of thing one imagined. It had been real.

And yet he had turned away, again. He had run away once more. He hadn’t stopped when she called to him.

What did this all mean?

Twice she pushed the covers off her to get up and find him, to demand answers, and twice she pulled the covers over herself again.

There was no point in pushing him now. She knew this behavior—had seen it from her own father. If he said that he did not wish to speak, he wasn’t going to. She would have to wait until morning.

Once the sun rose, she would wait for him at the breakfast table. Then, she would demand that he answer her. She would demand that he tell her what he had meant when he said he couldn’t.

Couldn’t what? Why? Why run hot and cold?

She would demand answers. And if she couldn’t get them, she would demand that they separate once and for all, because her heart could not take this anymore.

She wanted him—loved him with every inch of her being. She didn’t know what exactly had happened, but it had happened, and now it consumed her whole.

No, she decided as she tucked her fingers beneath the pillow. She was not going to take this anymore.

The following day, the two of them would hash this out.

And then, they would either be truly married or part ways, because the only thing she knew with certainty was that she would not live like this anymore, in the same house as a man who might love her as much as she loved him, but who could never—for reasons he refused to divulge—be the man she needed him to be.