Page 33 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Rhys stumbled into the ballroom frightfully late. He looked around for Charlotte and spotted her almost at once. But what he saw made the blood in his veins run cold.

Emery was standing with her. He towered over her by at least a head, bent slightly so that his posture appeared hunched, and whispered something to her. Rhys could not hear the words, but he was certain they could not be anything good.

Charlotte looked up at the man. It was difficult to tell whether she was pale because of the crushed pearl powder she wore. Yet her stance—her shoulders rolled back slightly, her head bent at an angle as she listened, her lips parted in surprise—told him it could not be well.

What in heaven’s name was Emery doing? What was he saying to her?

Rhys’s legs propelled him across the room with all the haste of a soldier lunging at the enemy. He heard his name as people greeted him; gentlemen bowed, ladies curtsied. He acknowledged them with a quick bob of the head, unwilling to waste a moment.

“Well, Emery,” he said with a bright smile when he reached them, deliberately straightening to his full height. “What a surprise to see you here. I had heard you were not making public appearances at present.”

Emery swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I have been out of town; I had business to attend to in Ireland. I am here now.”

“Ireland, is it?” Rhys drawled, his smile sharpening. “That is quite far afield for a businessman. Have you burned all your bridges in London, then?”

“I will have you know that business is better than ever,” Emery sneered, his lip curling.

Charlotte looked from one to the other, her eyes darting back and forth like a trapped bird.

“I see,” Rhys said smoothly. “And have you replaced that maid yet? Most unfortunate, I am told.” He raised his voice at the word maid, and several heads turned toward them.

Emery flushed scarlet, while Charlotte’s face remained carefully blank, though a red hue crept into her cheeks. Rhys narrowed his eyes at her.

“Those are lies—malicious lies! And I will not stand for it. You are quite impolite, Sir, I must say. Unlike your wife, who has been most… gentle.”

“I advise you,” Rhys said, drawing a deep breath, “to step away from my wife. Neither of us has anything further to say to you.”

Emery glanced at Charlotte and shrugged. “It seems I am not wanted here. I do wish you a successful evening,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “But do remember my words.”

With that, he slithered away, like the weasel he was.

Remember his words? What in the world did he tell her?

Rhys turned to Charlotte, who looked like a caged animal longing to flee. “Are you quite well? Has he bothered you?”

“His presence was uninvited and unwelcome,” she said with quiet steel. “He did not threaten me in any way, if that is what you mean, but he was… unpleasant.”

Rhys was about to press her for more when she lifted her head, standing straighter.

“You are late.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I met with the Duke of Windsor, and the meeting ran somewhat late, and then—”

“Windsor is already here,” she interrupted, nodding toward the gentleman, who waved from across the room.

“Yes,” Rhys said, confused why she would remark on it. “I met with him, indeed. The meeting delayed me, and afterward, I had to return home to change.”

“I thought you said you would not have time to return home, and that you would meet me here directly.”

Why did he feel as though he were being interrogated by His Majesty’s general?

“I planned to come directly, but the morning coat I had brought to change into in the carriage became wrinkled on the way—I inadvertently sat on it,” he admitted, laughing at his own stupidity.

She did not laugh.

“Be that as it may, I thought it best to present myself as a respectable gentleman, rather than one who looked as though he had rolled in from the stews. Surely you would agree.”

She took him in, her gaze assessing not only his attire but also his very bearing.

“I see,” she said coolly.

Something was different. Strange.

He disliked the chill that radiated from her, so stark a contrast to the warmth of their kiss the night before.

He had not slept half the night, haunted by the memory of her lips. Perhaps there could be something more between them—though he knew he ought not allow it.

He had awoken determined to keep his distance. Yet, when he realized he would be late to meet her, shame gnawed at him. Shame at letting her believe that he did not care, when in truth he cared too much. That was why he could not be with her.

How could he possibly explain?

And then he had come here and seen her with Emery, and jealousy had burst within him like a flame. None of it made sense. And now her coldness?

Whatever spark of hope had flickered within him was extinguished. He ought to be grateful.

Was he?

“Shall we dance?” he suggested, uncertain what else to do.

The waltz was about to begin, and though it might be perilous to dance in such a state of nerves, he could not endure standing idle, locked in this silent battle.

“Let us dance,” she said.

And thus they joined the other couples in the set.

“Lord Ravenscar, Lady Ravenscar,” the Duke of Windsor greeted, joining the line behind them with his wife. “How delightful, this is the sort of ball where husbands and wives may dance together!”

Rhys blinked. He had not realized it might be considered improper.

At most events, gentlemen were expected to partner with unattached ladies, so that every young lady might have her chance to shine.

Husbands seldom danced with their wives unless numbers were short.

But looking around, he saw that it was exactly the case here.

He had not even considered propriety.

Hang propriety.

“Lovely, indeed,” Charlotte said graciously. “And you look absolutely beautiful, Your Grace,” she remarked to Windsor’s wife, who smiled.

“And you, Lady Ravenscar. Lady Woodhaven has told all and sundry about your school. What an interesting location, with such vivid history.”

“I hope that vivid history will attract a great many patrons,” Charlotte replied. “And the location is most advantageous.”

“I should say so,” the Duchess agreed. “I have already told Lady Woodhaven that we would gladly contribute to the purchase of the building.”

Charlotte beamed. “That is wonderful! I have had a great many ideas. We thought we could turn some of the rooms into bedchambers for teachers, so we might save on salaries, and perhaps attract tutors from elsewhere.”

“A splendid idea. The two of you are exactly what Society needs—young blood, with fresh ideas!” The Duchess turned to her husband. “Did I not tell you so?”

“You did,” the Duke said warmly. “And I am in full agreement, especially now that this young blood has fallen in line with what is expected of a gentleman.”

Rhys wanted to sneer. Indeed, his cheeks were already taut with the effort. But Charlotte placed her hand lightly on his arm and gave a small squeeze. That was all it took to snap him back to reality, to remind him why they were here and what they must accomplish.

He gave the Duke a brief nod. “Indeed.”

Fortunately, the crowd surged forward just then, as the master of ceremonies announced the dance. Within moments, they were on the dance floor.

Rhys turned to Charlotte. “Thank you.”

She shrugged. “I could not let you undo months of hard work, could I?”

“Of course not, especially when we are both so close to gaining exactly what we desire.”

“It went well, then? Your meeting?”

He nodded. “It did.”

As the music began, Rhys placed his hand on her back, feeling her warmth beneath his fingers.

His mind flashed to the conservatory the night before, to the kiss that had felt like a release and a sentence.

For he knew she would ever be a part of his life, his mind, his heart, his very soul—and nothing could change that.

They moved together in perfect step, as they had at the Swanson ball. Yet he knew there would be no kiss tonight. The air between them was too strange.

“So it went well,” she said, more firmly.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “All of our investments are safe.”

“I am glad.” She looked at him intently. “Last night…”

He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “There is no need to apologize. You did nothing wrong.”

“I know,” she said. “I know I did nothing wrong.”

“Oh,” he murmured, feeling foolish.

Why would she apologize? He had kissed her, after all. Or had she kissed him first?

He let his hand slide lightly, his fingers brushing the small of her back.

“Rhys,” she said, her voice softer. “There is something I wish to discuss. Now that we have both nearly reached our goals—my school, my reputation restored, and you, apparently, a most promising gentleman, if rumors are to be believed—we must talk about the future. And I thought… the kiss last night—”

Rhys coughed lightly. “Let us not speak of it now. Let us simply enjoy the dance. Forever it seems we quarrel and then draw close, quarrel again and draw close once more. Can’t we just enjoy the present moment for one night?”

He felt her muscles relax beneath his touch.

Why was he saying that when he knew they must talk? Knew they could not carry on this way?

They had been forever trapped in their back-and-forth. The time for the future was now. Yet he was not ready. He needed an evening in which he did not think, but merely existed.

And to his delight, she agreed.

A smile softened her face. “Yes. Let us simply exist, for tonight.”

Rhys smiled, and they danced.

They danced the waltz, then the quadrille. Dangerous territory, he knew. Yet had he not always lived life according to his best judgment?

Perhaps living in the moment would bring him the clarity he so desperately needed. And even if it did not, he was already committed for this night. Whatever tomorrow might hold, it must wait.