Page 36 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

The following morning, Charlotte sat in the drawing room, going over the list of things that must be accomplished before the school opening.

“Busy?” Rhys asked as he walked up behind her.

She looked up, surprised to find him smiling at her.

Something about him had changed since yesterday; he had been different—affectionate, kind. Even now, he placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly, sending her heart racing.

“Only making a list for the school. Lady Woodhaven thinks we might open in March. We would not open in the middle of winter, lest a snowstorm deter the families from coming. Besides, we must find teachers.”

“Of course,” he said. “Although, have you considered that there might be an opportunity here? If the renovations are complete by the end of January, we might host an open house—a winter-themed one. Hang festive decorations, perhaps even arrange a snowball fight in the backyard if the weather allows. We could invite potential teachers, parents, and, naturally, investors.”

“That is a wonderful idea.” She smiled. “However did you think of it?”

He pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. “I could not sleep last night, so I considered various matters.”

She pressed her lips together. “A bad dream? About your parents or your brother?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. Then, he placed his hand atop hers.

She nearly gasped at his touch.

“There were other things on my mind. I had a long talk with Nathaniel yesterday, and I thought perhaps it might be time for us to speak of…”

“The future,” she supplied, the word catching in her throat.

“Yes.” He nodded. “I thought we might remain in London for a while longer. I have no desire to return to the country estate, and I know you want to stay for the school. I thought perhaps we might… get to know one another better.”

She blinked, uncertain of what he truly meant. Was this still part of their arrangement or something else?

“You mean to say as partners in our venture?” she asked.

“I mean,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “together. I mean to say that there is more between us now than when we first got married. I thought we could see where it might lead.”

It was far more casual than she had expected. Yet, by now, she knew him well enough to understand that he was not a man who easily expressed his feelings.

“I fear I do not understand,” she teased, as she knew perfectly what he meant.

“You know precisely what I mean. Do not toy with me, Charlotte Ellingsworth.”

She laughed lightly. “Perhaps. But I would very much like to hear you say it out loud.”

He drummed his fingers on the mahogany table, his jaw set. “Very well. I care for you. I care for you far more than I imagined I could, and I would… that is to say…”

“That you would like to kiss me again?” she prompted, surprised at her own boldness.

He gave a wry smile. “Amongst other things.”

“Other things such as…?” She cocked her head in a way she knew to be provocative.

“You shall see,” he said, his voice low.

Silence crackled between them, and she gulped, desperate to ease the tension.

“You know Margot will never let me hear the end of it.”

“And why not?”

“Because she declared from the beginning that there was something smoldering between us, and asked me to alert her when it caught fire.”

Rhys let out a loud laugh. “Then I dare say you ought to alert her, for whatever was between us has long been aflame. At least, it seems so on my part.”

“On mine as well,” she admitted. “I have fought these feelings for weeks, convinced that you did not care.”

He closed his eyes briefly and smiled. “Nathaniel was right. He told me that he and your sister would have found happiness far sooner if only they had spoken their hearts at the beginning.”

“Evelyn said the same,” Charlotte murmured. “I vowed never to make the same mistake. It seems I fell into the same trap.”

“You had good intentions,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, placing her hand over his. “And now?”

They looked at one another, and without another word, Rhys leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers.

This kiss was not so passionate as the one at the ball, nor so startling, yet it filled her with warmth and butterflies. When he drew back, the smile on his lips lit his entire countenance.

“I think we shall see where this takes us,” he said. “You must understand, this is not easy for me. My parents, my brother—their loss… it scarred me.”

“I understand,” she assured softly. “I feel much the same about my mother’s death. And though my father lives, his absence is no less a loss.”

“Indeed, it is a shame that we do not have our families as we might have wished,” he sighed.

“Though it is not as though we are without. To that end, I had a thought: why not host Christmas here? It is centrally located for Evelyn and Nathaniel. We might invite your sister and aunt from Bath, Nathaniel and Evelyn, of course, and make a quiet family dinner of it. Then, the next day, we could host a larger celebration. We would invite Lady Woodhaven and her husband, the Duke of Windsor, and a select number of other peers. If you wish, we might even invite the—what shall I call them? The revolutionaries.”

Charlotte laughed. “Please don’t. I think the revolutionaries proved far less dreamy than I once believed. Besides, Lady Woodhaven is as radical as any of them—but do not tell her husband.”

Rhys chuckled. “Her secret is safe with me.” He mimed locking his lips.

“It is snowing again,” Charlotte noted, glancing at the window.

“So it is. Pray, would you care to walk with me? It occurs to me that we both delight in the snow, yet have not once walked in it together.”

“I would like that,” she said. “There are many things I wish we would do together.”

“Well, my dear, we are quite young, so I dare say we shall manage them all.”

“Perhaps we could even visit Italy someday.”

He smiled. “I should like that. But for now, a walk in the garden will suffice.”

He offered his arm, she took it, and together they stepped out into the snow, truly husband and wife at last.

Later that afternoon, Charlotte sat on the settee in the warm drawing room, recounting it all to Margot.

“So you are truly husband and wife now,” Margot said, wide-eyed.

“I suppose so. We walked in the garden together, and we talked about everything. He told me what vexes him about the Lords, the changes he would make. I told him about everything I wish to teach, the places I long to see. He spoke of Italy; he knows so very much about the architecture, the history—everything.”

Margot nodded, setting down her slice of plum cake. “I told you there was a spark between you from the beginning, and now it is quite a blaze.”

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed. “Though I cannot deny that something is missing—something I cannot name. It is as though he still holds back part of himself. Less so than before, but still. I know he fears losing those he loves; he has not said it outright, but it is plain enough. I do not know how to rid him of that fear, how to make him see that he will not lose everything he holds dear.”

“There is nothing you can do but give it time,” Margot advised. “He must come to see that your love is true and steadfast. That is all. You have him now—his heart, his fidelity. Though I dare say you had those long before you realized it.”

“That may be so,” Charlotte relented. “And to think, I nearly let Lord Emery plant doubts in my head.”

“Doubts?” Margot leaned forward. “Pray, what did that coxcomb say to you?”

“He insinuated that Rhys still engaged in debauchery and had merely kept it from me. That he had seen him in St. Giles and such. But I did not believe him. Father tried the same trick with Nathaniel, if you recall.”

“Oh yes. Did he not tell Evelyn he had seen Nathaniel in questionable company, indulging in unmentionable vices?”

“Precisely. Evelyn would not have credited him, had she not seen Nathaniel deep in earnest with a lady just before. She already had doubts, and they had not yet spoken their true hearts. If I had not spoken to Rhys, I might have believed Emery, too.”

“I am glad you did speak, then,” Margot said firmly. “Emery shall have no hold over you. But tell me, does his reputation not trouble you? His past?”

Charlotte shrugged. “Of course, it troubles me. I would have liked a virtuous husband, one who had never lain with another, never gambled, never touched opiates. But that would be na?ve. Such a paragon would be a cloistered monk, not a noble.” She chuckled faintly.

“But he has changed. He is no longer that man. So it does not trouble me—save for the occasional pang of jealousy. Yet I remind myself that it is I whom he has married. I whom he wants.”

“Well said.” Margot nodded. “Let the past be the past. What matters is the present. You are his, and he is yours. Now, tell me more about Christmastide. What sort of celebration shall it be?”

Charlotte smiled, grateful for the change of subject. Yet, in the back of her mind, she could not wholly banish the thought of Rhys’s past—the women, the gambling, the nights in disreputable clubs.

It had vexed her when they were only pretending. Now that she knew his love was real, it vexed her all the more.

She told herself that the past was behind them. And yet she could not help but wonder: was the past ever truly gone?