Page 37 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

“That is a rather impressive Yule log,” Nathaniel noted, pointing to the fireplace.

Rhys smiled. “My steward brought it from my country estate.”

He glanced out, watching the flames burn merrily. The impressive Yule log gave off a warmth that enveloped the room. The scent of cedar filled the air, and he took in the chamber.

It was truly beautiful. Charlotte had done a phenomenal job decorating the space.

Holly and assorted greenery hung over the doorways, with sprigs of mistletoe dangling for mischief.

Candles of varied colors had been placed around the house, and gilt ribbons had been twined about evergreen boughs.

Platters of delicacies—marzipan figures, jumbles, ginger biscuits, sugar plums, almond comfits, and slices of rich Twelfth Night cake—were set about the drawing room for all to enjoy.

The scent of roasted pheasant, buttered potatoes, carrots glazed in honey, and stewed winter greens wafted up from the kitchens below, filling the entire space. The cooks Charlotte had hired had outdone themselves that day, for there were whispers of a flummery and even a fine plum pudding to come.

“I must say,” Lady Eugenia declared, pressing a hand to her middle, “my stomach is rumbling.”

“You should have some more biscuits,” Charlotte suggested with a laugh.

Her aunt shook her head. “I could not possibly. If I have any more, I will spoil my appetite for dinner, and that would be a dreadful shame.”

“Usually, you are the one who tells us such things when we are stuffing our faces,” Marianne teased.

Rhys smiled to himself. He did not know Charlotte’s family well. He had come to know Nathaniel a little better over the past two weeks since his return, and he had spoken on occasion with Margot and Evelyn, but Lady Eugenia and Marianne were strangers to him.

He hoped to change that over the next several days. They were to spend the Christmas season together. That evening, they had played cards and billiards, and then gathered in the drawing room to listen as Marianne played Christmas songs on the pianoforte.

It was still snowing, and it promised to be a magical Christmastide, after all.

Rhys felt Charlotte press gently against his shoulder. He glanced at her with a smile. Their status was still precarious, but they were on far better ground than they had been before.

She still slept in her chamber, of course, but whenever opportunity arose, they would steal away to kiss, hug, and hold hands, enjoying one another’s company as though no one else in the world mattered.

It terrified him, the way he felt about her. The thought of losing her gnawed at him night and day, but he pushed those feelings aside, as he had once tried to push away the affection he had long felt for her.

Perhaps, in time, he would forget to be afraid. Perhaps he would grow accustomed to it. Perhaps he would even grow confident. But what he knew with certainty was that, for now, all he wanted was to be near her.

For the New Year, they had planned a grand ball.

All their acquaintances were to attend. Gentlemen who had been ready to cast Rhys out of Society only weeks ago were now coming to his home, to his ball, invited by him and his wife.

How odd Society was—one needed only to play its games to be in its good graces.

He questioned whether that was a good or bad thing. He had not wished to be cast out, but neither had he wished to feign. And yet somehow, through feigning, he had become a better man—a different man.

“I can scarcely wait until you all have children. I may never be a grandmother, but I will be a great grandaunt,” Lady Eugenia gushed, jolting him out of his reverie. “Can you imagine little ones running beneath the kissing bough? Oh, I cannot wait.”

She clapped her hands together and looked from Charlotte to Evelyn and back again.

Charlotte flushed. They had not spoken of children or the future, and having her aunt broach the subject so suddenly was more than awkward. Still, Rhys placed his hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Evelyn cleared her throat. “Well then, I suppose I should take this opportunity to tell you all that Aunt Eugenia’s wish will soon come true. By next Christmas, there shall be at least one child running around—or perhaps crawling.”

“Oh, Evelyn!” Charlotte cried, rising at once.

She rushed across the room to hug her sister, who embraced her in return.

Rhys sat with a smile on his lips. He would be an uncle.

How odd that thought was, for he had never considered himself part of a family beyond his own. Even then, he had often felt like an outsider.

The closest thing he had ever known to true family was Gideon, his dearest friend. The two of them had always been inseparable. They still were, though Rhys had not gone to clubs or gambling halls with him for months. Still, they met often. Indeed, he had seen him only that very morning.

The rest of the afternoon passed much as the previous day. The ladies congregated in the corner, discussing the future and names for Evelyn’s unborn child.

As the sun began to set, Gideon joined them. He had promised to come for dinner. He would spend Christmas Day with his family, of course, but for this evening, he had chosen to join Rhys.

Much to Rhys’s relief, Nathaniel and Gideon got on immediately, and before long, the three of them were playing cards at the table by the window.

“I have to say,” Gideon remarked, “I never thought I would see you so domestic.”

“Domestic?” Rhys repeated with mock offense. “Whatever do you mean? I am hardly in the kitchens, whipping butter.”

“You know what I mean. Do you recall where we spent last year?”

Rhys frowned. “I believe it was Dover?”

“Cardiff! You are not even in the right country.” Gideon laughed. “We were at a posting inn, with a rather lovely hostess tending to gentlemen’s—”

Rhys cleared his throat, raising an eyebrow.

“—culinary needs,” Gideon finished, chuckling. “That is what I meant. You must not always think the worst of me. Although by the end of the night, she tended to other needs as well.”

Nathaniel roared with laughter, though Rhys closed his eyes, mortified.

“I had a Christmas like that myself,” Nathaniel confessed. “Not too long ago, though not recently. Yet I must tell you, I do not miss it.”

“Neither do I,” Rhys admitted.

Gideon’s eyebrows flew up in shock. “Not even a little?”

“No. And once you have a woman in your life, you will understand.”

“I dare say that will never happen. Who would take a louse such as I?” Gideon smirked.

“You do not strike me as vermin,” Nathaniel replied with a wink. “Although I am surprised the Lords have not come after you.”

“There has been some talk of reforming my ways, but I am merely an heir, and my father is in excellent health. It will be years before I must worry over such matters. By then, all the old codgers who now look down their noses at me will have their own concerns. Gout and rheumatism, most likely.”

“Careful,” Rhys warned. “Before long, we will be the codgers with gout.”

“I will pretend you did not say that,” Nathaniel snorted.

The game continued until Rhys was distracted by a rider coming up the snowy road. He narrowed his eyes as the man hurried up the front steps.

Though the house was large, the parlor sat almost directly beside the front door, and Rhys heard both the knock and the sound of shoes squeaking across the marble floor.

He pretended not to be distracted, playing his hand. But then a butler appeared.

“My Lord, a letter has arrived,” he announced, presenting it on a silver salver.

Rhys took the letter and scanned it. There was no seal, but the hand was tight and unfamiliar.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, rising.

He stepped into the hall and unfolded the letter. As he read it, his heart lurched.

No. No… This can’t be… Surely not.

He turned the letter over, looking for any sign of tampering, though he scarcely knew what he was seeking. Its contents were so shocking that he could hardly comprehend them.

This had to be a jest. And yet—

“Rhys?” Gideon called, joining him. “Is something amiss? You look rather pale.”

Rhys handed him the letter.

His friend read it quickly, then frowned. “This cannot be. Is someone trying to exploit you?”

“It must be a scheme of some sort. I am sure of it.”

“Have you ever kept company with her?” Gideon asked, his expression sour as though he had bitten into something rotten.

“No, of course not. Not in many months.” Rhys raised a hand. “Have you spoken to her at all?”

“The last few times I went to St. Giles, she was still absent. She has been gone for weeks now. Gone to Dover, I heard.” Gideon paused. “What will you do?”

“I do not know. There is nothing I am bound to do.”

“Perhaps not, but I know you. You have always had a conscience, even when you strive not to. That pesky empathy of yours.”

“Yes. Yes, it has always haunted me,” Rhys admitted as he took back the letter and refolded it. “Try as I might, I care for people I ought not to. I cannot help myself.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I have to go. There is no other course.”

“Are you going to tell Charlotte?” Gideon asked.

Rhys had not even considered that.

“No, of course not. We have only just begun to trust one another—to allow each other in.” He waved a hand, unwilling to grow sentimental. “I cannot tell her. I will see to this matter, and if it proves true, then I shall speak to her.”

He shoved the letter into his pocket, swallowing hard.

The past, he realized, had come to haunt him at last.