Page 9 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Rhys woke up and stared at the ceiling. It was his wedding day.

He sighed and rolled onto his side, pulling the pillow close and pressing his cheek into its cool surface, only to be pricked by a rogue feather poking through the linen.

Even his bedding seemed determined to irritate him.

With a groan, he flung the offending pillow over his shoulder. It struck the sideboard, knocking over several miniatures. Two slid to the floor with a clatter.

He ignored the mess. Folding his arms beneath his head as a makeshift pillow, he gazed out the window. Snow was falling—soft, silent, mocking.

Of course, it was snowing, even though it was only the first week of November.

He thought back to the last time he’d seen snow.

The previous winter, it had not snowed but once, and that was on the day he had visited the house of ill repute where he’d awoken next to Lizzie.

He had stumbled into the establishment a few more times and, since, learned that she was a northern lass—an orphan. As were most of the women there.

He’d felt odd learning that, given that he, too, was an orphan. Yet the women had been forced into a life of debauchery due to their status, while he was elevated to the highest echelons of society.

Was the universe trying to remind him of that fact with today’s snowfall? So that he would be grateful?

Or was it a gift from his parents, telling him they were watching?

As a child, he’d listened to his mother speak of her wedding day, how the snow had drifted down like lace from the heavens as she stepped into her carriage. She had described it with such affection—the flakes in her hair, the hush in the air, the way the world had seemed made for her.

His father, on rare occasions, would elaborate on those stories. He would recount how he had stood at the chapel window and watched her walk through the snow in her white gown, how she had looked like a snow princess.

There had never been a great romance between them, not of the wild, tempestuous kind. Their union had been arranged by both their parents. It had been practical, dutiful. But there had been loyalty. Affection. Respect.

And, in their quiet way, they had loved each other.

He remembered his father’s devastation when his mother died four years ago. A carriage accident, sudden and senseless. The entire family had been unmoored by the loss.

Then, scarcely six months later, his brother Peter had died of smallpox while abroad in Ireland—on his honeymoon, no less. Neither he nor his bride returned.

His father had never been the same. He had lost his wife—his companion—and his heir. He’d lasted two more years before passing away.

Rhys sat up.

And now here he was, alone on his wedding day.

There would be no family gathered to toast to him. No brothers or sisters, no parents, no familiar voices offering comfort. Uncle Amos would be in attendance, of course. His mother’s meddlesome elder brother had been most insistent that Rhys marry.

Well, he got his wish in the end.

Uncle Amos’s wife would be there too, along with a few Langley cousins Rhys could scarcely distinguish from one another.

Only one true comfort awaited him: Gideon. Loyal, unflappable Gideon, who would stand up with him at the altar.

What a dismal little affair this promises to be.

He forced himself to rise and stooped to collect the fallen picture frames. One was of his mother, seated, her hands folded, her eyes kind and clear. He brushed his thumb along the edge of the image.

“Oh, Mother,” he murmured. “How I wish you were here to see this. Your wayward son is about to become a respectable man. At least on paper.”

He set the picture gently back on the sideboard, then picked up the other frame—a picture of his father. The glass had cracked straight through, a jagged line bisecting the late Marquess’s dignified face.

Rhys stared at it.

“Giving me a warning, Father?” he asked softly. “Telling me not to make a botch of it? I have no intention of hurting her. You may rest easy on that score.”

He placed the frame down and pulled the bell cord near the door.

A few minutes later, Ferris, his valet, appeared with a cheery “Good morning, My Lord. Your wedding attire is pressed and ready.”

Rhys nodded once, then frowned. A thought came to him.

For weeks, the talk of the town had been his engagement. He couldn’t walk the length of Bond Street without some simpering acquaintance offering him sly congratulations.

Gideon had done a masterful job of spreading tales of a secret courtship, whispered declarations, and a father’s disapproval. London adored it.

Adding that to Charlotte’s public declaration to refuse to wed Lord Emery in a scarlet gown, the ton had eaten it up.

She and Rhys hadn’t appeared together since the announcement. That had been deliberate. Let the ton speculate.

In truth, Rhys had scarcely seen her in the past three weeks. Their solicitors had handled the settlements. Her aunt and his uncle’s wife had arranged the wedding breakfast. He’d seen her, yes, but they had been formal interactions, nothing more.

He had attempted to call twice, but she had refused to receive him. Whether from melancholy, anger, or something else, he did not know. But so long as she arrived at the church, that was enough.

“My Lord?” Ferris prompted. “Shall I assist you into your morning coat?”

Rhys turned. “No. I’ve had a change of heart.”

“A change of—?”

“Bring me the purple waistcoat. The one with the gold trim. And the white shirt with the gilt buttons. And the fawn pantaloons.”

Ferris blinked. “But… My Lord, those garments are not quite… proper for a wedding.”

“I’m aware.” Rhys’s smile was faint but genuine. “But the ton expects a spectacle. Charlotte made her statement. I shall make mine. Let it not be said that the bride outshone the groom.”

Ferris swallowed visibly, then nodded and withdrew.

Moments later, he returned with the garments in question. The pantaloons were tight, as fashion dictated. The shirt slipped easily over Rhys’s head, the gold buttons gleaming. The purple waistcoat was a riot of embroidery and confidence, the gold fob watch a flourish.

It was the sort of garments he wore when he meant to be seen, when he meant to stir conversation.

He had wanted to ask Charlotte what she would wear, whether she’d arrive in scarlet once more, but she hadn’t taken his calls. So now, he would act as he saw fit.

And if she didn’t like it? Well, she ought to have received him.