Page 102 of Not his Marchioness
“I dare say an hour, My Lord.”
“An hour…”
He might still catch her.
Rhys paused. Should he follow her to the place where the stagecoach would have picked her up? No, she would already be gone by now. He knew from his own frequent travels that the coach for Brighton left at nine o’clock. It was already almost ten.
Where had the evening gone?
“Very well, we are leaving right now,” he declared.
“Of course, My Lord. But pray, where are we going?”
“Brighton. We are going to follow her.”
“Very well, my lord,” the coachman said and called for the groom to harness the horses, and then Rhys jumped into the carriage.
“Faster—faster!” he cried, and the coachman spurred the horses on.
The wheels ground across the sandy road as the carriage sped up.
Rhys pressed his chin into his hand. He had to find his wife. He could not lose her. A sudden wave of dread washed over him, the same feeling he had when he had lost his parents.
The old grief bubbled up once more. He was losing his wife the same way he had lost his mother and father.
This was why he had not wanted to love again—because of the pain when that love was torn away. That wretched feeling when the person you adored more than anything else was ripped from you, and you might never see them again.
He had experienced that loss in varying degrees—three times in short succession with his family, and then once more with his mentor.
He had lost everyone he cared about—until Charlotte. And now she, too, might be driven away.
Should he have simply told her about the letter he had received? Should he have told her he had received a letter that implied Lizzie had birthed a child that may or may not be his? A gravely ill child?
But what would she have said? Their relationship was so fragile. He could have lost her then, too. And yet would it not have been better? Perhaps if he had told her the truth, she would have understood.
Should I turn back?If I turn back now—if I simply accept fate, if I accept that I cannot be with her, that I have lost her—then perhaps, in due course, my heart will heal. Explaining myself to her and having her reject me… the pain would be far deeper. If I turn back, it would be my decision. It would be me choosing to walk away.
But if she rejected him? If she became one more person in the long line of people who had walked away? That he could not bear.
He wetted his lips and rose, ready to bang on the carriage roof and order the driver to stop. But he did not. He thought of his mother and how much she had wished for him to grow into a man she could be proud of.
Had he not become that man of late? Had he not forsaken his debauchery and rakish ways? He had made progress. He had trusted his heart.
He could not throw it all away now. If he had learned anything these past weeks, it was that love was worth fighting for.
Charlotte had setbacks with her school, yet she had not given up. Nathaniel had told him of the twists and turns in his love affair with Evelyn, and he had not given up. And Rhys himself hadtransformed from an outcast to a respected gentleman in a few short weeks.
He was not going to give up now. He would only lose if he did not try.
He dropped his hand and sat back down, looking outside. He had been lost in thought for so long that he had not even realized London was behind him. He was not certain where exactly they were, but some time had passed.
“What will I say to her when I find her?” he muttered to himself.
He would tell her the truth, yes. But would he be able to convince her that he loved her, that all of this had been a horrible mistake?
Suddenly, the carriage slowed. Rhys looked out and, in the distance, saw a posting inn. And there, outside of it, was a stagecoach.
The carriage had barely stopped when he leapt out, for he saw her standing beside the compartment, all alone in the middle of the night.
