Page 22 of Not his Marchioness
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 boththeir 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. Londonadoredit.
