Page 45 of Not his Marchioness
He wanted to see what kind of woman she was. Well, she’d show him.
As she made her way back through the corridors, the book clutched against her chest, Charlotte wondered at her boldness.
Was this truly about shocking Rhys, or was something else driving her? The way he had looked at her during their earlier conversations, the warmth of his hand on her shoulder that afternoon, had awakened something inside her she didn’t quite understand.
Thunder rumbled, but it was far away now, as if attempting to make its final stance. Rain pelted the windows, the sound comforting as it reminded her of her childhood, when she’d sit and read books in her mother’s drawing room.
Rhys was standing by the fire, one hand resting on the mantelpiece. He turned at her approach, his eyes immediately dropping to the book in her hands.
“There you are. Show me what sort of scandalous books you were planning to read once you were done with Byron.” He sat on one of the armchairs and crossed his legs. “If it is truly scandalous, I will know it. So please read it to me.”
Charlotte opened the book and found a passage she knew well.“It is justice, not charity, that is wanting in the world.”
Rhys frowned slightly. “That’s not Byron. That is…”
“Mary Wollstonecraft, fromA Vindication of the Rights of Woman. I used to read her works in the past, and given how Society forced me into marriage, I felt drawn to her once more.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Good God, Charlotte. You read Wollstonecraft? I’m surprised your finishing school didn’t burn such books.”
“They tried,” she scoffed. “But knowledge, once gained, is rather difficult to unlearn. Would you like to hear more?It is a melancholy truth; yet such is the blessed effect of civilization! The most respectable women are the most oppressed.”
“Gadzooks, Charlotte,” Rhys said, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been alarm. “I think you will fit in well among those reformist ladies. Lady Woodhaven will suffer apoplexy, however, if she hears you read such things.”
“I did not intend to tell her what I read, but the reformist ladies might share these sentiments. I hope so, anyhow, since I wish for them to help me with the school.” She leafed through the pages. “There is also this:Women ought to have representatives, instead of being arbitrarily governed without any direct share.”
“… allowed them in the deliberations of government,” Rhys muttered, moving closer despite himself.
“You know it?” she asked, shocked now.
“My mother was somewhat of a reformist herself. She would at times read me some of these books,” he admitted, nodding toward the book in her hand.
“She sounds like a remarkable lady.”
“She was,” he affirmed.
She noted the change in his tone immediately—the mirth had left it. And he no longer looked directly at her.
“You told Lady Woodhaven that she would have been pleased to have me as a daughter-in-law because of my desire to start a school.”
“Among other things,” he said, still not meeting her gaze.
Her eyes were drawn to his left hand; he was rubbing his stomach, clenching his fingers in a slow, steady rhythm—one she suspected was meant to soothe.
Soothe from what?
“Why do you think she read Wollstonecraft to you?”
“It was not just her,” he said. “She read many things to me. All intended to inspire. Her efforts were wasted on me, of course, for I was only a second son.”
“I think not,” Charlotte countered. “Second sons may yet hold a standing in Society. It is not the exclusive province of dukes, earls, or barons—nay, even knights may wield influence. In anycase, you are a titled gentleman now. Perhaps you might put some of the principles she instilled in you to good use.”
Rhys stopped his fidgeting, his hands suddenly falling to his sides as he looked at her. He did not speak.
She was reminded of that silent standoff they had not long ago, when she had been the first to look away, unable to endure that penetrating stare of his.
Well, tonight she was ready. She had steeled herself for another round.
She held his gaze, determined not to break eye contact first. There was a heat in his eyes now; his jaw worked slowly, as though he were grinding his teeth.
