Page 46 of Not his Marchioness
Her thoughts whirled.
What was it about Rhys that made him so difficult to understand? How was it that one moment he could be so charming—charming enough that even women like Lady Rosslyn and Lady Woodhaven might forgive his past indiscretions—and the next moment he could be all shadows? His mood seemed able to shift in the blink of an eye.
“What do you mean?” he asked, taking a step closer.
She rolled her shoulders, steadying herself. “I mean, now that you are a titled gentleman, there are many good endeavors youmight undertake. The sort of things your mother might have wished you to accomplish, had she known you would inherit the marquisate. She did not tell you all those things for nothing.”
He took another step closer, his head tilting slightly. “Charlotte,” he said, her name warm in her ears. “You ought to be careful, or you will start sounding as though you wish to be my conscience.”
She, too, took a step forward, unwilling to be outwitted. They were now only inches apart, and she lifted her chin to meet his gaze.
“Perhaps I am just what you need, Rhys,” she murmured.
His hand rose, as though he meant to touch her, but then dropped again, so suddenly that it betrayed his uncertainty.
“In this regard, at least,” she added quickly, not wishing him to draw the wrong conclusion.
“Trust me when I say,” he replied, “I do not require you to be my conscience. Others who came before you had tried and failed.”
His breath fanned her cheek, and she knew he could feel hers as well.
“Your mother, you mean?”
He drew in a breath through his nose and held it for a moment before shaking his head and exhaling. “My mother… and others.”
He looked away, then turned to the door. “I should leave you to it. This cravat has been torturing me all evening; I shall go take it off and leave you to your scandalous authors.”
With that, he disappeared.
She stood alone in the library, listening as his footsteps faded. It was only then that she realized her legs were trembling. From what, exactly, she could not say. But she was forced to lean against the back of a chair, lest her treacherous knees give way.
This man. This vexing, peculiar man. The more time she spent with him, the more space he occupied in her mind. And that would never do.
She walked to the window, her thoughts drifting back to what her cousin Margot had said. How had she put it? Something was smoldering and she wanted to be told when it caught fire?
“Something is smoldering between you,and I am only waiting for it to catch fire?”
She wasn’t exactly sure but the meaning had been clear enough. She could not deny that she had felt it, too. She would not have called it smoldering, not until tonight. There had been sparks between them, yes, but she had assumed they were sparks ofresentment and vexation, the sort one felt toward a person they deeply despise yet cannot help but notice was… well, handsome.
But tonight, she could no longer deny there was something more.
Was it smoldering?
Whatever it was, she vowed she would extinguish it before it had a chance to catch fire.
CHAPTER 18
Aweek later, they stepped down from the carriage. Rhys extended his hand toward her. She hesitated a moment before taking it. Then, she descended with her head held high and her shoulders pulled back so that her bosom was pushed out proudly.
Rhys allowed himself a moment to admire her, a smirk playing on his lips. Yes, he had an exceedingly beautiful wife. And so what if she seemed perpetually vexed by him?
None of the attendees here would ever suspect it. They would see only what they were meant to see—a united front. A beautiful young woman who knew her own mind, and her dashing, reformed husband at her side.
Reformed.
Rhys almost laughed at the notion. Who would have thought that he, Rhys Ellingsworth, would ever think of himself asreformed?
In truth, part of the reason why he had agreed to this arranged marriage was precisely so that he might avoid reform. And yet, somehow, reform had found him all the same.
