Page 58 of Not his Marchioness
Rhys looked down at himself.
He was dressed in a rather ridiculous costume. He couldn’t imagine his father had ever seriously considered wearing it. His white tunic went down to his knees, and the elaborate gold embroidery along the hem, sleeves, and bottom glinted in thedim light. The fabric was fine linen, but the metallic threads chafed his skin.
On his head, he wore a golden laurel crown with delicate leaves that caught the light, while his arms were adorned with wide gold and silver bracers engraved with sun motifs.
Instead of normal shoes, he wore his dancing slippers, but they had been wrapped with a golden cord and fitted with small golden wings at the ankles. Up his calves ran golden leather guards that had been tooled to resemble classical armor, complete with embossed lyres and sunbursts.
“It is most ridiculous,” he huffed. “I must say, it seems quite unfair that I should look as though I have escaped from Bedlam, dressed in a bedsheet, while you look… well, splendid indeed.”
He was not paying her Spanish coin. She truly was beautiful. She, too, wore a white dress, but it had been cut to fit her beautifully. Her bosom looked larger than usual, but that was not at all to her detriment. Nor was it an insult to his eyes.
Her gown was draped in the classical style, with one shoulder bare in the Grecian fashion, though a delicate silver chain mail overlay preserved modesty while creating the illusion of armor.
On her head was a diadem with silver owl feathers and moonstone gems, and her dark hair had been piled high but allowed to cascade in ringlets over her shoulders.
It was rare for a woman to venture out with her hair down, but given her pride in her rebellious ways as well as the shield of her costume, she could get away with it, and she lookedsuperb.
Golden bracers ran up her arms, etched with owls and olive branches, matching the ones around his calves. Her shoes, too, were wrapped in a silver cord, so that her dancing slippers blended perfectly with the illusion. At her side hung a small ornamental shield, no larger than a reticule, embossed with Medusa’s head.
“Thank you,” she said, looking away.
“Pray, are you blushing?”
“I am not,” she said. “And even if I were, you could not see it, for the carriage is dark.”
Rhys grinned but did not say anything further. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t, because they had arrived at Haversham House. The moment he stepped out of the carriage, a wave of relief washed over him, for he was not the only one in a ridiculous outfit.
Walking past him was a man dressed as a faun, and at least three sultanas stood on the sidewalk, along with their companions. A Harlequin came down the stairs, followed by a shepherdess.
“Well,” he noted as he handed Charlotte down, holding her hand for a moment too long, “it seems we do not stand out too much.”
“I dare say, if you wish to stand out, then you should have simply worn the outfit you wore on our wedding day. Those gold buttons certainly stood out.”
He narrowed his eyes and clicked his tongue. “That is what I get for trying to be attractive on our wedding day.”
The air between them was light. He wasn’t quite sure why. In fact, it was difficult to tell these days when they were getting along and when they were not.
Days could pass without them speaking two sentences to each other, and he generally liked this because it meant that they were keeping their distance. But there were other times when they would fall into easy conversation—usually about the most inane topics—sometimes even laugh, and he would wish those moments would never end.
Yet he was grateful when they did, because he knew that once again, distance would keep them from making grave mistakes.
He escorted her inside, and instantly, jolly music enveloped them. A reel was underway, and the sounds of feet stomping on the ground filled the air. Laughter and chatter surrounded them, and the chandelier, which held at least fifty beeswax candles, sparkled above them.
“Over there is the Duke of Windsor.” Rhys nodded his chin toward the surly-looking man dressed as a chimney sweep.
“How can you tell?” Charlotte asked.
“I saw the way he walked when he approached the table. He drags his right leg because of gout.”
“I see,” she said. “So I suppose when we speak to him, there will be no danger of him asking me to dance.”
“I should think not,” he replied. “Come, let us greet him.”
He offered his arm again, and she took it. The feel of her hand on his arm was almost indescribable. It was peaceful, it was right.
As they navigated the crowd, her hip bumped into his a few times. That, too, made him wish that whatever this thing between them would turn into something more.
“Your Grace,” he called.
