Page 68 of Not his Marchioness
“How could I forget? Your husband was a dear mentor to me.”
He remembered the man with fondness. How, after his father’s death, Sandler had taken him under his wing in the House of Lords. Their acquaintance had lasted barely six months before death claimed him.
Rhys remembered Lady Sandler even more vividly. Her gowns were always cut too low, her eyes always seeking conquest. She had set her cap at him once before, not for marriage but for other purposes.
And now she was here again.
Rhys glanced toward Charlotte, silently begging her to notice. But her head was turned, caught up in conversation with her sisters. If he could draw her attention, she might free him from this unwanted conversation.
Look at me, please.
Alas, his prayer went unanswered.
CHAPTER 26
“Did you see him?” Margot whispered with a wicked grin. “The way he looked at you?”
“Stop it,” Charlotte hissed, though her cheeks flushed.
For fifteen minutes, Margot had been recounting every detail of the property search—the tumble into the pond, and Rhys’s gallant rescue.
“He no longer looks at you like a puzzle he cannot solve,” Margot said. “Now, he looks at you as though you are the answer.”
“He does not.”
“How romantic it must have been,” Marianne teased. “A veritable rescue!”
Evelyn and their aunt laughed along.
“It was covered in grass—I could not see the depth,” Charlotte scoffed, though her smile betrayed her.
“Well, it must have been exciting,” Evelyn insisted. “And you said yourself that he rescued you. Were you not the least bit moved?”
Charlotte wanted to protest, but her skin still tingled at the memory of Rhys’s touch.
“It does not matter,” she said firmly. “All is well now. I have found a location, and Lady Woodhaven has given her approval.”
“Even though it was a Catholic church?” Aunt Eugenia asked.
“It was not a church. It was first a convent, and before that, a Jewish house of worship, and before that, a poorhouse. It has served many purposes for the community, which makes it ideal.”
“Well, I suppose Lady Woodhaven is more reformed than we thought,” Marianne mused.
“She is,” Charlotte affirmed. “I was quite wrong about her. She is far more forward-thinking than many ladies I know.”
It was true. She had tea with Lady Woodhaven only the day before and presented her with three potential sites. Lady Woodhaven had agreed to view the second and third. That very evening, she had written, declaring the third location perfect and pledging to raise funds at once.
Charlotte had been elated, so much so that she had rushed to Rhys’s study, only to find him gone. She had searched the entire house, even the conservatory, a place she adored but which he seemed to avoid for whatever reason.Alas, she hadn’t found him.
The butler had informed her that Rhys had gone out, so he did not know his whereabouts. She had remembered that it had been some time since her husband had visited the rookeries or engaged in similar behavior, but whenever he disappeared until nightfall without informing her where he was going or when she might expect him back, she could not help but assume his location.
Disappointed, she had returned to her chamber. He had been quite excited the following day when she had told him, and they had spent some time debating the next steps. Still, the distance between them had remained.
It didn’t help that while they were talking, she constantly thought back to the way his hands had felt on her body, and how much she would like to feel them again. But those thoughts were immediately replaced by images of what she assumed he had been up to the night before—visiting lightskirts, drinking until the morning hours, while she had sat alone at home, reading about female emancipation by an author long dead, one who had never achieved what she had set out to do.
Was she doomed to end up like Mary Wollstonecraft? Only dabbling in her dreams, just to see it all come to nothing?
“You are looking at him as though he were a slice of plum cake,” Margot commented.
