Page 71 of Not his Marchioness
“I am aware,” he said. “And I would not have snuck up on you had I known that you were in this room. Alas, I was unaware, and this is my home. Also, I did not think it imprudent to wanderwhen sleep eluded me. I see it was no friend to you either this night.”
“It was not,” she muttered, not wanting to admit that each time she closed her eyes, she saw their argument playing out before her like a play that would not stop.
“What robbed you of sleep?” she asked quickly.
He shrugged. “This and that,” he replied, entering the room.
He, too, was not dressed in his night clothes. It was odd seeing him in such a state of undress. He wore a velvet green banyan, tied on the side with flourish, because, of course, a known rake like him would know how to even tie his banyan with style. His hair was slightly mussed, standing up on one side and flat on the other—evidence of his tossing and turning.
She resisted the urge to walk up to him to smooth it down, though her fingers itched to do so.
“I see. And what might this and that be?” she probed, not sure why she was engaging him in conversation.
He shrugged again and ran his finger along the back of one of the chairs. “Unwanted visits from dead relations, mostly. Whenever I close my eyes, I see a member of my family. It depends on what state my mind and my heart are in at the time. Tonight, it was my brother.”
She crossed her arms, not sure what to say. He rarely spoke of his family.
“It wasn’t unpleasant. We went for a ride. One of the few activities that we enjoyed doing together.”
“You did not have much in common?” she asked.
“He was not interested in gambling and women.” He winked at her in such a way that made her heart skip a beat. “He was studious, but also the sort who thought he knew everything better. He would often chastise people—me, most of all. Worried about our reputation and such. I am certain he’s looking down upon me now and shaking his head.”
“I dare say, you are not that different. You, too, enjoy knowing everything better than everyone else.”
He glanced up and smiled. “The difference is that I usually am right.” He paused, then sighed. “There are times I resent him.”
He said it so suddenly and so casually that she was taken aback.
“You resent him?”
“Yes, because this life is meant to be his. But he died. He died and left it on my shoulders. For that, I sometimes hate him. He was meant to be a marquess. I don’t know if he would’ve been good at it. He was certainly trained for it. He would’ve been better than me, I’m quite certain.”
“He did not choose to die,” she offered carefully.
“I am aware. And I know that it is not rational to feel as I do, but I feel it all the same. Sometimes I resent my father, too.”
His fingers drew circles on the table in front of him as he slid into a chair.
“Now that I can understand,” she said.
“You would, would you not?”
Silence settled between them, and then he looked up again.
“He died in this room, did you know?”
A cold chill ran through her.
Most people died in their homes, Charlotte knew this. She had assumed that the former Marquess of Ravenscar died somewhere in this house or in the country estate. In fact, she assumed it was the country estate, and that might be the reason why Rhys never visited there.
“In… in this room?” she stammered.
“Yes. Over there,” Rhys said, pointing one lazy finger to the corner. “He was a painter. Oils, very sophisticated. He was over there, painting a landscape, and then he was gone. Can youimagine? Just like that. My mother, my brother, and then my father. And I got stuck doing things like this.”
Charlotte did not know what to say, so she opted for humor.
“Things like sitting in your banyan, in the conservatory, in the middle of the night?”
