Page 74 of Not his Marchioness
And then…?
He should have known this was getting too dangerous. He should have known that this could happen. That bringing her into his life was a risk he shouldn’t have taken.
Would it have been so bad if he had lost a few of his business ventures? Couldn’t he have just gone to the Continent for a few months?
The Lords were going to find another cause to put their power behind, other than this strange desire to rein in their younger, wilder peers. These things came and went. There always seemed to be something everyone put their power behind, and others always followed because it was becoming the popular thing, the prevalent cause.
Rhys remembered the window tax and all the uproar about it. And that time the Duke of Windsor had complained about how much he had to pay in taxes for a male servant, and before you knew it, the entire House of Lords had been raving and ranting about it, even though no one had complained beforehand.
This was going to be just the same, wasn’t it? Of course, now he would never know. And it was no good wondering and questioning.
It was done.
Well, almost done.
“Rhys,” Charlotte’s voice rang out, echoing off the tall walls like a shot fired in the dark.
He didn’t want to stop, but he had to. He couldn’t leave her standing there.
He paused and turned. “I really must rest,” he insisted.
But she was walking toward him in hurried steps, her robe fluttering slightly, revealing the nightgown underneath. Her hair, loose on her shoulders, bounced as she walked.
The sight of her in her night clothes had almost driven him to distraction when he first saw her, for he had been able to think of nothing but how much he wanted to run his fingers through her silky hair.
And then the snow—the blasted snow. Did it have to fall now? Did it have to be so dreadfully romantic?
He stopped and swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat.
“I will not let you do this again.”
“Do what?” he asked.
“We have done this for weeks now. Every time we begin to… Every time there’s an understanding, you turn around and run.”
“I do not know what you speak of,” he said, though of course he did.
He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his fingers against his skin.
“Every time you and I get closer, every time you become—” She took a deep breath, her bosom rising and falling. “Every time we become?—”
“More united,” he finished for her, because he could see she was struggling.
“Yes. Every time we become more united, you suddenly run as though you regret everything. As though I suddenly caught a dreadful disease you could not wait to get away from.”
“No,” he said, dropping his arms.
He truly hadn’t meant to make her feel like that. But of course, he could see it now. He could see why she felt that way.
“Charlotte, I cannot quarrel with you like this.”
“I am not quarreling with you,” she corrected. “I am demanding that you tell me why you act the way you do.”
“I am not acting the way I do to hurt you.” He shrugged. “We live under the same roof. Can I not come and talk to you when I please? Can I not attempt to make right the things that went wrong earlier today? Do you think I wish to live with somebody who has started a battle with me at a tea party without trying to make amends, without trying to smooth the waves, so to speak?”
She pressed her lips together, and he saw that his words had pierced the armor of rage she had wrapped around herself.
“I did apologize for what I said, but it doesn’t change anything. You continue to act warm and friendly, seeking my company, and the next moment, you are a block of ice. I do not understand.”
