Page 79 of Not his Marchioness
“Well, Emery,” he said with a bright smile when he reached them, deliberately straightening to his full height. “What a surprise to see you here. I had heard you were not making public appearances at present.”
Emery swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I have been out of town; I had business to attend to in Ireland. I am here now.”
“Ireland, is it?” Rhys drawled, his smile sharpening. “That is quite far afield for a businessman. Have you burned all your bridges in London, then?”
“I will have you know that business is better than ever,” Emery sneered, his lip curling.
Charlotte looked from one to the other, her eyes darting back and forth like a trapped bird.
“I see,” Rhys said smoothly. “And have you replaced that maid yet? Most unfortunate, I am told.” He raised his voice at the wordmaid, and several heads turned toward them.
Emery flushed scarlet, while Charlotte’s face remained carefully blank, though a red hue crept into her cheeks. Rhys narrowed his eyes at her.
“Those are lies—malicious lies! And I will not stand for it. You are quite impolite, Sir, I must say. Unlike your wife, who has been most… gentle.”
“I advise you,” Rhys said, drawing a deep breath, “to step away from my wife. Neither of us has anything further to say to you.”
Emery glanced at Charlotte and shrugged. “It seems I am not wanted here. I do wish you a successful evening,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “But do remember my words.”
With that, he slithered away, like the weasel he was.
Remember his words? What in the world did he tell her?
Rhys turned to Charlotte, who looked like a caged animal longing to flee. “Are you quite well? Has he bothered you?”
“His presence was uninvited and unwelcome,” she said with quiet steel. “He did not threaten me in any way, if that is what you mean, but he was… unpleasant.”
Rhys was about to press her for more when she lifted her head, standing straighter.
“You are late.”
“I know,” he sighed. “I met with the Duke of Windsor, and the meeting ran somewhat late, and then?—”
“Windsor is already here,” she interrupted, nodding toward the gentleman, who waved from across the room.
“Yes,” Rhys said, confused why she would remark on it. “I met with him, indeed. The meeting delayed me, and afterward, I had to return home to change.”
“I thought you said you would not have time to return home, and that you would meet me here directly.”
Why did he feel as though he were being interrogated by His Majesty’s general?
“I planned to come directly, but the morning coat I had brought to change into in the carriage became wrinkled on the way—I inadvertently sat on it,” he admitted, laughing at his own stupidity.
She did not laugh.
“Be that as it may, I thought it best to present myself as a respectable gentleman, rather than one who looked as though he had rolled in from the stews. Surely you would agree.”
She took him in, her gaze assessing not only his attire but also his very bearing.
“I see,” she said coolly.
Something was different. Strange.
He disliked the chill that radiated from her, so stark a contrast to the warmth of their kiss the night before.
He had not slept half the night, haunted by the memory of her lips. Perhaps there could be something more between them—though he knew he ought not allow it.
He had awoken determined to keep his distance. Yet, when he realized he would be late to meet her, shame gnawed at him. Shame at letting her believe that he did not care, when in truth he cared too much. That was why he could not be with her.
