Page 89 of Not his Marchioness
Charlotte shrugged. “Of course, it troubles me. I would have liked a virtuous husband, one who had never lain with another, never gambled, never touched opiates. But that would be naïve. Such a paragon would be a cloistered monk, not a noble.” Shechuckled faintly. “But he has changed. He is no longer that man. So it does not trouble me—save for the occasional pang of jealousy. Yet I remind myself that it is I whom he has married. I whom he wants.”
“Well said.” Margot nodded. “Let the past be the past. What matters is the present. You are his, and he is yours. Now, tell me more about Christmastide. What sort of celebration shall it be?”
Charlotte smiled, grateful for the change of subject. Yet, in the back of her mind, she could not wholly banish the thought of Rhys’s past—the women, the gambling, the nights in disreputable clubs.
It had vexed her when they were only pretending. Now that she knew his love was real, it vexed her all the more.
She told herself that the past was behind them. And yet she could not help but wonder: was the past ever truly gone?
CHAPTER 34
“That is a rather impressive Yule log,” Nathaniel noted, pointing to the fireplace.
Rhys smiled. “My steward brought it from my country estate.”
He glanced out, watching the flames burn merrily. The impressive Yule log gave off a warmth that enveloped the room. The scent of cedar filled the air, and he took in the chamber.
It was truly beautiful. Charlotte had done a phenomenal job decorating the space.
Holly and assorted greenery hung over the doorways, with sprigs of mistletoe dangling for mischief. Candles of varied colors had been placed around the house, and gilt ribbons had been twined about evergreen boughs. Platters of delicacies—marzipan figures, jumbles, ginger biscuits, sugar plums, almond comfits, and slices of rich Twelfth Night cake—were set about the drawing room for all to enjoy.
The scent of roasted pheasant, buttered potatoes, carrots glazed in honey, and stewed winter greens wafted up from the kitchens below, filling the entire space. The cooks Charlotte had hired had outdone themselves that day, for there were whispers of a flummery and even a fine plum pudding to come.
“I must say,” Lady Eugenia declared, pressing a hand to her middle, “my stomach is rumbling.”
“You should have some more biscuits,” Charlotte suggested with a laugh.
Her aunt shook her head. “I could not possibly. If I have any more, I will spoil my appetite for dinner, and that would be a dreadful shame.”
“Usually, you are the one who tells us such things when we are stuffing our faces,” Marianne teased.
Rhys smiled to himself. He did not know Charlotte’s family well. He had come to know Nathaniel a little better over the past two weeks since his return, and he had spoken on occasion with Margot and Evelyn, but Lady Eugenia and Marianne were strangers to him.
He hoped to change that over the next several days. They were to spend the Christmas season together. That evening, they had played cards and billiards, and then gathered in the drawing room to listen as Marianne played Christmas songs on the pianoforte.
It was still snowing, and it promised to be a magical Christmastide, after all.
Rhys felt Charlotte press gently against his shoulder. He glanced at her with a smile. Their status was still precarious, but they were on far better ground than they had been before.
She still slept in her chamber, of course, but whenever opportunity arose, they would steal away to kiss, hug, and hold hands, enjoying one another’s company as though no one else in the world mattered.
It terrified him, the way he felt about her. The thought of losing her gnawed at him night and day, but he pushed those feelings aside, as he had once tried to push away the affection he had long felt for her.
Perhaps, in time, he would forget to be afraid. Perhaps he would grow accustomed to it. Perhaps he would even grow confident. But what he knew with certainty was that, for now, all he wanted was to be near her.
For the New Year, they had planned a grand ball. All their acquaintances were to attend. Gentlemen who had been ready to cast Rhys out of Society only weeks ago were now coming to his home, to his ball, invited by him and his wife. How odd Society was—one needed only to play its games to be in its good graces.
He questioned whether that was a good or bad thing. He had not wished to be cast out, but neither had he wished to feign. Andyet somehow, through feigning, he had become a better man—adifferentman.
“I can scarcely wait until you all have children. I may never be a grandmother, but I will be a great grandaunt,” Lady Eugenia gushed, jolting him out of his reverie. “Can you imagine little ones running beneath the kissing bough? Oh, I cannot wait.”
She clapped her hands together and looked from Charlotte to Evelyn and back again.
Charlotte flushed. They had not spoken of children or the future, and having her aunt broach the subject so suddenly was more than awkward. Still, Rhys placed his hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze.
Evelyn cleared her throat. “Well then, I suppose I should take this opportunity to tell you all that Aunt Eugenia’s wish will soon come true. By next Christmas, there shall be at least one child running around—or perhaps crawling.”
“Oh, Evelyn!” Charlotte cried, rising at once.
