Page 47 of Not his Marchioness
He had planned to reduce his visits to the watering holes—perhaps once a week—but the truth was, he had not been even once. On the rare evenings he went out, it was usually to Gideon’s home for cards.
More surprising still, he had not once been tempted to visit St. Giles or any of his old haunts. He could not say exactly why, but it seemed the mere fact of having a wife—a wife on paper, to be sure—had kept him from it.
Foolish, perhaps, but every time he thought of the rookery, he saw Charlotte’s disapproving face. More specifically, he saw the look she had given him shortly after their wedding night.
By now, he had guessed that she believed he had gone to the rookery that evening, when in truth he had been at Gideon’s, drinking himself into a stupor.
He had no desire to see her judgment again. The more time they spent together, the more he found himself reluctant to offend her. It was one thing to needle and provoke her into a debate—something she rose to with a gratifyingly fiery spirit—but another to truly contort her opinion of him.
Their exchanges were always best when she was roused to indignation.
Well, not always. He recalled their conversation in the library on the night of the great storm. That had been invigorating, too. Until they had spoken of his parents. Or rather, untilhehad spoken of them. She had no idea that was the reason for his sudden reserve.
“You may let go. I have arrived safely,” her voice came, interrupting his thoughts.
He looked down and realized he was still holding her hand, his thumb resting over her fingers. Slowly, he released her.
Her lips were slightly parted, the deep rouge far bolder—far more scandalous—than any of the other ladies present would dare wear.
He smiled.
He liked it. She was a rebel at heart, and she had ideas he had never thought to hear from a lady’s mouth.
Indeed, Charlotte was far wittier and far more intelligent than he had initially thought—not that he would ever tell her so. She already thought quite highly of herself; there was no need to swell her head further. Still, he could not quite resist leaning in.
“You look positively dangerous with that rouge,” he murmured.
“That is because I am dangerous,” she declared, a smile ghosting across her lips.
It was true that their relationship was still largely combative, but far less so than before. Perhaps they were learning to weather one another’s tempers. Perhaps she was beginning to think him not quite so terrible. As for him, he had to admit he enjoyed her presence more than was prudent.
He closed his eyes briefly, and there it was again—the memory of her breath against his cheek in the library.
Foolish. He was foolish. She could barely stand the sight of him, of that he was certain.
“Are you ready?” he asked, offering his arm once more.
She took it, nodding. “Yes. Let us show thebeau mondethat you and I are indeed a happily married couple.”
He nodded, and together they entered the ballroom.
The place was packed with guests; Lady Swanson had truly outdone herself. The moment they stepped through the doors, half the assembly seemed to turn toward them.
“Well,” Rhys murmured, “we are certainly the cynosure of all eyes.”
“Given what happened the last time I walked through these doors, I can hardly blame them,” she muttered.
He said nothing, merely leading her through the crowd, greeting acquaintances left, right, and center.
“Is that your cousin?” he asked, inclining his head.
She looked up and smiled. “Yes. She said she would be here. Do you mind if I greet her?”
“Whatever you wish to do, you shall. That was our agreement. But do not forget that we must dance at least twice together—if not thrice. They must see us together. And since Lady Swanson encourages married couples to dance, we must take advantage.”
“Yes, I am aware. I shall greet her and then return in time for the quadrille.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It will have to be the waltz.”
