Page 55 of Not his Marchioness
Perhaps there was more to him than she had allowed herself to see. Perhaps there was far more to him, indeed.
She dropped her head into her hands. She had to cease thinking in this manner. This was very dangerous territory.
She could not allow herself to feel anything for her husband. For he most certainly did not feel anything for her. She had to prevent her treacherous mind from permitting such thoughts again.
She blew out the candle, leaving the letter unfinished. She crawled back into her bed and buried her head in the pillow, willing herself to dream of anything other than Rhys.
Rhys tapped his finger against the rim of his glass in a rhythmical motion, the only sound in his otherwise quiet study. Outside, rain was still falling, but the angle was such that it did not drum against his window. He would have liked it if it had. The pitter-patter tended to calm his nerves at times such as this.
And at this moment, calm was exactly what he needed. Or a distraction. One or the other.
He rose and gazed out at the London streets, which lay dark and silent before him. The only light came from the street lamps, which had been lit a short while ago.
Nobody was out on the streets at this hour, not in this neighborhood. A cat darted across the street and disappeared between two houses, the movement drawing his attention.
He noticed that the light in his neighbor’s front parlor was still on. He could see the candle flame dancing, though there was no movement in the room. Had the man gone to sleep without blowing it out?
Rhys thought back to his mother, how she had always scolded him when he left a room without extinguishing the candle or taking it with him. She had always been so mindful of such dangers.
What would she have thought of Charlotte?
He had spoken hastily when Lady Woodhaven had challenged him, and he had meant it at that moment. Now that he reflected on it more deeply, it became increasingly clear to him.
He could see the picture before him perfectly: Sunday breakfast, his mother seated at the table beside Charlotte, the two of them chatting amiably, perhaps leafing through the pages of Ackermann’s Repository, discussing ribbons and bonnets.
But no, they would not be discussing ribbons and bonnets. They would be speaking of entirely different matters—finding ways to assist her sister with her climbing boys venture, determining how to expand the school, which would already be built and flourishing by then.
His mother had never allowed anything to deter her, and neither would Charlotte. He could only imagine the formidable force the two of them would be together.
His hand tightened around his glass, his thumb still tracing the rim.
He had to cease thinking in this manner. It served no good purpose whatsoever. Thinking of his mother only brought the darkness he had worked so hard to keep at bay. Soon, thoughts of his father would follow, and then his brother, and then…
Usually, when his thoughts raced thus and robbed him of elusive sleep, he would leave the house and venture to St. Giles or whatever other refuge was nearest.
He would drink, he would gamble, and then he would find a lady with whom to spend the night. Perhaps he might indulge in opium—laudanum for certain, opium if the need was great. Then, he would forget everything. That was what he had to accomplish.
He could not continue thinking about the fact that his wife was only next door. He had to forget that she was merely a few chambers away from him. Had to forget about the kiss. That damned kiss…
“Blast!” he exclaimed as the glass shattered in his hand.
He leaped up and stared at the shards. Amber liquid spilled across his desk, and then red droplets of blood joined in the mess.
He turned his palm upward and watched the blood well up. No glass seemed to be embedded, which was most fortunate. Still, it stung more because the glass had contained spirits.
Hastily, he retrieved his handkerchief and wrapped his hand for the second time that evening. His palm still smarted from where he had dug his fingernails into it earlier, and now this fresh wound.
No matter what transpired, he was going to have to cease thinking about Charlotte, or else the wounds in his hands would only be the beginning. And whilst those would heal in time, he feared the wounds in his heart never would.
CHAPTER 21
NOVEMBER 30TH, 1814
“Well, My Lady,” Lady Woodhaven said as she adjusted the large turban on her head. The gemstones fixed to it jingled and caught the light as Charlotte watched her get up. “I think we are in agreement. I will help you raise the funds. And if you can find a location, then I dare say we will be in business. Although I ask that you find the building in a place other than St. Giles or Whitechapel. Something a little bit more respectable. Islington, for example. That will do nicely.”
Charlotte wanted to argue that it was the people who lived in Whitechapel and St. Giles who needed schooling the most, but she sensed that now was not the time to bring this up. She was fortunate enough that Lady Woodhaven had taken a genuine interest in her school.
A week had passed since the ball, and while she and Rhys had come to something of a standstill when it came to their connection, her project was coming along rather nicely. She took comfort in that.
