Page 87 of Not his Marchioness
She looked up, surprised to find him smiling at her.
Something about him had changed since yesterday; he had been different—affectionate, kind. Even now, he placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly, sending her heart racing.
“Only making a list for the school. Lady Woodhaven thinks we might open in March. We would not open in the middle of winter, lest a snowstorm deter the families from coming. Besides, we must find teachers.”
“Of course,” he said. “Although, have you considered that there might be an opportunity here? If the renovations are completeby the end of January, we might host an open house—a winter-themed one. Hang festive decorations, perhaps even arrange a snowball fight in the backyard if the weather allows. We could invite potential teachers, parents, and, naturally, investors.”
“That is a wonderful idea.” She smiled. “However did you think of it?”
He pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. “I could not sleep last night, so I considered various matters.”
She pressed her lips together. “A bad dream? About your parents or your brother?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. Then, he placed his hand atop hers.
She nearly gasped at his touch.
“There were other things on my mind. I had a long talk with Nathaniel yesterday, and I thought perhaps it might be time for us to speak of…”
“The future,” she supplied, the word catching in her throat.
“Yes.” He nodded. “I thought we might remain in London for a while longer. I have no desire to return to the country estate, and I know you want to stay for the school. I thought perhaps we might… get to know one another better.”
She blinked, uncertain of what he truly meant. Was this still part of their arrangement or something else?
“You mean to say as partners in our venture?” she asked.
“I mean,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “together. I mean to say that there is more between us now than when we first got married. I thought we could see where it might lead.”
It was far more casual than she had expected. Yet, by now, she knew him well enough to understand that he was not a man who easily expressed his feelings.
“I fear I do not understand,” she teased, as she knew perfectly what he meant.
“You know precisely what I mean. Do not toy with me, Charlotte Ellingsworth.”
She laughed lightly. “Perhaps. But I would very much like to hear you say it out loud.”
He drummed his fingers on the mahogany table, his jaw set. “Very well. I care for you. I care for you far more than I imagined I could, and I would… that is to say…”
“That you would like to kiss me again?” she prompted, surprised at her own boldness.
He gave a wry smile. “Amongst other things.”
“Other things such as…?” She cocked her head in a way she knew to be provocative.
“You shall see,” he said, his voice low.
Silence crackled between them, and she gulped, desperate to ease the tension.
“You know Margot will never let me hear the end of it.”
“And why not?”
“Because she declared from the beginning that there was something smoldering between us, and asked me to alert her when it caught fire.”
Rhys let out a loud laugh. “Then I dare say you ought to alert her, for whatever was between us has long been aflame. At least, it seems so on my part.”
“On mine as well,” she admitted. “I have fought these feelings for weeks, convinced that you did not care.”
