Page 93 of Not his Marchioness
Charlotte’s fingers trembled, crinkling the paper as she lowered it. The mutual acquaintance was no doubt Lord Emery.
Would he never cease? Would he never stop putting such poison in her mind?
She had dismissed his last attempt as ridiculous. But now, with this letter in her hands, she was no longer certain. It was very specific, and it relied upon her doing precisely as it instructed.
She rose and made her way to Rhys’s study. She would speak to him at once, show him the letter, and demand an explanation. Then…
She stopped in the doorway. Then what? He would deny it, no doubt.
And she? She would pretend to believe him. But in the back of her mind, she would wonder. If he had truly planned to meet this Elizabeth that evening, he would simply reschedule.
Would it not be better to wait? If this were true, then when he made an excuse to slip out that evening, she would know the letter had spoken the truth. Perhaps she could even follow him. But if he remained home, if he did not move from her side, then she would know it was all a falsehood.
Yes, it was better not to confront him. By evening, she would have her answer, one way or another.
She stepped back into the drawing room and sat down once more. She looked at the letter, wondering what the purpose of all of this was.
What if Rhys were unfaithful? What if he had lied? What did Lord Emery stand to gain from that? Nothing, surely.
Just then, the stairs outside creaked. It had to be either a servant or Rhys himself. Quickly, she hurried to the fireplace and tossed the letter into the flames. The fire consumed it at once.
If there were any truth to it, she did not want Rhys to have prior warning.
She must act as though nothing were amiss. That would be difficult, but in her heart of hearts, she suspected the sender had perhaps done her a favor.
For tonight, she would finally put all her doubts to rest—whether by having them confirmed, or by having this fragile fairytale castle, built of hopes and dreams, come crashing down.
CHAPTER 36
Rhys stood before a pallet in the conservatory, colors drying slowly on it.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked solemnly. It was almost five o’clock. Another hour, and he would be off.
Gideon was to collect him—the perfect excuse. Charlotte would never question why he went out with his friend, for she knew by now that the two of them often played cards together or called on mutual acquaintances.
Once Gideon arrived, they would ride to St. Giles swiftly. Rhys would tend to his business there and return—perhaps even sort out the wretched affair before dinner—and then put it all behind him.
If these past few days had taught him anything, it was that this life was all he had ever truly wanted. To have a family. Or rather, to have a family once more, one of his own making. A wife heloved, and children he would cherish and raise as equals. Not one labelled “the heir” and the other “the spare,” not one favored over the other.
All these years, he had allowed fear and doubt to cloud his judgment. That fear still lingered deep in his bones, and perhaps it would never leave. Yet now he was certain he could live with it.
It was worth it. The peace he had found at Christmas—at least until that blasted letter arrived—had shown him as much. A different future than he had ever imagined was possible, and he could make it real, provided he left the past behind.
He groaned as his thoughts turned back to the letter. If what was written there proved true, then perhaps the future he envisioned might never come to pass—or at the very least, not so easily.
Would Charlotte stand by him? Perhaps. She was good, understanding, and she already knew of his past. But what if she did not? What if she left him?
He could not bear to think of it.
The sound of fingertips tapping against the doorframe startled him.
“Are you painting?” Charlotte asked.
“Trying to,” he admitted. “Truthfully, I have not painted in such a long time that I scarcely recall how to. But I rememberwatching my father, and it always appeared rather diverting. Besides, I need new pursuits—something to occupy me.”
“I do not know that you will find painting adequate,” she replied, a little bite in her tone that had not been there of late. She stepped further into the room and glanced at the empty canvas. “It is going splendidly, I see.”
“I was lost in thought,” he said, forcing a smile. “Truly, I ought not to have begun so late in the day. Gideon will be here soon.”
