"Then I will set about proving," he said simply. "Small things, daily, until the fact is visible."
"That could take a very long time."
"I have a very long time."
"And London? Parliament? The dance cards and invitations?"
"Parliament has endured without me for years. Society will recover from the loss of my frown. My duty is here."
"Why?"
"You know why."
"I know what you’ve said," she answered. "Whether I believe it….is a separate question."
"Then I will keep answering it, with work, not words, until it is no longer a question."
The clock in the passage struck eleven, each chime tugging at habit. Marianne blinked, as if waking. "It’s late. You should go."
"Should I?"
"Yes. People will talk if you stay."
"People are presently composing ballads."
"Let them sing about truth, not conjecture."
"And the truth would be…?"
"That the Duke of Wexmere is attempting to court the village baker," she said, "and the village baker is making him earn it."
"Is that what is happening?"
"Isn’t it?"
"I thought I was merely having soup."
"Nothing with you is merely anything," she said, returning his earlier words with surgical accuracy—and, this time, warmth.
He rose, reached for his coat, and hissed as the wool brushed his bandaged hands. She touched his sleeve; the touch held him still.
"Thank you," she said, eyes on the wrappings rather than his face. "For the roof."
"Thank you for the soup."
"That is hardly an even exchange. You gave me four hours on a winter roof."
"And you gave me shelter when leaving me in the snow would have been easier."
"I considered the snow," she confessed, the ghost of a smile. "My better angels mutinied."
"I am in their debt."
"They're susceptible to a certain kind of stupidity."
"Stupidity?"
"Foolish nobility," she clarified. "Throwing yourself at a problem until it is solved or you are broken."
