"What?"
"Come to London. Come to the ball. Let me introduce you properly before the gossip does it badly."
Marianne stared at him as if he'd suggested she fly to the moon. "You want me to attend a London ball? With aristocrats and titles and people who were born knowing how to waltz?"
"I want you to attend as my chosen companion, my future duchess, the woman I love."
"Alaric, I don't know how to be a duchess at a ball. I know how to bake bread and manage account books and occasionally throw flour at annoying dukes."
"You know how to be yourself. That's enough."
"That's romantic but impractical. These people will never accept me."
"These people will be charmed by you, just like everyone is once they actually meet you."
"The entire village knows me! They've known me since birth! London society will take one look at my callused hands and flour-permanent hair and laugh me out of the ballroom."
"Then they're fools and we'll leave immediately."
"You can't just leave the Winterbourne Ball!"
"Watch me."
"Alaric..."
"Marianne, please. I need you there. Not just want—need. I haven't attended a society function in two years. The thought of facing all those people, their questions, their expectations, without you there to keep me grounded... I'd rather face the Christmas geese armed with nothing but good intentions."
She looked at him, seeing the genuine anxiety beneath his attempted humor. "You're actually nervous."
"I'm terrified. These people have known me since childhood. They expect the Duke of Wexmere to be cold, controlled, perfect. You've thoroughly destroyed that version of me, and I'm grateful for it, but now I have to face them as this new person who bakes badly and falls off ladders and throws flour when frustrated."
"You've only thrown flour once."
"It was a memorable one."
Marianne's mother entered the bakery, took one look at them standing close together covered in flour, and sighed. "Whatcrisis has occurred now? And please tell me it doesn't involve the geese."
"Alaric wants me to go to London for a fancy ball," Marianne said, still looking dazed.
"A fancy ball? How fancy?"
"The Winterbourne Ball," Alaric said. "The social event of the winter season."
Mrs. Whitby senior dropped the tray she was carrying. It clattered on the floor, rolls scattering everywhere.
"The Winterbourne Ball? My Marianne at the Winterbourne Ball?"
"Is it that significant?" Marianne asked.
"Significant? Child, the Queen attends the Winterbourne Ball! Foreign princes! The entire aristocracy!"
"Oh good," Marianne said faintly. "No pressure then."
"When?" her mother demanded.
"Three days," Alaric said.
"THREE DAYS?"
