The shout brought Thomas running in from outside where he'd been shoveling snow. "What's happening? Are the geese attacking?”
"His Grace wants to take Marianne to the Winterbourne Ball in three days," Mrs. Whitby senior said, sounding slightly hysterical.
Thomas's eyes went wide. "The fancy London ball where everyone wears jewels and judges each other?"
"That's the one," Marianne confirmed weakly.
"Brilliant! Can I come?"
"No," all three adults said simultaneously.
"Worth asking," Thomas said cheerfully. "Mrs. Whitby, you'll need a dress. A proper fancy one, not your Sunday best that you've had for five years."
"I don't have time to have a dress made."
"I'll handle that," Alaric said quickly. "My modiste in London can work miracles with enough motivation."
"Your modiste? You have a personal dressmaker?"
"Technically, she was my mother's, but she's maintained the connection hoping I'd eventually marry and need her services."
"And you want her to dress me? A baker? For the fanciest ball of the year?"
"I want her to create something that shows London exactly who you are; brilliant, beautiful, and perfect exactly as you are."
"That's lovely, but I still don't know how to dance fancy dances or talk to aristocrats or use seventeen different forks..."
"There are never seventeen forks," Alaric assured her. "Twelve at most."
"TWELVE?"
"I'm joking. Usually only six."
"SIX?"
"Marianne, breathe," her mother said, though she looked nearly as panicked. "You can do this. You're clever and adaptable and you've been handling this one's aristocratic nonsense for weeks now."
"This one is standing right here," Alaric pointed out.
"In my kitchen, covered in flour, having destroyed another batch of bread. You've rather lost your intimidation factor, Your Grace."
"I'll have you know I'm very intimidating in London."
"You're about as intimidating as Thomas's pet rabbit."
"Thomas has a pet rabbit?"
"Had. It escaped and joined the wild rabbits. Even prey animals aren't intimidated by you anymore."
"Can we focus?" Marianne interrupted. "I need to know everything. Every rule, every expectation, every possible social trap I could fall into."
"The first rule," Alaric said, taking her hands, "is that you're going as my chosen partner. Anyone who disrespects you disrespects me, and despite my recent lapses in dignity, I still carry enough social weight to make that uncomfortable for them."
"And the second rule?"
"Be yourself. The Marianne who organized a Christmas fair, who fights geese, who makes the best bread in three counties. That Marianne can handle a few overdressed aristocrats."
"A few? How many people attend this ball?"
