"Then you should get better friends."
There was a moment of terrible silence. Then Lady Bethany laughed—a sharp bark of amusement.
"Oh, you do have spine! How refreshing. Come, let me introduce you to society. Let's see if that spine holds up under pressure."
What followed was a whirlwind of introductions. Names and titles blurred together as Lady Bethany paraded Marianne through the ballroom like a prize of war. Some people were kind,others cold, most carefully neutral as they waited to see how the wind would blow.
Then they reached a group of young women, all beautiful, all watching Marianne with predatory interest.
"Ladies," Lady Bethany said with what could only be described as malicious pleasure, "may I present Mrs. Whitby. Alaric's... friend from the country."
The women curtseyed with perfect form and false smiles. One stepped forward; blonde, beautiful in the way that ice sculptures were beautiful, wearing a gown that probably cost more than the bakery made in a year.
"Lady Sarah Harrington," she said, her voice like honey over broken glass. "I've heard so much about you."
"Have you?" Marianne replied. "How interesting, since I've heard nothing about you at all."
It was a lie, Alaric had told her about Sarah, but the flash of annoyance in the woman's perfect features was worth it.
"How... refreshing," Sarah said. "Country manners are so direct."
"Yes, we tend to say what we mean rather than hiding behind pretty words and prettier lies."
"Is that what you think society does? Hide?"
"I think society has turned hiding into an art form. Fortunately, I prefer honesty."
"How noble. And how does dear Alaric feel about your... honesty?"
"Why don't you ask him?" Marianne suggested as Alaric appeared at her elbow.
"Ask me what?" he said, though his eyes were on Marianne, checking she was all right.
"Lady Sarah was wondering how you feel about my country manners," Marianne said sweetly.
"I find them perfect," Alaric said immediately. "Refreshing after years of society's exhausting pretense."
Sarah's smile tightened. "How wonderful that you've found someone so... authentic."
"Yes," Alaric agreed. "After years of people wanting my title rather than me, it's wonderful to find someone who loved me when she thought I was just a steward."
That caused a ripple through the listening group. The story of Alaric's deception had clearly made the gossip rounds, but hearing him reference it so casually was unexpected.
"She didn't know you were a duke?" one of the other women asked, incredulous.
"She knew me as Mr. Fletcher, estate steward. She fell in love with a man who couldn't bake bread and fell off ladders, not the Duke of Wexmere."
"How... unusual," Sarah said, clearly trying to find her footing.
"How real," Marianne corrected. "But then, I suppose reality is unusual in your circles."
Before Sarah could respond, the music changed, and Alaric bowed to Marianne. "Would you honour me with this dance?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Marianne said, taking his hand.
He led her onto the dance floor as a waltz began. Other couples joined them, but Marianne was only aware of Alaric—his hand at her waist, his eyes on hers, the way they moved together as if they'd been dancing together for years.
"You're doing brilliantly," he murmured.
