"Even the part where I lied about my identity?"
"Even that. It brought us together."
"You're being very forgiving."
"I'm being very tired. Tomorrow I might go back to throwing things at you."
"I'll look forward to it."
Back at the townhouse, as Marianne prepared for bed, with the help of a maid, which was strange and uncomfortable, she reflected on the evening. It hadn't been perfect. There had been cutting remarks, social pitfalls, moments of pure terror. But she'd survived. More than survived—she'd shown them all that she wasn't intimidated.
A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. "Come in."
It was Alaric, still in his evening clothes but disheveled, cravat undone.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, though she didn't really mean it.
"I needed to see you. To make sure you were all right."
"I'm all right. Better than all right. I faced your world and didn't run screaming."
"You faced my world and conquered it."
"With help."
"We all need help. That's why we have partners."
"Is that what we are? Partners?"
"Partners, future spouses, co-conspirators in the great flour war."
"There was one flour incident!"
"It will live in infamy."
He crossed to her, taking her hands. "Thank you. For coming, for facing them, for being yourself despite the pressure to be someone else."
"Thank you for standing beside me."
"Always. Forever. Even when you throw things."
"I haven't thrown anything in weeks."
"The night is young."
She laughed, and he kissed her, sweet and deep and full of promise.
"We should go home tomorrow," she said when they pulled apart.
"Back to Hollingford?"
"Back to reality. This was lovely, well, terrifying but lovely, but it's not real life."
"No," he agreed. "Real life is you teaching me to bake while I fail spectacularly."
"You're getting better."
"Liar."
