“It was hardly unusual, Aunt,” Marianne said, her fork hovering over her plate. “Other young ladies attend also.”
“For much more scandalous reasons, surely,” her aunt said. “Marianne went purely for pleasure,” she informed Lucien. “And now that she has returned, she still insists on waking at the most ungodly hours. Four in the morning! As though the nuns are still ringing their bells for her.”
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. “Aunt Eugenia, I dare say that is not unusual either. I am often awake at that hour because of James. He is an early riser, just like his aunt.” She winked at her sister, who flashed a grateful smile. Lucien, who had no siblings of his own, always liked observing such familial displays.
“Well, that is natural. You and Evelyn both have good reason to rise early, given you reject the idea of governesses and nurses,” she said, her dislike for those decisions evident in her tone. “I will say, the convent certainly helped instill discipline in Marianne, which is never a bad thing.”
“I can confirm that,” Lucien said with a smile. “Discipline is a virtue we all should strive to possess. If the convent taught Lady Marianne that, we ought to be grateful.”
“They taught me much more than that,” Marianne said, her eyes filled with gratitude.
“Yes, but they also instilled in you an aversion to dancing,” the older woman continued, seemingly oblivious. “Really, I do notunderstand it. You used to be so lively. And now you prefer silence and solitude. It is quite the curiosity, is it not?”
Marianne’s jaw tightened, and her hands folded in her lap. Lucien noticed the way her knuckles whitened.
“I never enjoyed dancing.”
“That is true,” Evelyn confirmed. “She would always hide when the instructor came. Marianne knows the location of every jib door in father’s home.”
“It is essential for a young lady to dance,” Aunt Eugenia said. “Lest one ends up on the shelf due to a lack of such accomplishments. I would never seek to force marriage as your father did, but I do agree that a lady must possess certain skills.”
Lucien set down his wine glass with more force than necessary. “Some women know their minds,” he said coolly, his voice cutting through the uncomfortable silence. “That is not a fault, madam. It is a virtue. An accomplishment in its own right.”
Every eye turned to him. Aunt Eugenia’s mouth opened slightly, then closed.
“In fact,” Lucien continued, his tone still measured but firm, “I should think a woman who understands what brings her peace and contentment is far more sensible than one who simply follows the dictates of society without question. That is not peculiar. That is intelligence.”
Nathaniel cleared his throat, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Hear, hear. Well said, Wexford.”
“Indeed,” Evelyn added, her eyes warm with approval. “I have always admired Marianne’s spirit.”
Aunt Eugenia looked as though she had been slapped with a wet fish. “I merely meant?—”
“We know what you meant, Aunt,” Charlotte said. “But Marianne is perfectly capable of making her own choices.”
The conversation moved on, but Lucien noticed that Marianne had not touched her food since. She sat very still, her gaze fixed on her plate.
A few moments later, when the others had turned their attention to Rhys’s account of a recent Parliamentary debate, Marianne leaned in Lucien’s direction. Her voice was low, meant only for him.
“Thank you for that,” she murmured. “But I can defend myself, my lord.”
He turned to look at her, surprised by the edge in her tone. Her eyes met his, and she didn’t flinch even a little when he refused to look away.
“I do not doubt it,” he replied. “But sometimes it is easier to bear when one is not fighting alone.”
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded once before returning her attention to her plate.
The remainder of dinner passed without incident, though Lucien found his attention drifting to Marianne more often than was strictly proper. When the ladies rose to withdraw to the drawing room, he watched her retreat, noting the straight line of her spine and the resolute set of her shoulders.
Later that evening, after the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Lucien was oddly restless. The conversation had turned to the latest on-dit from the ton, and he had little interest in gossip. He accepted a cup of tea from a footman and moved toward the windows, seeking a moment of quiet.
That was when he noticed her.
Marianne sat alone on a small sofa near the window, partially hidden by a potted plant. She held a teacup in her hands but did not drink from it. Instead, she gazed out at the darkened street beyond, eyebrows drawn together.
Without quite knowing why, Lucien crossed the room. He did not ask permission before sitting beside her, an offense in and of itself. She glanced up, startled, but did not protest.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
