"You sound like you already have one." Ambrose could imagine Marianne's leveraged brow.
"I do. In these situations, one must rally the troops. You, my dear, must make a point of courting those with social influence."
Ambrose tensed, his gaze dropping to his worn boots.
"You know I detest the snobs," Marianne protested.
"You don't detest me or Harteford, surely. We will throw a party for Primrose and make sure my father is present. If you are comfortable, we will make our connection to her and support of her indisputable."
"Thank you," Marianne said.
"But we will not be enough. You will have to reform your reputation, my dear. No more scandal and running with the fast crowd. From here on in, you must gain acceptance from the sticklers. Only then will you be able to help Primrose gain entrée into the best drawing rooms."
As Marianne again murmured her assent, Ambrose's jaw clenched. He could not argue with Lady Harteford's reasoning. Because of the circumstances of her birth, Primrose faced disadvantages—and possible rejection by society if she did not have the protection of a good name. One associated with wealth, privilege. A title.
Primrose Kent would have none of those things.
"Which brings me to the matter of the Kents," the marchioness said in a hesitant manner.
Ambrose knew he should go. He leaned closer.
"You know I adore them. And Mr. Kent has done so much for you and Primrose. But what do you intend for the future?"
Ambrose waited, his heart thumping. He knew he should relinquish his selfish desires. Knew it would be best for Primrose. Yet if Marianne gave him even the slightest reason to hope—
"I can't speak of it now," Marianne said.
"Why not?"
"I just can't." Marianne sighed—in disgust? Frustration? "It's complicated, Helena. But I've never lied to Ambrose. I haven't made promises to him because the truth is…"
She paused, and every fiber of his being tensed, his breath held, his soul waiting.
"The truth is, I can't keep them," she said flatly.
The words struck him like a direct blow to the gut. Before he could recover, Ambrose heard Lugo's rumbling voice coming down the corridor. He came to his senses and walked away from the drawing room. The box bumped heavily in his pocket. As he mounted the steps, he cursed himself for being an idiot. For letting his heart rule his head so completely. For believing, even for an instant, that dreams had anything to do with reality.
45
The morning lightimbued the soft green drawing room with tranquility, an emotion far removed from Marianne's own state as she sat with her bosom friend.
"Whycan't you keep a promise to Mr. Kent?" Helena said. "You care for him, I know you do. And it's obvious he returns your affection. Harteford and I both agree that you two make the perfect pair."
Marianne bit her lip. "I will tell you, Helena. But you must promise me not to tell Ambrose. Not yet, anyway."
Though Helena's brows lifted, she gave a quick nod.
Blowing out a breath, Marianne confided her debt to Bartholomew Black. When she was finished, Helena stared at her with rounded eyes.
"Heavens, you agreed toanythingBlack wanted?"
"What choice had I? He was my only hope of finding Primrose. I don't regret it," Marianne said, though her palms grew clammy, "and given the same choice, I'd make it again."
"No one doubts your devotion to Primrose, dear. But what of your own happiness?" Helena's hazel eyes reflected her concern. "You do deserve it, you know."
Marianne blinked away sudden moisture; Ambrose had said the same thing. "Oh, Helena, do I? Do I deserve a man as good as Ambrose Kent?"
"Why, of course you do! Why would you even ask such a thing?"
