“It’s precisely their affair. Or they’ve made it so.” Eleanor’s voice softened. “Society thrives on speculation. Your family’s disgrace taught you as much. And now you’ve given them fresh fodder—a hasty marriage to a duke who spent a decade avoiding matrimony, a mysterious ward whose parentage raises eyebrows, yourself elevated from ruin to duchess overnight.”
“I married to protect Oliver?—”
“I know. And I applaud your sacrifice.” Eleanor took both Maribel’s hands. “But the ton doesn’t care for noble motivations. They care for appearances. And the appearance is that something isn’t right about the whole arrangement.”
Maribel pulled free, moving to the window. Beyond the glass, London stretched in endless rows of fine houses, each containing carefully guarded secrets and meticulously maintained facades.
“What would you have me do? Perform for them?”
“Yes.” No apology in the word. “Precisely that. Not for yourself—for Oliver. If they decide he’s unsuitable, if they whisper loudly enough about bloodlines...” Eleanor trailed off.
Maribel’s reflection stared back—pale, composed, dressed in borrowed emerald silk. She looked every inch the duchess. She felt like an impostor.
“The Duke will attend as well,” Eleanor continued. “That should provide some solidarity.”
Thaddeus. The thought of him sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach. They hadn’t spoken since she’d found the brass key—three days of careful avoidance, meals in separate rooms, corridors navigated to ensure they never crossed paths.
The key sat in her dressing table drawer, untouched. She thought of it constantly. Thought of what it meant that he’d left it.
“Will he speak to me?” The question emerged quieter than intended. “Or shall we maintain our strategy of pretending the other doesn’t exist?”
Eleanor’s expression shifted toward sympathy. “The Duke is complicated. But if there is someone who can soften him, it may well be you. He is not indifferent. He at the very least respects you according to the whispers of servants.”
“High praise indeed. And since when do you listen to the whispers of servants?”
Eleanor smirked. “Any good woman knows that the servants see everything. And do not mock the idea of his respect. I’ve known marriages built on far less.” Eleanor collected her reticule. “The carriage is waiting. Shall we?”
Maribel squared her shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”
The Whitmore gardens were magnificent even in late October. Manicured lawns stretched between tables draped in white linen where society’s finest gathered like brilliantly plumed birds.
Maribel descended from the carriage beside Eleanor, acutely aware when their arrival registered. Heads turned with studied casualness. Conversations paused. Fans fluttered as whispers were exchanged.
“Chin up,” Eleanor murmured. “You’re the Duchess of Blackwood.”
If only that mattered.
They navigated through clusters of guests. Maribel smiled, nodded, performed careful pleasantries whilst feeling the weight of speculation in every glance.
“Lady Blackwood.” A woman materialised—Lady Archibald, Maribel knew at once. “How delightful. We’d wondered whether you might remain in the country after such a hasty marriage. To settle in, as it were.”
Translation:to hide until the scandal dies.
“His Grace and I felt it important to maintain our social obligations,” Maribel replied smoothly.
“Of course. And the child? Master Oliver?” The woman’s eyes gleamed. “Such a difficult situation. I do hope he’s adjusting to his new circumstances.”
“Oliver is thriving.”
“How lovely.” The smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Though one does wonder about propriety. A young woman, unmarried at the time, caring for an unmarried duke’s ward. The whispers were quite persistent before your sudden nuptials.”
Eleanor’s hand tightened warningly, but Maribel’s temper had already kindled.
“If you have concerns about propriety, I suggest directing them to His Grace himself.”
The woman’s face mottled. Before she could respond, Eleanor intervened smoothly, and the woman retreated with a stiff curtsey.
“Well done,” Eleanor muttered. “Antagonising one of the ton’s worst gossips within the first quarter hour.”
